Breaking the Mold

The draft ended and I was pulled away for the traditional first round pick photo. My stick was stowed underneath my seat, so I grabbed it and ran to the room where the photographers were set up. It was crowded with the best of the best, and that’s when the realization hit me:

I was one of them.

I stood next to a boy with blond hair and blue eyes, letting the atmosphere around me sink in.

“Hey,” I offered, practically breathless from the pure adrenaline pumping through my veins.

“Oh, hey, you’re Acelynn, right?” A smile spread across his face. “I’m Steve, you’re, like, a freaking legend!”

“Really?” A blush crept up my cheeks.

“Yeah, you’re a dominant player, no matter what you’re playing, and you’re a girl. Not to sound like a jerk or anything, but…”

“No worries, Steve. I get that a lot.” I leaned on the blade of my stick, anxiously rocking back and forth, like I had done prior to so many games.

“Old habits die hard,” he said, nodding towards my rocking stick. “I do that too. I actually wanna do it right now.” He laughed.

I offered him my stick, which he turned down.

“Steven Stamkos?”

“Well, I gotta go. Nice talking to you, Acelynn. I’ll see you during the season.”

“Yeah, bye.” I waved as he disappeared behind the backdrop.

“Acelynn Wells?”

“That’s me,” I said, walking over to a harried-looking female photographer.

“Oh, great, you’ve already got a stick,” the rushed photographer ushered me in. “Okay, pose. Put your stick up, lean on it, whatever feels natural.”

I placed my stick on my shoulders, easily falling into my signature pose. I didn’t smile; instead I gazed icily at the camera, intimidating.

“Perfect,” she exclaimed. The flash temporarily blinded me, but I didn’t blink.

“Okay, you’re done!” She looked at her list. “Nikita Filatov?”

I walked back to my brothers and Sidney, who were now talking to Jordan and Sidney’s team owner, Mario Lemieux.

“Congratulations, Acelynn,” he said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t pick you.”

“It’s okay. I wouldn’t wanna play with Jord. Just against him.”

They all laughed.

“Well, I’m going to go talk to our new prospects. Sidney?”

“’Kay, guys. Bye Ace. Good luck.” Sid and Mario walked away and my brothers embraced me.

“Our little hockey star!” Jordan picked me up.

Marc was smiling the biggest. “I’m so proud of you, Acelynn. So, so proud.”

“You? I’m proud. Ace, I didn’t know how far you’d go. I just thought you’d play with us at home. But you’re the first girl to be in the league!”

“Aww, guys,” I said, tears on the verge of falling. “You act like you’re losing me!”

“We kinda are.” Jordan put me down and I was quickly enveloped by Marc’s arms. “You’re gonna be a freaking Bruin.”

I wiped my eyes, making sure I didn’t smudge my eyeliner. I checked and looked up; my new coach and GM were there.

“Acelynn Wells, I’m Peter Chiarelli. This is Claude Julien.”

I shook both of their hands. “Pleasure. Thank you for picking me.” I heard the ‘oof’ as Marc elbowed Jordan behind me at my politeness.

“It’s not a problem. Your resumé was incredible; you play forward, defense, and goal. You’ve got a lot of potential – your Beanpots prove that,” Julien offered. “You also understand Boston hockey. I’m sure our scouts saw that in you.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing.

“Camp starts next week. Would you mind showing us your abilities in all three areas?”

“Not at all,” I smiled. “Not at all.”