Page 4 of The Call-Up
Shit. I’m late. I am so late. I don’t even want to look at my phone to see exactly how late I am. I just know I was supposed to report to practice this morning by nine a.m. But let’s face it, it was going to take a miracle to get me anywhere on time after packing my entire life up with barely sixteen hours’ notice.
I tried to stay calm. I really did. But of course my flight was delayed due to storms over Iowa. I ended up having to spend the night at the Minneapolis, St. Paul airport and hop on a five o’clock flight this morning. Thankfully, all my gear made it, but it took forever for me to grab it from baggage claim. Then, thanks to allthat gear—including six hockey sticks—I had to wait forever for an Uber that was large enough to fit everything.
Now I’m running towards the entrance with three massive bags containing my life strapped to my back and a bundle of hockey sticks under my arm. With each step, I pray to the hockey gods I haven’t blown my chance at playing in the NHL with my tardiness before I’ve even stepped one blade on the ice.
“Hey! Are you Brandon Bouchard?” I hear a young woman’s voice ask. She’s standing in front of a door that says, PLAYERS’ ENTRANCE, and holding a camera.
“Yeah,” I say, stopping in my tracks, which causes my shoes to squeak on the floor.
“Great,” she says and snaps a picture before I get a chance to ask who she is.
She checks her camera and makes a face. “You’re a little red in the cheeks. Mind if I take another one?”
“What?”
“Sorry,” she says and lets her camera hang off her neck. She sticks her hand out for me. “I’m Jules. The social media manager. I was told you’d be showing up today.”
I take her hand and shake it. “Brandon.” When I let go, she looks me up and down, then smiles at me with a twinkle in her eye.
“You’re cute. Once we get rid of all this gear and clean you up a bit, the camera’s gonna love you.”
“Sure,” I reply not sure at all what to say back to that. Personally, I hate having my picture taken. I’m not my brother. And I don’t particularly appreciate being ambushed the minute I arrive at my new team. Correction, my one shot in a lifetime team.
“Listen…” I point at the door behind her. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m running late. I need to get in there.”
She steps out of my way. “Right,” she says. “I’ll grab some shots of you on the ice for an introductory post. Have a good practice!”
“Thanks.” I rush past her and push through the doors, then run down the hall heading for the locker room.
I can hear what I assume is Coach Chris’s voice coming fromthe other side of the door. It sounds like he’s finishing up a pre-practice speech that I should have been listening to. All I can think is, I hope he’s not pissed, or worse, disappointed, as I burst through the door like a boulder made out of synthetic fabric and hockey gear.
I stumble in, breathless and promptly trip over my own feet. I feel all eyes land on me as I fall to the floor in a heap.
“Baby Bouchard!” The old familiar sound of Ryan’s voice shouting my childhood nickname carries over the locker room. “What an entrance.”
GREEN BAY, WISCONSIN—EIGHT YEARS AGO
Brandon
“Rise and shine, little brother. Let’s go!”
That’s all the warning I get before Ander smacks me in the head with a pillow. I sit up and said pillow falls to the floor, revealing the sight of my brother’s goofy face grinning back at me. He’s bright-eyed and ready for one-on-one practice in the driveway before the sun has even managed to rise over the tree line.
This is typical Ander. Unlike me, I think he loves it when summer’s over and we have to share a bedroom again. It’s the only part of us housing a new junior hockey player every year that I hate. Our house is pretty small, and our new billet, Ryan Christianson, was given my room as usual.
“Come on!” Ander says, tossing my gloves at me. He’s already got his old beat-up and too-small blocker pads strapped to his legs. His new kit for this season, his first year playing junior hockey for our local USHL team, the Green Bay Hodags, is too nice for playing on the driveway.
“I’m up! Stop throwing shit at me!” I yell, and toss one of my gloves in his direction, aiming for his head. Infuriatingly, he catches it. Fucking goalie reflexes.
“Let’s go!” he says, awkwardly walking out of thebedroom because he’s dressed in half of his gear making him look like a six-foot-tall misshapen marshmallow man. “It’s game day. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“I know,” I say as I change into a pair of shorts and my brand-new Green Bay Hodags tee shirt. The team gives us new swag every year we house one of their players. It’s one of the many perks of being a billet family. Gear, ice time, free tickets to games, much-needed extra money, and exposure to scouts looking for promising players. All five things are important, but especially the last one. Ander, who recently turned sixteen, was selected by those scouts to play in the USHL. I still have to wait another two years for the opportunity.
“Finally,” Ander says once I step outside onto the driveway. He’s pulling our tattered goal out of the garage and placing it in the makeshift crease Dad painted onto the concrete years ago.
“I’m surprised you don’t want to wake Ryan up for your pregame driveway ritual,” I say to Ander as I stifle a yawn. After all, Ryan is his new teammate, not me.
Ander looks at me aghast from over his net. “What if part of his pregame ritual is to sleep in? I don’t want to be what jinxes him. Besides, you’re my lucky charm.”
