“The kid. He was good tonight. First face-off. Pass through his legs. He was good.”
“He was good, Maddox.”
My throat works.
“Tell him I said so. If you get the line open. Tell him he was good.”
“I'll tell her to tell him.”
My breath fogs the glass. Clears.
“Okay.”
“Sleep. I'll call in the morning.”
He hangs up.
I don't sleep.
I sit on the edge of the bed and I scroll my phone and I don't open anything, and my agent calls. Harlan. Forty-nine, Boston accent he never shook, represents maybe fifteen guys in the league and three of them are on Cup rosters. Harlan has never called me at eleven on a Saturday. Harlan texts. Harlan emails. Harlan calls in business hours.
Harlan is calling me at eleven on a Saturday.
I pick up.
“Maddox.”
“Harlan.”
I sit back down on the bed.
“I just got off the phone with Callahan's counsel.”
“Yeah.”
My knee bounces once.
“They're gonna frame it as mutual. They'll pay out this year's deal in full. They want the last three voided. Standard language. Personal conduct clause.”
“Okay.”
He exhales through the line.
“I'm going to fight the last three. That's my job. That's not your job tonight. Your job tonight is tell me you're sitting down.”
“I'm sitting down.”
“Blackridge Reapers want you.”
My apartment goes very still around me.
“Say it again.”
“Blackridge Reapers. Their GM's name is Matt Orrick. We played college together. I called him from the parking lot at the arena when I heard, which was about twenty minutes after it happened, because the league is the league. They were looking for a veteran D. They had a number penciled in for someone else. The someone else just became you. Two-year deal. First year at four point two, second year at four point four, with a team option for a third at five. Modified no-trade. Signing bonus of one point five up front. It's a better deal than Frosthaven was going to give you at your next extension and we both know it.”
I can't feel my hands.
“Blackridge is...”
