A three year draft. Ryan had been dreaming of this shit since he was fourteen.

The NHL Entry Draft was something that seemed way too soon for him, seven years into ever even beginning to play, much less competitively - and here he was, surviving seven rounds of the draft, #1 amongst a little over 200 others on the plate. A right winger, he tended to lead the team in scoring, but he also got a nasty injury of some kind at least every game - like the busted lip he sported now, or the bruised cheekbone that just healed, or the fractured elbow that he ignored for a solid month. So. Ryan didn't think he was that great, despite everything. Especially not 'first in the national draft' great. 

But, somehow, he was leaving the American Airlines Center, signed to the Blackhawks, listening to his manager ramble off awards dates and opportunities and interview times. And he wasn't really hearing a thing, but that didn't matter, because dream: meet Ryan. He was doing fucking fantastic.

He woke up the next morning, alarm blaring at seven a.m., almost having forgotten the day previous - and then he looked around, and it was the nicest hotel room he'd ever been in, and his contract was on the desk parallel to his bed, jersey thrown over the chair, and... he had an interview in an hour. He'd had maybe three, ever before, and all of them were mediocre, not anyone who really cared about how much he'd scored or how great of a right winger he was or what awards he'd won, they were just paid to ask. But now he had that same amount all in one day, and more in the future, and basically he felt like a celebrity, except with maybe 2,000 Instagram followers and half that on Twitter. So not quite. Getting there, though. After calibrating to this new reality, Ryan shut up his alarm clock and pulled himself to his feet, for the first time in a while wide awake and beyond excited for the day.

He hadn't even known what it'd entail - everything else had been right after a game, bathed in euphoria, nothing really about [i]him[/i], and now he held more importance. It ended up not even mattering - he'd entered the room, some online journal's building, and there was a whole crew and an interviewer who instantly knocked him off-guard. Ryan wasn't shy, nowhere close to it; in fact he was cocky enough that he almost had a bad reputation for it at least amongst opposing teams. This guy, though, was dangerously pretty. Ryan even had to repeat his introduction 'cause someone on the crew asked him to speak up. Every answer to a question was as short as possible, barely loud enough to hear, stammered through, so forth, and apparently he had a new expression he'd never seen before: fleeting, nervous smile. His name was Brendon, and as soon as no one was recording anymore, Ryan had anxiously cleared his throat and worked up the courage to ask him if maybe he'd like to get dinner sometime.

It was cliché, yeah, and Brendon had stopped for a second before clarifying that it was just between them because Ryan was just that bad around anyone he found cute. And he was pretty sure the guy who set up the room had heard it. Embarrassing. But - Ryan got a yes, so it wasn't too bad. Tomorrow at seven, when all of his other appointments were over. So, at six, he started getting ready, shamefully recycling the same outfit he'd worn to the draft because he didn't exactly have a plethora of nice clothes: black pants, a white button-up, fairly plain stuff. The only less plain thing on him: hands adorned with rings, a scar still annoyingly on the side of his bottom lip, but having something going wrong was fairly on-brand for him. He messed with his hair, fruitlessly, for a strong twenty minutes before he was out the door.

Naturally, he was the first one at the restaurant, picking a table close to the door and feeling dumb as all hell. Basically the only thing he knew about the guy was his name - Brendon, on the other hand, had a whole interview's worth. Maybe his Wikipedia page basics. He spun his rings and ordered red wine while he waited, sipping at it tentatively (and knowing full well he was a lightweight, but he needed the help), and decided to text Brendon. [i]I'm here, table by the bar. See you soon :-)[/i] ... Ryan deleted that smiley face and rewrote it without a nose about five times before deciding which one looked better. Seriously, an entire team depended on him on the constant and [i]this[/i] was what made him nervous.

After a few minutes he was starting to relax, settling in and feeling warm, and he spotted a familiar, ridiculously pretty face coming through the door. Ryan stood up fast, meeting Brendon in the middle and almost going for a handshake, deciding on a hug. [b]"Hey! Hi. I, uh, I didn't have anything nice to wear. So."[/b] Ryan held out his arms at his sides, almost awkward. Felt like he had to excuse it somehow. He started guiding them back to the table. [b]"Anyway, it's good to see you again - please."[/b] As he said it, he pulled out a chair for Brendon, holding out a hand to welcome him and then taking his own seat. [b]"How are you? Did I end up sounding good in the interview? I may have been a little nervous."[/b] Obviously. He grinned despite himself.