Page 34 of The Grumpy Defenseman
The money was more than San Antonio could match.
“Seattle’s negotiating directly with our front office,” Mark continued. “Sign-and-trade framework. San Antonio gets draft capital, Seattle gets you. Both sides are motivated. This could move fast.”
“How fast?”
“Days, not weeks. They want you in uniform for the season opener.”
The tunnel felt smaller. I leaned against the concrete and let the information hit.
I didn’t want to go.
I did not want to leave San Antonio. Not Lena’s kitchen. Not Ranger, who would sit in the passenger seat of any truck I drove but would not understand why the route had changed. Not Brick, who could read a room before the room knew it was in trouble. Not Colt and Mack, veterans who kept a bench from tipping too far in either direction. Not Ryan, steady and quiet in the way only a real captain could be. Not Finn, all fire and bruised-knuckle conviction, still trying to prove he belonged even after everyone else already knew he did. Not the rink I had been skating on since I was twenty years old, where the ice had my grooves worn into it and the cold smelled like home.
Not her.
“Evan?” Mark’s voice, impatient. “You there?”
“I’m here.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s all I’ve got right now. I’ll call you back.”
I ended the call.
The tunnel was quiet. The faint sounds of practice filtered through the walls: blades, whistles, the crack of pucks against boards.
My team. My rink.
On my way back to the rink, the corridor passed the open door of a conference room in the administrative wing. Through it, I could see David Walsh at the head of the table, Silas to his right, both of them on speakerphone with someone I could not hear. Walsh was gesturing with one hand, unhurried, the way Walsh gestured when he was negotiating and wanted the person on the other end to think he was not. Silas was taking notes.
They were not negotiating with me.
They were negotiating about me.
The call had gone out before I had made it off the ice.
I kept walking.
I returned to the rink entrance and stood in the gap where the rubber matting met the ice, one foot in each world. The team was running a breakout drill. Brick was directing traffic from center, Mack had planted himself net-front like a man daring anyone to move him, and the rookies were burning themselves out trying to look like they belonged. Sully was barking corrections.
Same room. Same life.
Except it was not.
Sully appeared at my shoulder. He did not look at me. Just stood there, hands on his hips, watching the drill.
“Good news or bad?”
“Both.”
“Thought so. You want ten minutes?”
“No.”
