We've come to the end of Jake and Owen's story; however, because I am self-indulgent there will be the first chapter as re-told by Owen so that people can get a better handle on why Owen does what he does and his general perspective. I have fudged some hockey facts to make the narrative smoother—for any hockey fans: I do apologize. Thank you for sticking through an insomniatic writing spree. More writing to come, Artie.
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I used to maintain that winters in Buffalo were the worst. But after two years of winters in Boston, I was ready to change my tune. Sure, it snowed more in Buffalo but the always present wind combined with the narrow, hilly streets made commuting a nightmare in Boston. Sure the subway system should have been the panacea of transportation except that when it snowed you can't get anywhere in the God-forsaken city. The T, our much maligned subway system, got icy and didn't work because apparently, despite it snowing every fucking year, no one could predict the ice so it wasn't going to get fixed until Spring when all the ice thaws anyway.
From October until March I was bundled from tip of toe to my head an immense balaclava, that's why winters in Boston were the worst. I would be getting pictures and videos of Owen when he was wearing shorts or maybe, at most, a light jacket in the depths of those winter months. I liked when he had to come to the East Coast for a travel game and be shocked again by how cold it was.
It doesn't get cold in Arizona. Sometimes when I'm sure gangrene is about to set in due to the frigid water than got in through my boots I would joke with Owen that I was considering transferring to ASU. Over FaceTime a small sad smile would emerge as he would remind me of how much I was enjoying Emerson and far more importantly the next time we would be able to see each other. He knew me, it wasn't really the cold that depressed me about Boston; it was how far away Owen was.
We had known that we wouldn't be in the same city before he had even been drafted. Owen had encouraged me to go to a school that I actually wanted to go to and not a school that might be in the city that he might play for. At the end of the day, Owen reasoned, if he wasn't in that city I was just at a school I hated for nothing. I did make the decision to be in a city with a team, that way Owen would at least have trips already planned to see me.
I loved Emerson; the LGBTQ club was basically the entire school and Boston was always alive with people—mostly drunken college-aged people. I loved that everyone was so creative, people had majors in Comedic Arts there. There weren't math majors or engineers but intelligence wasn't just in STEM. I didn't go such an avant-garde choice of major—no preforming arts—just journalism.
College was so different from high school; I was included, even popular in my classes and dorm. Owen said I looked happier than ever, but cautiously asked about my friends... Were any of the hot? I always laughed it off asking if he wanted their numbers. He had no reason to worry. No one came close to catching my eye, not a single one of the meticulously groomed, charismatic, talented performers had anything on Owen. All my attention was on him: on TV, on the various fan pages where Owen had become the object of fantasies, and on broad headlines proclaiming him as hockey's newest star.
I couldn't fault him for being slightly jealous; I sure was. How could I not be jealous, even jealous of his friends and teammates for getting to be around him when I was so far away? Every day there would be new photos of him with fans, faces pressed together with wide smiles and arms thrown around shoulders. Puck bunnies in skimpy outfits kissing him on the cheek, while he grinned wryly. Of course I wasn't worried, not really. It was just hard to see him having affection lavished on him and not getting to lavish my own. And in my defense I wasn't awarded the Calder Trophy as well as Phoenix's sexiest athlete—both coming with a large amount of fans. Owen had been hounded by fans since his draft day.
The day of the draft, Owen was constantly in interviews all coordinated by Owen's new agent and publicist: Calen Edwards. Calen had coached Owen on everything: every scripted word and correct motion. Calen had really done a massive overhaul on Owen. Though I had thought he looked great before: now Owen wore impeccably made clothing and designer watches. Through Calen's direction, Owen gave the same charming answers and wore a suit that I was sure was more expensive than the rest of his clothing combined. He didn't even have to buy it—a gift from Armani.
Of course, there was tension in the Holt camp about who would be allowed to come with him to the draft and by that I mean: would I be allowed to come? Owen had shot down his dad and Calen's concerns; he was set on me coming with him.
I would have to fly directly to Boston afterward to move into my freshman dorm: worlds apart; there was no chance Owen would be a Bruin. So in a far less expensive suit, I got to sit with Owen's dad as we watched Owen get drafted into the NHL. Owen's father and I were nervous wrecks, both wringing our hands and speaking tersely to each other as the lights began to dim and the speeches began.
Owen sat next to us cool, unshakable; I saw cameras turn to him every few moments as the first announcement was called. Calen was smiling and schmoozing with the other agents. He was also making grand overtures toward the other men getting drafted, paying much closer attention to those who were still without representation. I didn't care if Calen had more clients as long as he took care of Owen well.
My breath caught as the lights refocused on the stage. I saw everyone tense a little it was time for the draft to begin. We were surrounded by a sea of other players and families. I saw mothers clutch hands and the muscles of many a draftee tense. With a great flourish and with the On the Clock timer barely begun, the call came in from the Coyotes table, who had won the draft lottery and by rights: first pick.
Time stood still as it was announced, "The Arizona Coyotes are proud to announce their first pick: Owen Holt."
I think I died: just briefly but I really do think so. Our section, smaller than most of the others but still full of so much love, all stood as Owen beamed at the cameras. He shook hands with Calen before giving him a firm manly clap on the back. He turned and hugged his father. I heard his father choke back a sob as he whispered how proud he was. Then Owen turned to me and wrapped his arms around me. I clutched at his back as I tried to put all of the hope and pride I felt into a perfunctory hug. He was mic'ed so he couldn't say anything. He didn't have to; I could see his effervescent joy.
The crowd roared as he ascended the stairs to the stage. Every camera attuned to his face, bloggers' fingers flying across keys to deliver the news. Owen had overtaken all competitors. It was an upset to be sure. Owen had been neck and neck with the man who would go second but most polls put him slightly behind only because of lack of experience. The other player had been playing in the OHL for a year. Owen proved all the doubters wrong.
I had never seen Owen smile so widely, as he shrugged off his ridiculously expensive suit jacket and donned the crimson and cream Coyotes jersey. Though I'm sure he would deny it, Owen's dad cried: manly tears but definitely tears. I didn't cry. No. My cheeks burned from my uncontrollable grin. I'm sure I lost my voice with all of my cheering. I didn't consider until I saw him get a call from Doan, the captain of the Coyotes, just how far away he would be. In that moment, I didn't care. This was it: he did it. He signed his rookie contract, the maximum money offered and he was officially a part of it all.
He signed autographs for screaming tow-headed kids and for equally excited full-grown adults. He was roped into pictures and in his immediate post-draft interview he was asked, "Owen, how are you feeling right now after being picked first?"
Owen, wearing a Coyotes hat which pushed his wavy hair out, answered with gruff emotion in his voice, "I'm so grateful to the Coyotes organization for picking me. This is the most surreal moment of my life, the best moment of my life and I'm so thankful to be sharing this day with the people I love the most. I can't even say how much this day means to me."
I wasn't alone in having my heart melt. I heard one of the player's little sister whisper, none too quietly, to her mother that Owen was "a total hottie." I couldn't agree more.
