thinking about all the places malcom spence has been and how none of them are madison square garden.
malcolmās in the hotel bar, in sweden. highlights from their win v germany are playing on every screen, even though everybody in the room has spent all day, all week, looking at hockey, which feels like overkill, but nobody in hockey knows when to stop. malcomās whole life, heās never stopped.
he and mike are splitting fries, their knees knocking under a table too small for either of them. malcolmās been mikeās road roommate since before either of them had anything worth asking about, back when he showed up to the sens with a broken wrist and mike made room for him without saying a thing. after that, it was basically years of arriving together: same minor hockey rooms, same canada gear, first and second in the ohl draft. mike first, malcolm right after, close enough that it felt like the same sentence. people keep stopping at the table to talk to mike, and malcolm gets pulled into the pictures because heās already sitting there. he doesnāt mind it yet. at seventeen, he still thinks being beside someone when they get there means you got there too.
malcolmās in the locker room, in erie. the speakers are clipping because the otters have just scored nine and are up three-one on saginaw, and everybodyās throwing their gloves in the air and yelling like the series is already over. two nights from now theyāll finish it in saginaw, four games to one, erieās first series win since 2017. malcolm has already scored twice in game one and dragged game three into overtime with thirteen seconds left, which should make this feel good and uncomplicated. for once, schaef is in street clothes, mike is on the wrong side, and malcolm is the one still moving forward. except every question after the game is about what it means to do this against misa, the scoring champ, the probable top-two pick, his buddy since they were kids.
malcolm knows exactly what mikeās face looks like when he thinks heās failed everybody. he wants to text sorry, which would be insulting, or four-one š, which would at least be honest. he settles on you good? and stares at the screen until the room has gone quiet around him.
malcolmās in liminal space, in buffalo. some guy is measuring his wingspan: six-foot-six, which is pretty cool, he guesses. the combine is everything awful packed into one hellish week, though, just guys touching you and saying weird shit, as if the arch of your foot or the forward flex of your thumb is something you can control. heās basically absent at the jump station, mostly thinking about misa and schaefer ā his buddies, but also the two guys everyone expects to go first and second at the draft.
even though heās rooming with mike, it feels like theyāve hardly seen each other at all, since mikeās always being herded away to do some press thing. thatās not anything to be greedy about, malcolm knows; thereās nothing fun about it aside from the knowledge of whatāll come after. still, itās a kick in the shin that nobodyās really asking him anything, except for some weird question about which kitchen utensil heād reach for during the zombie apocalypse. he wonders, bitter and trying not to show it, if thatās really the kind of information they need to figure out whether heād be good on the team.
malcolmās in his hotel room, in la. heās spent six hours sitting straight up in his chair, tie annoyingly tight around his neck, and still nobodyās called his name. his world is ending, but schaef went first and mike went second, exactly like everybody said they would. malcolm stood up for both of them, hugged them, smiled for the pictures, and meant every bit of it, which was probably the hardest part. there wasnāt anyone useful to be angry at.
after that, the names kept coming until all thirty-two were gone, each one another piece of proof that somebody had looked at malcom and decided not yet. his family keeps saying tomorrow like itās comforting. his phone is full of people telling him theyāre proud, which has started to sound suspiciously like they knew this would happen. proud of him for what? not walking into the sea and never returning?
itās fucked, because malcom should be out celebrating with the boys, but he canāt, because it feels impossible to shape his face into something that can be seen in public. tomorrow, heāll have to do it, so that the rangers can take him forty-third, their first pick. heāll smile, say heās gonna produce because of that chip on his shoulder, lie about how it doesnāt feel like a consolation prize. but tonight, he just fucking canāt. tonight, the chip is more like an open wound thatās bleeding all over the bedsheets.
malcolmās in his dorm room, in michigan. his academic portal says undeclared in a way that confirms he never meant to be here. hockey is going well ā really well, technically. a big ten title, a frozen four run, good minutes, good points, good college puck. good, heās learning, is another word people use when they mean not yet. heās just finished doing a zoom interview with schaef, his buddy, his old roommate, first overall, already on the islanders, who says he hates losing and is looking forward to beating the rangers every time they play. malcolm laughs because it is objectively funny, and because the camera is still on, and because schaef would chirp him into the ground if he knew it landed any other way.
after he'd hung up, the room was too fucking quiet except for the mini-fridge whirring and some kid yelling in the hall. malcolm has a half-finished history 101 discussion post open beside a text from rangers development. mike and schaef have both become proof that the whole thing, the whole of his childhood spent on the ice, gets you where you want to go.
malcolm is still waiting to find out whether he'll get to go too.
