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Jared kind of gets why they tap like, the hundred or so top prospects and their families to sit in the stands on the Friday night, just in case some team shocks the system — it’d be kind of awkward if their prospect wasn’t even there — but it’s also a waste of his time. The Supreme Court legalised marriage in the US earlier that day, so Jared spends most of the time very stealthily reading articles with his phone between his knees, showing it to his mom when she elbows him.
“I know,” she says, and smiles at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and squeezing. It’s not like he couldn’t get married before if he wanted to — it’s been legal in Canada pretty much as long as he can remember, before his sexuality was even a thing he was really thinking of, but hey, if he gets drafted by an American team, which is statistically the most likely option, he could get married right there and no one could fucking stop him.
Jared starts paying more attention once they get past the top ten, all falling pretty much where they were expected, except for the second pick, who was supposed to be fourth. You need a d-man, though, you need a d-man, and everyone else pretty much just gets drafted one below where they were going to.
He puts his phone away entirely when he hears ‘from the Lethbridge Hurricanes’, grinning as Raf wanders down to the stage, looking totally overwhelmed, the camera on his face showing him blinking rapidly like he’s had some kind of shock, and takes it out again just to send a Congrats with as many exclamation marks he can fit on the screen. Fucking Caps is the second, again with as many exclamation marks that fit.
Jared’s kind of jealous. They were already pretty awesome, but once they got Kurmazov and Chapman — Jared would bet hard money that they’re going to have a Cup within five years. Five years, and Raf’s going to be a part of that.
But then, DC is really fucking far from Calgary. A lot of hockey cities are really fucking far from Calgary. He’s trying not to think about it, to get ahead of himself. He’s got a fifty percent chance of being in Bryce’s conference. Seventeen percent chance of being in his division, if he’s rounding up. 3.33% chance of being a Flame.
Usually Jared finds numbers calming, but not so much right now. Right now, he isn’t liking them much at all.
*
Jared obviously doesn’t expect to go in the first round — hell, he was slated to go somewhere in the third at the start of the season, so the fact he’s supposed to go midway in the second is a crazy jump. There’s a reason he wore one of his normal suits instead than the one Bryce got him today. What if they notice him wearing it two days in a row?
He finds Raf at the hotel after, noticeably absent from a party the first rounders are holding that you can hear all the way from the elevators. Raf’s disentangled himself from his parents, and it appears his celebration is chilling alone in his room, grinning like a fool. Not bad, honestly. Sounds like Jared’s kind of celebration.
You’re going to play with David Chapman, dude,” Jared says.
“I mean, probably not, at least for a few years,” Raf says. “I’ll probably be coming back to play in the Dub next year—”
“You will not,” Jared says, because if he shows up to training camp like he showed up to camp last summer, there’s no way he’s going back to the Dub. Raf doesn’t need development: he’s already there. “Dude, you’re going to be playing with fucking David Chapman.”
Raf grins even bigger then, wide enough to crack his face.
They chill for a bit, but then Grace calls Raf — “I was on the phone with Quincy when she called the first time”, Raf says, sounding guilty, like he’s ashamed he didn’t interrupt a conversation with his new captain when his girlfriend called, and Jared’s summarily kicked out, which he’s cool with. Girlfriends first.
Speaking of — or like, boyfriends — Bryce calls him when he’s heading back to his room.
“I can’t believe they haven’t drafted you yet,” Bryce says, and Jared can hear his scowl from over a thousand kilometres away.
“Dude,” Jared says. “Come on.”
“Fucking idiots,” Bryce says.
“You know I wasn’t going to be drafted first round,” Jared says.
“Because they’re idiots,” Bryce mutters.
“How’s your mom?” Jared asks, pointedly changing the subject.
“Good,” Bryce says, “We just destroyed my diet plan with like, a Chinese feast. We’re gonna have leftovers for days.”
Jared’s relieved. Like, to hear Elaine’s good, and that they’re eating delicious things, but also because that means Bryce isn’t like, hiding in a hotel room a few blocks away or something, since that sounded true. He doesn’t think Bryce has ever lied to him before? Like, other than maybe white lies, all ‘you played well’ when Jared didn’t, or ‘you look so hot’ when Jared knows his hair’s sticking up in seventeen directions and his face is tomato red. The relationship saving kind of lies Jared has to get better at. But even without Bryce having ever lied to him, he’s pretty sure he knows for a fact Bryce would be a terrible liar.
Though to be fair, he pretty successfully lied about the combine. Still, Jared will put that in the white lie category. Reluctantly.
“Sounds more fun than things here,” Jared says.
“You nervous?” Bryce asks.
“Duh,” Jared says. “Like, god, what if I get drafted by—”
There are a lot of bad options there — teams that completely suck, teams that are horrible geographically, teams he hates — and he doesn’t want to say any of them aloud. He’s not really superstitious, especially not in comparison to some of the guys he’s played with, but better safe than sorry.
“Can’t be worse than me getting drafted by the Flames,” Bryce says, when Jared doesn’t finish.
“Hey,” Jared says. “I think Calgary’s worked out pretty well for you, boyfriend wise.”
“True,” Bryce says. “But I didn’t know that at the time. And who knows, maybe if I’d been a Canuck or something you would’ve been drafted by the Giants.”
