Page 33 of The Grumpy Defenseman
“The campaign metrics are excellent,” he said. “Engagement is up forty percent. The community event content performed better than anything we’ve produced in three years. Walsh is happy. Sponsorship is trending the right direction. You’ve done outstanding work.”
“But I’m noticing something,” he continued, “between you and McKinney. And I need to know it stays professional during the contract window.”
The warning was clean: a boundary from the man paid to keep the player and the campaign intact.
“I hear you,” I said.
“I’m not asking you to change anything about the work,” he said. “The work is the best we’ve had. I’m asking you to be aware of the timing. Evan’s contract talks are heating up. Sponsors are watching. Sandra is fielding twice the media traffic, and Walsh doesn’t like surprises. If the optics get complicated…”
“They won’t.”
He studied me for a moment, the same cataloging look he had given me on the first day. Then he nodded.
“Good.” A beat. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re good for this team. I’d like to keep it that way.”
He walked away, leaving me inside a box with precise dimensions.
So I adjusted. Carefully.
Evan noticedwithin two days.
I knew because his skating tightened again.
On the second day, he skated past my position along the boards and slowed. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough for me to feel the temperature of his attention.
“You’re different,” he said, voice low enough that the words did not travel.
“I’m working.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I packed my gear when practice ended, nodded at Brick, waved at a rookie whose name I had finally learned, and walked out without looking back.
My phone buzzed halfway to the car.
Bella: You’re quiet today. What broke?
Me: Nothing broke. I’m being professional.
Bella: That’s the saddest sentence you’ve ever written.
Evan
Iwas skating the best practice of my preseason when the whistle pulled me off the ice.
Not the coach’s whistle. This was the long one reserved for personnel issues and immediate attention.
Sully waited at the boards with my phone.
“It’s Mark,” Sully said, handing me the phone. His expression was carefully neutral. “Take itin the tunnel.”
The tunnel between the rink and the locker rooms was concrete and cold, the kind of space designed for function rather than comfort. My skate guards clicked against the rubber matting as I pressed the phone to my ear.
“Evan.” Mark’s voice had the particular energy it took on when numbers were moving fast in directions that required decisions. “This just got real. Seattle is down a top-four defenseman. ACL, out for the season. They want you. They’re offering eight years, eleven-point-two AAV.”
Eight years. Eleven-point-two million per year. Eighty-nine-point-six million total.
The offer was real.
