COMPLETED. A university student. A professional hockey player. They've proved they can be friends. Can they be more?
Although they're both in their early twenties and living in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, their lives couldn't be more different. Cami...
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By the time my first few games as a Toronto Saint were all said and done, I had racked up more than a handful of goals and assists. Seven goals and four assists, to be exact. The points were sweet, for sure, but I couldn't take all the credit. I had line mates who were hell-of-a-playmakers and they made me look good.
One of those guys was Jonathan McBain.
"Are you coming to the thing tomorrow night?" he asked, voice slightly out of breath as he hunched over his bike and pushed his legs to the limit.
At some point over the three weeks I had been in Toronto, Jon and I had developed a routine of hitting the bikes at the Canada Bank training room every day after team lunch.
"Thing?" I panted.
He shot me a look, like I should've known what the hell "thing" was code for.
"The charity event for the Toronto Saints Foundation," Jon spelled it out, slowing down his speed, which prompted me to do the same. "Happens every year around this time. It's a tradition."
"Oh, right," I nodded. Someone on the management team had mentioned it to me the other week. "Yeah, I've heard of it, but I had completely forgotten about it," I admitted sheepishly.
Jon's eyes flashed to my face, a look of amusement in his eyes. His face was sweaty, a little red, and a few strands of light brown hair had fallen onto his forehead. Even in this state, I couldn't deny that I understood why some high school girls had made videos inviting him to their proms last June. Another teammate of ours, Tanner Hellman, had not only told me about the incident, but showed me the video, before practice the other day.
"You better prepare for some of these in a few months," Tanner had said.
I had just shook my head in response and continued getting my equipment on.
"So I'm guessing you don't have a suit then?" Jon asked.
I pushed my hair back as I thought. "I wore one to the draft, but that's probably back in Pasadena. So, I guess I don't."
"Honestly," Jon said, taking a drink from his water bottle, twisting the cap back on, and then shaking the plastic container in my direction, "you're probably the one person who could wear sweatpants and still have everyone there kiss your feet."
I climbed off the bike and laughed, but the sound turned into a wince as I felt a spasm in my thigh. Maybe I had pushed myself too hard this afternoon.
"I'm not so sure about that."
My coach, Dave Dale, would chew me out for at least five minutes if I looked anything less than what the Saints brand was all about. Even only playing under him for a few games, I knew he was the coach who demanded a lot from his players, and by "a lot," I meant perfection.
"Man, you have been killing it," Jon said, glancing up at me from where he was now stretching on the floor. "Killing it. That goal you scored the other night? That was quite a rush."
