#rouyn-noranda

Philippe grinned, “thanks,” he called back as the guy walked away. He looked down at you and your ice cream covered face, “I think I should have pointed out that I was injured so it wasn’t that great for me,” he chuckled, “and we lost.”

You licked the ice cream off of your mouth, “you lost better this year than they did last year,” you told him pointedly, “and aren’t you glad your name is out there now?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, “I guess,” he smiled, “I mean, they still haven’t mass produced jerseys of me yet but I’ve seen some kids,” he tipped his head to the side, “not bad for someone who went undrafted, huh?”

“At least the Flyers,” you mentioned the team that just signed him to an entry-level contract a few months ago, “woke up and realized what a catch you are,” you grinned, “albeit a year late,” you shrugged, “but tomato, to-mah-to, you know?”

Chuckling, he scooped your ice cream and put everything in his mouth, “I know,” he said, wafer spraying all over you.

“Disgusting giant,” you joked, brushing the crumbs off of your shoulder, “seriously, though,” you told him, “you deserve a spot on any NHL team and I think they realized that when you got picked for Team Canada.”

Philipped stopped walking and gaped, “me!” he said excitedly, “I was picked to represent Canada,” he chuckled, “can you believe it? I can’t stop looking at my jersey the whole time!”

“I think I can, bud,” you sniggered, “I watched all the games,” you smiled, “I also cried like a pig when your team lost.”

“Hmm,” he agreed, “don’t worry, I cried like a pig too.”

You linked your arm with his, “look at us doing couple-y things, like ugly crying over the same loss.”

“We have peaked,” he declared with a laugh before he let out a sigh, “people actually recognize me now,” he smiled, “the amount of followers I gained over the holidays is shocking.”

“Look at you being the celebrity,” you teased, checking his hip, “you deserve this, babe.”

“Really?” he asked, like he can’t believe someone like him should get attention, should be praised.

“Of course,” you nodded, “you’re one of the most hardworking people I know,” you frowned, “you went undrafted, you worked harder, persevered, and look,” you beamed at him, “you just finished representing Canada. Canada!” you said in a loud voice, “the makers of hockey, where hockey players sprout like mushrooms,” you laughed, “you deserve this,” you ended your rant.

“Well, damn,” he grinned, “how did I not know my girlfriend gives the best pep talks?”

Philippe Myers of Moncton, Canada has been dubbed the poster boy of the undrafted by several sports magazines and why not? He was snubbed during his draft year which broke him after he was ranked high for defencemen at the combine.

If you close your eyes and focus, you could still hear him sob at the end of the first draft day, when he decided that he wasn’t coming back the next day because there was no point. You could still feel the strain on your arm when you pulled all six feet, four inches of him to his feet when you found him on the floor of his childhood bedroom, drowning in self pity.

Maybe some people expected him to just camouflage to the background but he rose above everything. He spent more time in the gym, got better at skating, gained weight – which was problematic for him but not for you, seeing that you gained more weight than him over that period, fuck metabolism – and went back to the hockey Canada scene with a bang.

He deserves to be the poster boy of the undrafted.

“If you don’t like my inspirational stuff,” you started, “I can always just say quit hockey and focus on your piano playing,” you shrugged, “you can always play at those wine bars.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I’d rather not.”

“That’s an option,” you offered, “just saying.”

You stopped walking to look up at him, “either way,” you said, “I’m still going to be here.”

He squinted at you, “what were you saying?” he teased, “you’re so far down, I can’t hear you from up here,” he laughed.

You punched his stomach lightly, “asshole,” you scoffed, “and here I was being all dramatic.”

He sniggered before pulling you in for a hug, “no need,” he said, “if you survived me looking like a whale at my mom’s house,” he said, tucking your face on his chest, “I think you’ll survive me playing piano at wine bars.”

“You wish,” you said, rolling your eyes.

He pulled back, “what? You just said you’re staying with me, whatever happens.”

Frowning, “I did say that, didn’t I?” you looked at him innocently, “Can’t I take it back?” you joked.

He shook his head, “nope,” he laughed, “but I’d like to see you try.”

You hugged his side and pressed your nose just under his – really good smelling – armpit, “nah, I think I’d like to be with you.”

“Good,” he grinned, “because I’m not letting you get away.”

You groaned, “I’m stuck with you, aren’t I?”