Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
I follow him to his office, a cozy, dimly lit room with thick drapes covering the windows and heavy wooden furniture that gives off Hobbit vibes. But when he settles behind his desk, there’s nothing warm or welcoming about the look he shoots my way.
“You grew up here,” he says without preamble.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good kid or troublemaker? The internet didn’t have much to say about you before you joined Portland’s feeder team.”
The question catches me off guard, but only for a second. After all, I don’t have anything to hide. Every fist fight I started in high school kept me and the people I loved safe. I don’t regret a single one of them, which makes it easy to shrug and smile. “Depends who you ask, I guess. My mama wasn’t too happy about all the street signs I stole on weekends, but I never got caught.”
Merwood grunts. “Your mama still lives here?”
“Yes, sir. She’s got a cute little place in the historic district. She’s turning it into something really special. Beanie’s got a knack for decorating.”
“Beanie?”
“Nickname,” I explain. “Everyone’s got one in NOLA. Mom got hers for being the tiniest, feistiest nurse in her graduating class. They said she was like a Mexican jumping bean, only Cajun.”
“Good. Feisty is good.” He leans back in his chair, studying me with the intensity of someone trying to read fine print. “Seems like only the strong survive down here. This city’s been through a lot. Is still going through a lot. A new team like this isn’t just about hockey. It’s about hope for the future, about giving people something to be proud of. Something to believe in.”
I nod, immediately clocking what he’s not saying.
New Orleans doesn’t need another disappointment. We’ve had enough of those to last several lifetimes.
“I understand, sir,” I say.
“You feel the pressure?”
“Every day,” I admit. “But I’m busting my ass every time I hit the ice to make sure we don’t let anyone down.”
“Good.” He stands, conversation apparently over. “Glad to hear it. Keep it up, captain. And keep holding the rest of the team to account.”
I’m halfway out the door when he speaks again.
“Oh, and Graves?”
I pause, glancing over my shoulder. “Yes, sir?”
“That second play with Parker. More of that.” He nods slowly. “That’s the kind of Voodoo even a pasty Irishman like me can get behind.”
This time, I’m sure those big, bushy eyebrows are smiling.
I don’t go straight home. Instead, I drive past my old haunts, windows down despite the October humidity that clings to my skin like a warm, wet blanket.
But it’s my warm, wet blanket, dammit.
I spent three years in Oregon—two in a feeder team, one with the Badgers—missing the New Orleans air. The way it has weight to it, substance. The air here is full of history, gumbo, swamp farts, and stories, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even the stinky parts of this city feel like home.
Driving through the Garden District, I pass the coffee shop where Beanie used to take my brother and me for beignets when we had a good game. Past the park where I learned to skate on roller blades, since ice isn’t exactly abundant in southern Louisiana. Past the high school where I was simultaneously the weirdo who played hockey, the nerd who sang in the choir, and the badass the gang members knew not to fuck with.
My mama raised me and my older brother, Grant, to be good men, but the streets raised us to watch our backs, hit first, and hit harder. By the time we moved to a better part of town my sophomore year of high school, it was too late to shut that down completely.
No matter how rich or famous I become, a part of me will always be that kid who lived in a car for a year before moving to one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city because that’s all my single mom could afford. Coming back here as an NHL player who lives in a penthouse feels surreal sometimes.
Almost like destiny played a hand…
Maybe that’s why I’m not entirely surprised when destiny takes another swipe at me as I’m winding back by the arena, not far from the water.
The afternoon light has that particular New Orleans autumn quality to it, all golden honey and enchanted haze. Spanish moss sways in the breeze, and somewhere in the distance, a trumpet is warming up for a night of playing truth or dare. The city feels alive in a way no other place ever has for me, humming with possibilities and the kind of magic some people think is just tourist marketing.
But I know better.
I’ve always known NOLA runs on something more than logic. More than even the rules of nature or science.
So, when time suddenly slows as I stop at a red light on Magazine Street, the golden hour light shimmering like the city’s holding its breath, I pay attention.