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He’s a centre. He’s already over 6-foot-5. And he’s not done growing.

So why is it that every time I look at William Horcoff, I feel a familiar anxiety creeping in, eh? A flashback to Michael McCarron and the promise that never was. Maybe it’s the posture. Maybe it’s the idea of another towering American forward prospect who looks the part, says the right things, gets the fans dreaming about net-front battles and faceoff wins and playoff grit. But I’ve lived this before, and it didn’t end well.

Still, I can’t shake the thought, who knows, maybe this one’s different.

Please don’t say he reminds you of Milan Lucic … Please … Please ….

Horcoff has all the raw ingredients. He’s got the size, yes, but there’s more poise in his game, more sense in his positioning. He plays the middle, like his dad did, and unlike McCarron, who always seemed caught between winger and centre, Horcoff already owns his lane. There’s the name too — Horcoff — it carries weight. NHL bloodlines matter, not just because of the genes, but because kids like him grow up knowing the grind. They know what a Tuesday in February feels like on a three-game skid. They don’t flinch.

I get it — he hasn’t lit up the scoresheet. His stat line won’t win him any headlines. But you watch the shifts, you see the habits: he works, he leans into the boards, he doesn’t cheat the play. And that outdoor debut with Michigan — two points, big stage, eyes on him — he didn’t disappear. That counts.

It’s the kind of pick that makes sense if you’ve already swung big earlier in the round. Let’s say Montreal goes for upside with their first pick — a Demidov-type risk, something flashy. Well, then, a guy like Horcoff with the second isn’t just a safe fall-back, he’s the glue. He’s the guy who holds the structure. And if he ends up being more than that? Bonus. If not, well, every team needs a 3-4C who makes life miserable for the other team’s top line.

Maybe I’m just talking myself into it. Maybe it’s hope disguised as rational thought. Maybe it’s PTSD from 2013 and a front office that fell in love with size at the expense of everything else. But this time, I think I see a player. A real one.

Not a mirage. Not another McCarron.

A Horcoff.