***
The Kansas City Coyotes’ executive offices occupied the top floor of a gleaming glass tower downtown, the team’s snarling logo emblazoned in chrome across the lobby wall. Liam bypassed the receptionist with a curt nod, his presence familiar enough that no one questioned his purposeful stride toward the conference room where morning management meetings were typically held.
He could hear voices as he approached — Gerald Parker’s distinctive Boston accent rising above the murmur of others. Without knocking, Liam pushed open the heavy door.
Six heads swiveled in unison, expressions ranging from surprise to irritation at the interruption. Gerald Parker sat at the head of the table, silver-haired and imperious in an Italian suit that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent.
“Anderson,” Parker said, recovering quickly. “We weren’t expecting you until practice this afternoon.”
“This couldn’t wait,” Liam replied, his gaze sweeping across the collection of executives and assistant coaches around the table. “I need a few minutes.”
Parker checked his Rolex, a deliberate gesture meant to convey the value of his time. “We’re rather in the middle of something.”
“It won’t take long.” Liam remained standing, aware that his physical presence — six-foot-three of solid hockey muscle — lent weight to his words.
With a put-upon sigh, Parker gestured for him to continue.
“I understand you’ve been discussing my contract situation,” Liam said, cutting directly to the chase.
A faint smirk played at the corner of Parker’s mouth. “As a matter of fact, we have.” He slid documents across the polished mahogany table. “Your agent should be receiving this today, but since you’re here…”
Liam stepped forward and picked up the papers, scanning the contents with growing disbelief. The terms were more than generous — a two-year extension at his current salary, despite his age and declining stats. There was even a no-trade clause, something the Coyotes rarely offered.
“Turn to page four,” Parker suggested, his voice silky. “The morality clause.”
Liam flipped to the indicated page, a cold weight settling in his stomach as he read:
‘Player agrees to maintain a family-friendly public image consistent with the Coyotes’ brand values. Player will refrain from activities or relationships that generate negative publicity or damage the team’s reputation. Player agrees to issue a statement distancing himself from recent media speculation regarding his personal life.’
His jaw tightened as he looked up. “So that’s the deal. I publicly deny any relationship with Sunny, and you pretend the last month never happened.”
“We prefer to think of it as a mutually beneficial arrangement,” Parker replied smoothly. “You focus on hockey, we ensure your future with the organization. Everyone wins.”
“Everyone except my daughters. And the woman I love.” Liam’s voice was steady as he set the contract down, pushing it back across the table.
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room. Several executives suddenly became intensely interested in their coffee cups.
“Let me be clear, Anderson,” Parker leaned forward, dropping the affable veneer. “This situation has become a distraction. Sponsors are uncomfortable. Ticket sales in certain demographics are showing concerning trends. We’ve been patient, but there comes a point where business decisions must be made.”
“So make them,” Liam said. “Trade me. Bench me. Don’t renew my contract. Do whatever you have to do to protect your precious brand.”
Parker’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty years with this organization, and you’re willing to throw it all away for some… hired help?”
The dismissive tone sent a surge of anger through Liam’s veins. “Twenty years of loyalty, blood, and broken bones. Twenty years of showing up, of playing through injuries, of being the face of this franchise when you needed marketing material.” His voice rose slightly. “And the first time I find something real, something that makes me and my daughters happy, you treat it like a PR problem to be managed.”
“That’s not—”
“It is,” Liam cut him off. “And I’m done letting you or anyone else dictate my personal life. My relationship with Sunny is not up for negotiation.”
“Be reasonable,” Parker sputtered, his composure finally cracking. “Your career—”
“My career is important,” Liam acknowledged. “But some things matter more.”
He turned to leave, pausing at the door to look back at the stunned faces around the table. “I love this game. I’ve given my life to it. But I won’t sacrifice my family’s happiness for it — not anymore.”
The click of the door closing behind him felt like the period at the end of a very long sentence.
As Liam strode through the hallway toward the elevators, a curious lightness spread through his chest. For years, hockey had been his identity, his purpose. The thought of losing it had terrified him. But standing up to Parker and the management team, declaring what really mattered — it felt like stepping out of a too-small jersey into something that finally fit.
