“Hey, man, can you put this up there?” Cade Walsh sticks his arm out towards me, reaching across the airplane seat to hand me his backpack. He’s a third string forward and a rookie, but he keeps his elbows to himself and always travels with good snacks, so I let him be my seat mate.
I wordlessly take his backpack, shoving it into the overhead next to mine as my phone pings in my pocket. I reach for it as Novy shoves his way past behind me. “Jeez, asshole,” I mutter, glaring at the back of his head.
“‘Scuse me,” says Morrow, sliding past too.
They’ve both been so weird since L.A. Novy is usually a big prankster, life of the party, even if he’s also a moody asshole. And Morrow is one of the nicest guys on the team. Right now, their shoulders are set in frustration as they take opposite seats in the same aisle, crossing their arms like lovers in a tiff.
Whatever. Their bullshit is not my problem.
I open my messages app and tap the top message. It’s from my agent, Mike Kline. Heart in my throat, I drop into my seat. I tap the new voice memo and listen.
“Hey, Ryan. I know you’re probably already in the air,” comes his bright voice. “But you can listen to this when you land—”
“Hey, Langers! Wanna play Mario Kart?” Sully shouts from two rows up.
“We’re gonna smoke your ass!” says Perry from just behind me, punching my shoulder.
All around our section of the plane, the guys call out.
“I call Yoshi!”
“Give me a sec, and I’m in.”
“You always play Yoshi, asshole—”
“Make him play Toad—”
“Shh,” I rasp, ducking my head down. I tap the button on the side of my phone, turning the volume up all the way, and start the voice memo over.
“—already in the air, but you can listen to this when you land. You—”
“Dude, why are you in my lap?” Walsh gives me a shove.
“Shut up.” I tap the little blue ‘keep’ so this message doesn’t disappear.
MK is still talking. “—you can always call when—”
“Dude, come on. It looks like you’re giving me a blowie. Get up,” says Walsh, shoving me again.
“Langers, you in or out?” says Perry, peeking his face around the side of my seat.
“Fuck!” I launch to my feet. Spinning on my heel, I race down the aisle towards the back of the plane. I march right past the support staff, nearly tripping on the strap of Poppy’s purse, before I’m in the galley.
“Sir, you need to find your seat,” says the flight attendant.
“I gotta piss,” I say, shoving at the lavatory door.
“Sir, you’ll need to wait—”
I don’t let her finish. I just squish myself inside the tiny lavatory and snap the door shut. Staring at my own reflection in the mirror, I replay the memo for a third damn time.
“Hey, Ryan. I know you’re probably already in the air, but you can listen to this when you land,” comes MK’s voice through my earbud. “You got it! The endorsement deal is all yours, my friend. Nike is sending over the preliminary contract later today. You’re looking at a tidy one mil before taxes, paid out in installments, of course. I sent over all the particulars in an email, but you can always call me when you land. Congrats!”
The message ends, and I just stand there, looking at my reflection. My white dress shirt is unbuttoned, collar loose. My blond curls are tucked behind my ears, slicked down with styling gel. I haven’t shaved in a couple days—too busy with my mom and sister in town for the holidays—but I like the effect.
I look older. When did this happen? I used to look in the mirror and always just see a young hockey bro. The tourney t-shirts and backwards caps, the stupid shaggy flow.
I smirk. The man in the mirror smirks back at me. He has my eyes. A man with a multi-million-dollar NHL contract. A man who wears a bespoke suit and Tom Ford shoes with a TAG Heuer Monaco-style chronograph on his wrist. A man who just landed a million-dollar endorsement deal with Nike.
My smile widens as I feel my heart race.
“I did it,” I say at my reflection.
I’m doing it. I’m living my dreams. Since I put on that first pair of skates at six years old, I’ve been climbing this mountain. I fought and sacrificed and trained for so long. And it hasn’t been easy. Every card has been stacked against me from the beginning. We needed government aid to get me through school, charity to pay for my hockey equipment, scholarships to make it onto the right teams.
But I did it. I put in the work and sacrificed damn near everything to become a Division 1 athlete. Then I was named a first-round draft pick to the San Jose Sharks. Now I’m a Ray…and a Nike spokesperson.
We won’t mention my brief stint as a shampoo model.
Ever.
My smile widens. Who am I kidding? The guys rag on me all the time. Two weeks ago, Novy played my commercial before the coaches rolled our game tapes. Everyone laughed and touched my hair. Let’s see if they’re still laughing when I tell them about this endorsement deal.
Knock, knock.
“Mr. Langley, you have to return to your seat,” calls the flight attendant. “Now.”
“Coming,” I shout, tucking my phone in my pocket. I give my reflection one last look in the mirror before I make my way back to my seat for takeoff.
