I’ve been in love with Ryan Christianson since I was fourteen.
Eight years ago, he was my brother’s teammate, billeted in our home, and completely off-limits. Now, as I’m called up to the NHL for the first time, the moment I discover Ryan is my new linemate is also when I realize I’m still hopelessly gone for the man who calls me Baby Bouchard.
As rookies go, I’m doing well; hat-trick-in-my-third-game, heading-to-the-playoffs well. But I’ll always be just a kid to Ryan, who makes it clear there’s a line we’re not crossing. He says I’m too young, too new to the league, that getting involved would be a disaster. He’s probably right. But he’s also the one fixing my hair before media interviews, teaching me his signature backhand shot, and looking at me like he’s one second away from forgetting every reason we shouldn’t do this.
The smart thing? Finish the season, keep things professional, protect our careers.
But I didn’t make it to the NHL by playing it safe.
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