“Canucks weren’t drafting high enough to have you,” Jared says.
“Well maybe if they traded for a spot high enough,” Bryce says. “Then obviously the Giants would have had to draft you.”
“Oh yeah?” Jared asks.
“Yeah,” Bryce says. “I like, guarantee, even if I hadn’t landed in Calgary, I would have found you eventually.”
“Oh, we’re fated now, eh?” Jared says.
“Totally,” Bryce says, with confidence, and Jared desperately wants to make fun of him, but he doesn’t. Consider it work in the white lies part of their relationship.
Also he’s maybe being too cute to make fun of right now.
*
Jared wasn’t nervous yesterday, because he knew he wasn’t going to do anything but watch, but Saturday morning he wakes up feeling like he’s going to throw up. His entire future, the trajectory of his career — his life — gets decided today, and he has absolutely zero control over it.
It’s a terrifying feeling.
He gets dressed with numb fingers. The suit Bryce bought him fits disturbingly well, like not only did Bryce know his size at the time, but he extrapolated from that size where Jared would be in June. Bryce has the weirdest talents. Jared wants to call him, tell him — he doesn’t know what, that the suit fits? Maybe just to talk to him. It’s not even six in the morning in Vancouver though, so that’s right out.
His parents are all grumpy about the suit, but like, mostly out of principle, because Bryce saved them hundreds of bucks, since the suits Jared bought last summer for game days — well, no one wants to show up to the draft looking like they’re about to Incredible Hulk right out of it. Appearances are important, especially since he’s going to be meeting his future GM today.
Jared’s seriously going to be sick. He doesn’t know how people are eating breakfast: don’t they know their future’s on the line?
The draft goes a whole lot faster now that it’s not the superstars, and Jared doesn’t know if he’s grateful for that or not. Like, he’ll be put out of his misery soon, but then again — he’ll be put out of his misery soon.
There are way more prospects in the room today, way less fans, and Jared feels a stab of sympathy for some of the guys who’ll leave here undrafted. He has nothing to complain about. Within an hour he’ll know where he’s going, and some of them will sit here all day with their families only to find out that no one wants them.
Jared tries to keep that in perspective as he white knuckles his way through the first five picks, but it isn’t working very well. Calgary’s six picks away, and Jared is clenching his teeth so hard his jaw aches, trying to make himself invisible as the Panthers pick, the Islanders, silently pleading for them to ignore him, for everyone to ignore him until it’s Calgary’s turn.
Soon, he’s only two picks away from the Flames’ first of the second round, one they got out of a trade with Cleveland. He’s so fucking close. He’s invisible. He’s completely invisible. No one can see him. No Jared here, please carry on.
The Oilers are up next, and Jared thinks that with renewed intensity, grabbing his mom’s hand like that’ll double the power of his invisibility. No Jared here. Totally invisible.
Jared’s mom squeezes his hand tight as they watch the flashing screen, waiting to see what name shows up on the board. He gets that this is faster, but he kind of wishes they were doing that thing, ‘proud to select, from insert team here’, just so he wouldn’t have to worry it was going to be him.
Well. Maybe he still fucking would have, because it’s his name in big letters on the board beside the Oilers logo.
“Well,” he says to his dad. ‘Fuck,’ is what he wants to say, but even though this isn’t like, big deal televised like yesterday was — TSN and Sportsnet are showing it, he’s pretty sure, but he doubts many people are watching — there are still cameras, and it’d probably be bad PR to get caught saying that on them. He stands up, because he guesses he has to. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever refused to stand in like, peaceful protest. It sounds nice, though.
“Well,” his dad says back, and then, unexpectedly pulls him into a crushing hug, one that knocks the breath out of Jared’s lungs.
“I’m so proud of you, Jared,” he mumbles, and Jared finds himself nodding a lot, throat tight.
The second his dad lets him go his mom is hugging him, not quite as painfully, but just as tight.
“At least you’ll be close, hey?” she says.
“The Oilers,” Jared mumbles into her hair, then pulls back, because he’s taking too long.
“Sucks to be you,” Erin says, and Jared once again reminds himself that there are cameras, and it would also be bad PR if he was seen giving a fourteen year old girl the middle finger, no matter how much she deserves it.
Jared’s given an Oilers jersey, an Oilers hat, and he puts them on, because he has to. Because it’s his fucking team now. The first round pick is there to greet him, shake his hand, some kid from Sweden Jared’s never played before, doesn’t know anything about, and Jared does his best to smile. He tries really hard to smile.
“We’re excited to have you,” his new GM says. “Doug can’t stop talking about your play.”
Doug is presumably the scout whose fault this is. Jared hates him.
He smiles weakly at a GM he’s called, multiple times, ‘an absolute fuckwit’.
The shitty attempts at smiling follow him through the draft picture he takes, an interview with an Oilers reporter he vaguely recognises, and then it falls off his face the second he doesn’t have a camera aimed his way. He takes the hat off. He looks stupid in hats, and anyone would look stupid in an Oilers hat.
There are too many notifications on his phone to count. He bets a full half of them are people laughing at him.
“Fuck,” Jared mumbles, half under his breath, and goes where he’s prodded, off for another interview, putting the stupid fucking hat back on his head.