Page 2 of The Switched-Up Playbook
“How did you feel meeting the team?” the host asks, breaking into my meandering thoughts.
I swallow, thinking back on the publicity event that took place with all the new drafts to show us the rink we might one day play at—and to encourage and scare us at the same time.Do well and you’ll make it here; don’t…then best be on your way.At least I imagine that was the intention behind it.
“It was…intimidating, of course, seeing people you only know from TV, meeting someone who is like…right where you want to be? Insane!” I manage a laugh as I rub my sweaty hands off on my jeans.
“But uh, they’re all really nice. Welcoming, even to us newbies, right?” Again I turn toward my future teammate, almost on reflex. I’ve only lived with Nate for a year, but he has become my best friend. By now it’s second nature to ask for his opinion, and I see no reason why his brother should be any different.
But the familiar face is drawn into a hostile frown. Because that’snotNate, and his twin is outright glowering at me.
I blink a couple of times, then continue: “It can’t be easy for them either, since they’re inviting in someone completely new, which creates new dynamics, and you have to make room and accommodate different play styles…,” I raise a hand to underline my words and then quickly let it sink again, hurrying to finish my point. “In the end no one can say how a team will get along until they’re playing together.”
“Good answer! Let’s get into the nitty gritty now; how hard is it to get where you two are? To get drafted?”
I laugh, now truly overtaken by a bout of nervous energy. Clearly that’s what they wanted to ask from the beginning.
“Oh, it’s fu...dging hard.” I wince. God, I almost swore in a public interview! I hurry to move past my faux pas, feeling my neck tingle from where my mothers would have given me a gentle slap for my language.
“I mean, you have to constantly work on yourself, training every day, going to the gym at least four times a week,” I count the points off on my fingers, “and that’s on top of your classes and homework and papers…” I trail off with another laugh, lifting my hand to run it through my dark hair and almost pulling the headphones from my ears.
“But uh, I mean, it’s great to have caught the attention of a team like the Rebels. In the end they know talent when they see it.” God, I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m bragging, but I won’t fake modesty. I’m proud to be where I am. I worked so hard for it.
The host still hasn’t said anything to cut me off, so I keep talking: “Obviously, it can be a little easier if you have someone who introduces you to the right people. Someone whoknowsthe right people in the first place. A parent who used to play or coaches, for example.”
I feel Van der Hoff stiffen next to me but think nothing of it. It’s no secret that Mrs. Van der Hoff coaches the women’s teamat Brown University, or that her husband played in the NHL before he went into journalism.
“That can give you a huge advantage, because they’ll know how to get you ahead of other players.” I pause to take my hands back from their useless gesturing.
“My mothers, for example. They did their best, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but there was so much we had to figure out through trial and error. It made a lot of things harder than they probably needed to be. I mean, they hadn’t even watched a single hockey game before I started playing.”
The host laughs, and I manage something like a short chuckle.
“Wow, that’s a whole lot of thoughts!” he exclaims, and I flush, ducking my head. It’s been a big part of my childhood, worrying about not knowing something that everyone around me did. Because their parents taught them. Or because they grew up in a household that lived and breathed hockey. Ever since my parents died, I haven’t had that.
“Yeah, for a long time I got by because there were a lot of good people in the foster-care sports program who helped me and my moms figure it all out. I just...I think that someone who has players or even involved fans as parents has a much easier time figuring things out and making their way into the NHL.”
“At least I got my draft because of my skill, not as some marketing stunt.”
I blink, perplexed. After my lengthy monologue I had almost forgotten that I’m not alone on the show.
Van der Hoff clearly hasn’t. His green eyes pierce into mine as he leans forward to his own mic. My stomach twists, but before I can stop him the host is on this piece of information like a vulture.
“What do you mean, Nicholas?”
“It’s true that my parents both used to play professionally and my mother now coaches the women’s hockey team of BrownUniversity,” Van der Hoff starts again. It feels like he’s gearing himself up on the other side of the line, just waiting for the puck to drop. “I learned everything I can from them, because who wouldn’t.” Finally, he looks away, over at the host.
“Itishard to get the attention of an NHL team, and it’s even harder to keep it. But it’s all about skill, not nepotism. My parents could teach me, but they didn’tplayfor me.” Hoff looks at me again, and I’m baffled by his anger and the volume of his words. I don’t know what I said that he would have taken personally.
“And I was picked forhowI play rather than whether I can win someone brownie points on the diversity scale.“ Van der Hoff adds a splash of gasoline to the spark simmering in the recording booth.
“What are you implying?” Tension prickles under my skin. This is the most I have ever heard Nicholas van der Hoff say in one go, and I wish he would have kept his mouth shut.
“Oh, I mean that you had a very different interview a few weeks ago,” Van der Hoff’s green eyes glint viciously. “Isn’t that so?”
My cheeks burn, and now I’m glad that no one will see this. I look to the host, who is openly staring at Van der Hoff, and try to intervene: “We should get back to the topic–”
“No, wait. I want to hear this!”
Van der Hoff huffs. “I’m talking about the Pride special on Hart.”
