Page 359 of The Lies We Play

It’s not the Cup I want.

It’s never been the fucking Cup.

It’s her.

It’s always been her, sitting on the edge of a dock at midnight, feet dangling, mouth full of laughter, eyes too honest for a world that punishes honesty.

My hand tightens around the phone until my fingers ache.

“They need a goalie who can take them all the way,” he says. “Because they have a roster built to contend, and they’ve been missing one piece. That piece is you.”

I let out a humorless laugh.

“So I’m a piece.”

“You’re a franchise goalie,” he insists. “They’re investing.”

Investing.

Like I’m a stock. A gamble. A number on a spreadsheet that either performs or gets replaced.

As if I’m not a man who has spent his whole life trying to build something that won’t vanish the second someone decides they can do better.

I walk to the window because I need distance from my own kitchen, from everything that surrounds me. The city is gray today. The sky hangs low, dull and tired, like it couldn’t be bothered to lift itself.

People move down the sidewalk, bundled up, holding coffees and conversations. Their lives don’t get rearranged by a phone call. They don’t have an invisible hand reaching in to shove them across the map.

“I’m fucking tired,” I say.

“I know,” Conrad replies, and his voice tries for empathy the way a man tries on a coat he’s not sure fits.

“No,” I correct, because he doesn’t. He can’t. “I’m tired of being good and still getting treated like I’m replaceable.”

“Monty—”

“I’m tired of signing leases.” The words come fast now, spilling out before I can choke them back. “I’m tired of learning new routes to the rink. I’m tired of new kitchens and new beds and new neighbors I never talk to.”

My voice stumbles at the end, and I hate that it does. I hate how easily my body gives me away, like there’s still a kid in there who thinks if he’s quiet enough, maybe nobody will leave.

I drag in a breath that doesn’t feel deep enough. “I’m tired of pretending this doesn’t hurt.”

“Your pay is going up.” There’s a pause. Conrad starts choosing his words with care, like he’s stepping around broken glass. “Significantly.”

I close my eyes.

There it is—the carrot, the silver lining, the thing he thinks can make this easier. As if money is a bandage big enough to cover this.

Money has never fixed what’s wrong with me.

It never brought anyone back.

“I don’t fucking care.”

“You should,” he says, firmer now, because he’s trained to believe dollars can solve most problems. “This changes your future.”

My laugh comes out thin and ugly. “What future? I don’t even know where I’m going to live in six months.”

“You’re going to Portland,” he says quickly, like Portland is a gift. “You’ll be close to the training facility. You’ll have stability.”