Free Power Play by Eric Walters Page B

said, and more importantly, what you
didn’t
say.”
    “I’ve never finked out on anybody in my whole life. I know when to keep my mouth shut,” I said.
    “What I learned this morning is that I can really trust you. I hope you learned the same thing about me. As far as I’m concerned, this morning, in that office, you just moved up a whole draft position. I’m going to make
sure
you’re on my team next year.”

CHAPTER NINE
    I sat on the couch at home in my living room, trying to focus on the TV and trying not to think about the time. Of course, that was basically impossible. The ticking of the game clock kept me aware that time was passing and I still hadn’t received the call.
The call
. That made it seem so casual, a phone call. No big deal. The phone rang all day long. But this was different. It was more important than any phone call I had ever received in my life, maybe more important than anything that had ever happened to me in my whole life. Yet each passing minute meant that I was slipping lower and lower in the draft—maybe nobody was even going to draft me at all.
    Coach had called first thing in the morning to reassure me again that he was going to take me in the draft. I was guaranteed to be on his team—unless somebody else drafted me first. That wouldn’t be what I wanted, but it wouldn’t be so bad … would it? I’d still be playing Junior A, just not for him. I’d have to hope that the other coach really wanted me and it wasn’t just a pick made by his GM. And then I’d have to hope that my new coach was good, and that he liked me, and that I’d get playing time, and … it would be so much easier if it was Coach Connors. Everybody knew how good he was, but more important, he knew how good
I
was—how good I could become.
    My mother had mentioned to me that having him as my coach would be like having a “father figure.” I knew what she thought that meant, but the last thing I wanted was for anybody else to act like my father did.
    Almost on cue, my father walked into the room, holding a beer. He looked at his watch and then at me. He didn’t need to say what he was thinking, but I knew that wasn’t going to stop him.
    “Figured there’d be a call by now,” he said. “Assuming there’s going to be a call.”
    “There’s going to be a call,” I said, trying to sound confident, trying to convince both of us.
    I knew he’d be disappointed if I wasn’t drafted—nothing to brag about at the bar—but I also knew there was another part of him that almost would have welcomedit. Misery loves company. If he couldn’t make it, then he didn’t want me to make it either. It wasn’t anything he said—I just knew the sort of person he was.
    “Nothing is done until it’s done,” I said. “Coach promised me.”
    My father snorted. “Promises don’t mean nothing. People say things all the time, but talk don’t mean anything. Haven’t I taught you nothing?”
    He’d taught me a lot. You could learn almost as much from a bad example as you could from a good one.
    “Coach is going to call,” I insisted.
    “It wasn’t that many years ago that I was some hotshot kid thinking I was going to be a pro, thinking I was going to get the call, get the chance … and now?” He shrugged. “I’m just some worn-out bum in a dead-end job who drinks too much.”
    I was shocked. That was probably the most honest thing I’d ever heard him say. He did know. Maybe that was why he
did
drink so much.
    “Not that that is necessarily gonna happen to you, kid … you’re a talented hockey player,” he said.
    Honest
and
caring. Where did that come from? How much had he had to drink?
    “You better hope he calls, though, because hockey is all you got going for you,” he snapped.
    He was right. It wasn’t just that it was the only thing I was good at, it was the only dream I had, the only chance I had. Out there on the ice was the only place I reallyfelt good, and I wanted that feeling to keep