Page 86 of Puck Me Twice

Brad calls me at the indecent hour of eight o’clock in the morning again. I have half a mind to decline the call. I don’t want anything to ruin the heaven of Vanessa in my bed.

With lead in my stomach, I answer. There are only two reasons he’s calling me: the Grizzlies want to trade me, or I’ve fucked up once again.

“What the fuck did you do, bud?” Brad snaps.

Fishing my sweats off the floor, I step into them and tiptoe across the room so I don’t wake Vanessa. She murmurs in her sleep, but doesn’t wake.

“What do you mean?”

“Management called me to discuss your contract,” he snaps.

Lead sits heavy in my belly. “They want to get rid of me?”

Brad snorts. “Fuck no. They want to extend you.”

I slip on the stairs. “What?”

“They low-balled you. I think we can get more⁠—”

“Whatever they want, I’ll take it,” I tell him.

“What? Fuck that. We’ll counter.”

“I want to stay in Boston,” I say firmly. “Whatever money or term they offer—I want it.”

“We can always negotiate,” Brad pushes.

“Is there a good term?”

“Five years, no trade.”

Closing my eyes, I let out a shaky exhale. “Take it. I want it.”

“Bud, this could be your last big contract. You don’t want to push for seven?”

“I’m good with five more years. The no trade clause is more important.”

“You’d be worth so much more on the open market,” he warns.

“This is what I want. I want to stay. Hell, I’d do it for the league minimum salary.”

I can hear his wince. “You can’t say shit like that.”

“Why? Because it’s true?”

He sighs. “Because one day, someone is going to take you at your word.”

“But I mean it. I would.”

Hockey is incredibly important to me. It’s all I ever wanted, everything I wanted to do since I was so young, when I didn’t even know the difference between dreams and reality.

Dreams change. People evolve. What I wanted five years ago is not what I am searching for now.

I’m not searching anymore. I’ve found her.

There’s a creak on the stairs and I turn to see a sleepy Vanessa making her way down. She’s wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks, her legs bare. Her blonde hair is an adorable mess.

“Good morning,” I say, turning on the coffee pot. If we’re up, might as well take advantage of it. “Did I wake you?”