Nolan shouldn’t be excited. He really shouldn’t. Most guys who have been in the league for a while don’t treat it like a big deal. It sucks, sometimes, depending on the team you get sent to and whoever got first star for them, but Nolan’s already been told that the Stars are pretty decent. Still, nobody ever seems to look forward to being chosen, but that hadn’t stopped a thrill of excitement from zipping up Nolan’s spine when the Stars team rep had called his name.

Mitch doesn't care that much about the sacrifice. Life's short, he gets to play hockey for a living, the mildly annoying parts are worth it.

There’s an honor system to it: don’t pick too far below your weight class unless you’ve got an excuse, or too far above unless you’re trying to make a statement; if you’re going to pass or whine about it too much, be prepared to pay for it next time; if you’re going to be a dick, the guy you’re picking better deserve it.

"We've got a special request tonight," the PR rep says, clipboard in hand. The way she says it, you can hear the implied capital letters: Special Request, the publicly friendly way to say some fans shelled out a lot of cash to watch you fuck.