Page 114 of Rookie Moves

Once inside the room, I quickly change into my navy blue dress pants and white button-up shirt and douse myself in cologne.

I would’ve preferred to have a shower to get rid of the airplane stink, but I don’t want to be late.

Slipping my feet into my shoes, I check myself in the mirror and run a hand through my hair. My shirt is a little creased, and I forgot to pack my belt, but I’m sure Colby won’t mind.

Nerves run riot in my stomach when the car joins the drop-off line outside of the arena hosting this year’s draft. People line up on either side of the carpet, holding jerseys and photographs, eager to get a signature from the NHL’s next generation of superstars.

A flash of red catches my eye, and my spine stiffens against the leather seat. I’d recognize that jersey anywhere because I wore it so many times over the last four years.

“I don’t want to sound like a selfish prick, but what if they recognize me?” I ask, turning to Callie. There’s a partition between us and the driver, but I still lower my voice. “I don’t want people to start asking questions. He’s not ready for that.”

Callie purses her lips and hums in thought as the car inches closer.

“You don’t need to speak to anyone, but I’ll hold your arm until we walk in. That way, if anyone recognizes you, they’ll think we’re together.”

I let out a choked noise, which causes her to laugh.

“Calm down. It’s only for show, but it’ll stop people wondering why one of his teammates is here but no one else.”

The car rolls to a stop before I get a chance to think about it. The driver opens the door for Callie, and I get out on the other side. My palms are clammy as she takes my arm, and I keep my gaze locked on the doors up ahead.

When we reach security, she shows our tickets, and the second we turn the corner inside, she lets me go.

“I couldn’t get you a seat with us without Colby finding out, but you won’t be far,” Callie says once we enter the main arena.

There are long tables set on the floor, each one displaying a team name plaque. I read them as we walk by and smile to myself when I spot Vancouver Steelheads. Colby won’t play for them because he’ll be snapped up way before it’s their turn to pick, though I know he’d love to play alongside Beau Rousseau.

As we reach the bottom of the stairs leading up to the lower bowl, where Callie is sitting, I glance up to find Colby sitting between his parents.

He looks so gorgeous, dressed in a navy blue suit and vest. His knee is bouncing a mile a minute as he chews on the side of his thumb.

There’s a pang in my chest at seeing him so nervous and not being able to calm him down, but I don’t want to be a distraction.

Later, I silently promise.

Eventually, I tear my eyes away from him and make my way to my seat. I have a clear view of the back of Colby’s head, and I bite back a smile at how unruly his hair is. Curls flick out above the collar of his shirt, pointing in every direction like they can’t be tamed.

I can’t wait to sink my fingers into it again. To breathe in the scent of his shampoo and feel the softness of it against my skin.

The moment the presentation begins, sweat trickles down my spine. Wiping my palms over the front of my pants, I remind myself to breathe as the commissioner takes to the stage. I try to pay attention to what he’s saying, but my gaze keeps straying back to Colby and the frantic bounce of his leg.

It’s all going to work out. There’s no need to panic.

The Boston Gargoyles management is invited up onto the stage as the first team to pick.

They start by thanking their fans for their support, and I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until they say,

“With the first overall selection in this year’s NHL draft, Boston Gargoyles are proud to select, from Whilton University, Colby McKay.”

Fuck, he did it.

He fucking did it.

A wave of euphoria rushes through my veins, sending tingles surging through my body. My eyes burn as they fill with tears, and I jump to my feet, clapping my hands hard.

There’s a roar of applause, and loud whistles echo around the room when Colby’s face appears on the screen beside the stage as he stands, a look of bewilderment on his face as he hugs his mom, then his dad and sister. All three of them have tears in their eyes, bursting with pride.

I don’t sit down when Colby makes his way down the stairs and onto the stage. He shakes hands with the commissioner, then the management of the Boston Gargoyles. The GM hands over his jersey, and my eyes widen when they land on the number on the back.