Page 25 of Family First
“You may need to learn English,” I told them.
I gave them a final pat then made my way with care to Tennant so we could talk.
And it was Ten who hugged me after and walked to the car with me.
“Gonna miss you, Stan,” he said, his eyes damp.
I tugged him close. “I will visit all days,” I said, choked. “For pipes.”
Tennant grinned. “For the pipes. Sure.”
Epilogue
Erik
NHL draft – Noah’s year
The excitement in the Railers arena was a humming energy vibrating through the soles of my feet and into my chest. It seemed like fate that this year’s NHL draft was being held in the very arena where we’d played and trained for so many years. Up in the rafters, Stan’s number had been retired, one of the greatest goalies in the team, and the game. I was proud of him, and the Railers, and Noah, and I couldn’t help leaning forward, elbows on my knees, eyes fixed on the stage where Noah’s future would be unveiled. I could feel Stan’s knee pressed against mine, a solid presence grounding me amidst the nerve-wracking anticipation. We’d had the first round, and none of us were surprised when Noah wasn’t taken that time—he was a solid second round choice, and that wasn’t a bad thing, the weight of expectation given his two former NHL dads was high enough without adding more pressure.
Noah sat along from me, next to Stan, trying to look calm, but I could see the tell-tale bounce of his knee, the way he fiddled with the sleeve of his jacket, and the constant checking of his watch for his sugar levels. He was a right wing, just like me, and I was so proud I could burst. I swear I could barely keep my pride in check, a swelling tide that threatened to spill over in a whoop or a holler when his name was called—inappropriate, sure, but the kids were everything to us, and Noah’s journey hadn’t been easy.
He’d chosen the college route, Michigan, and it suited him. It made him grow, not just in his game but as a man. And now, in his second year, there we were at the draft, the second round ticking closer. Noah’s dream, our shared dream, was a whisper away from becoming reality.
“Jiggering, juddering, rabbit,” Stan muttered, and clasped my hand, his other right over the T-shirt he wore under his jacket with the picture of a rabbit. Noah had gotten it for him as a joke, but Stan was so damn emotional and proud about it he’d worn it today in lieu of a shirt. Not many people knew what he’d used to call Noah—what he still called Noah—but it was us, and it was real.
“Me too.”
“Is all over. Like stamps and worms.”
“Yeah.” I squeezed his hand, and then leaned into him, my big man, as nervous as the day we’d walked Eva down the aisle with her man, Dan. Of course, for Stan it was half nerves, and half a reaction to threatening Dan that if he ever hurt Eva Stan knew people.
“It’s okay,” I reassured him, and caught Noah’s smile as he saw us holding hands and being nervous together. I dropped my voice. “If Noah doesn’t get the Railers, then Boston is up next, and after that the Raptors, all three wanted him.”
“Is all Railers,” Stan whispered back. “Please.”
Tom was next to Noah, leaning in to mutter something that had Noah cracking a brief smile. Tom, his nutritionist, and best friend always had that ability—to cut through tension with a well-timed joke or an irreverent comment. He’d been two years above Noah at college, but they’d met through hockey, and with his degree in nutrition Tom had taken on the role of Noah’s informal PA as soon as he’d graduated, keeping an eye on his diabetes, and through that connection they’d become inseparable.
As the MC took position for the next team choice, the murmurs of the crowd settled into a hush of anticipation. It was the Railers’ turn to take their next pick, and moment was heavy with the dreams of every young athlete in the room, but also for me and Stan. Then, with a clear and resonant voice that filled the arena, the announcer spoke:
“With their second pick in this year’s NHL draft, the Railers are proud to select… from the University of Michigan, playing right wing, Noah Gunnarsson-Lyamin!”
I couldn’t move, Stan’s hand found mine, a grip that said everything—pride, relief, elation. Our son, our boy, was going to don the Railers jersey. There was thunderous applause, so much had been made about our son following us to the Railers, and all eyes were on Noah as he rose, a mix of disbelief and pride etched across his face. The moment was electric for Stan and me.
Noah hugged us both.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he shouted in our ears—his excitement palpable. “I’ll prove they need to play me!” he added, and Stan and I held him tight and agreed with every word.
He hugged Tom, Eva and Dan, Margot, dipped to hug the man with the cap who glanced up at me with a twinkle in his eyes. Tennant Rowe was there for our son, still captain of the team he loved, and he hugged Noah, and Noah hugged him back as family cameras caught the moment for us.
Noah waited at the end of the aisle, and for a second our eyes met. All the mornings on the ice, the late-night practices, the sacrifices—it had all led to this. Then he walked to the stage, and I stood, Stan beside me, as he pulled the dusky blue of the Railers jersey, with his number on the back—my number—and took his first steps into his future.
The Railers. Home. It’s more than just a team; it’s a legacy.
And now Noah was going to be part of it.
Stan hugged me, I hugged him back, and we shouted to Noah that we loved him, and probably embarrassed him completely, but it was everything.
It was love.
THE END
