Drunk already. It was only 4 o'clock but since Patrick had his last final today he figured it would be okay. "God statistics is hard," he thought as he pounded another beer.
15 minutes and 2 beers later his phone started ringing. "Hmmm, a New York City area code? Must be my suitemate Alex," Patrick thought.
“Hiroow?” he howled into the phone. On the other end, a man not named Alex was just then questioning his decision to make that phone call but proceeded nonetheless.
“Hi is this Patrick Cosgrove?” the scratchy voice asked to now completely hammered student.
“Of course it is, but may I ask who is calling my good fellow. I’ll have you know I’m no one to be trifled with, so if you’re trying to sell me something then you’re outta luhhhh.”
All of a sudden he trailed off as something caught his attention across the room. “Look Patrick, this is Glen Sather the New York Ranger’s GM. You and I both know you’re not getting drafted this year, but we think you have some skills to really help this team, so we’d like to sign you to a small deal maybe start you in the AHL and work your way up. What do you say?”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. “S***. Must be the connection up in Ithaca. I don’t know why anyone build a school in that s***hole, let alone put a hockey team up there. We sent him a contract already anyway and if he’s interested he signs and we got ourselves a new player.”
The next morning came too soon for Patrick. “God how much did I drink last night. I actually thought I was talking to Glen Sather. Man that guy sucks. He’s managed to outspend everyone on the worst players despite the cap.” As he headed off to the gym he remembered checkout from the dorm was that night and that he needed to check his mail one last time before he left Cornell for the summer.
Putting that key into the keyhole turned Patrick’s summer from one of preparation for another ECAC season with Cornell University Big Red to one of preparation for the AHL. Inside was a envelope request and when he got the thick envelope with the New York Ranger’s logo on it, he knew his conversation with Glen Sather hadn’t been made up.
15 minutes and 2 beers later his phone started ringing. "Hmmm, a New York City area code? Must be my suitemate Alex," Patrick thought.
“Hiroow?” he howled into the phone. On the other end, a man not named Alex was just then questioning his decision to make that phone call but proceeded nonetheless.
“Hi is this Patrick Cosgrove?” the scratchy voice asked to now completely hammered student.
“Of course it is, but may I ask who is calling my good fellow. I’ll have you know I’m no one to be trifled with, so if you’re trying to sell me something then you’re outta luhhhh.”
All of a sudden he trailed off as something caught his attention across the room. “Look Patrick, this is Glen Sather the New York Ranger’s GM. You and I both know you’re not getting drafted this year, but we think you have some skills to really help this team, so we’d like to sign you to a small deal maybe start you in the AHL and work your way up. What do you say?”
BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP. “S***. Must be the connection up in Ithaca. I don’t know why anyone build a school in that s***hole, let alone put a hockey team up there. We sent him a contract already anyway and if he’s interested he signs and we got ourselves a new player.”
The next morning came too soon for Patrick. “God how much did I drink last night. I actually thought I was talking to Glen Sather. Man that guy sucks. He’s managed to outspend everyone on the worst players despite the cap.” As he headed off to the gym he remembered checkout from the dorm was that night and that he needed to check his mail one last time before he left Cornell for the summer.
Putting that key into the keyhole turned Patrick’s summer from one of preparation for another ECAC season with Cornell University Big Red to one of preparation for the AHL. Inside was a envelope request and when he got the thick envelope with the New York Ranger’s logo on it, he knew his conversation with Glen Sather hadn’t been made up.
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