![]() ![]() I’m not tiny, Fitzgerald says, sounding offended. ![]() You’re way too fucking tiny for the checking line. We might play on a line together, so I thought I’d introduce myself. You’re Mike, Fitzgerald says, providing himself the introduction Mike didn’t. I’m Liam, the kid - Fitzgerald - says, either not realizing or not caring that he’s interrupting Mike’s pregame routine. He introduces himself to Mike before his first game with a outstretched hand and a shit-eating grin, radiating that specific kind of confidence that teenage boys the world over seem to have: cockiness overlaying self-consciousness. And he is a kid: eighteen, baby-faced, smaller than everyone else on the roster at 5’8" and clearly determined to make up for it. The kid gets called up to the Oilers when Steinberg breaks his foot halfway through the season. He just doesn’t know if that makes it better or worse. Let’s be clear: Mike knows from the get-go that it’s a stupid fucking idea. ![]()
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