The room goes very quiet.
"The ownership group is evaluating the direction of the franchise. That means the roster, contracts, everything." His eyes rove across the team and land on me. "Tate, Thorne, you’re the core of what this team is. I want you to hear it from me directly: nothing else isset in stone. In fact, nobody in this room is going anywhere without a conversation first."
"Appreciate that," Beck says.
"I mean it." Jimbo stands, replaces the chair. "Keep your heads down, keep playing well. That's the best thing any of you can do." He points at me. "And Thorne. The social media stuff has been noticed. Duke's been showing those videos to the ownership group. Keep it up."
Then he's gone, boots echoing down the hall.
Nobody says anything for a second.
"Well," Moose says finally, "that wasn't as bad as it could've been."
“I was ready for him to announce that we’re all going to do a cowboy-themed calendar,” Jett jokes.
“Yeah, that or pay cuts. He’d call it restructuring or something,” Moose gripes.
“Hey, hey.” I cast a gaze around the room. “Jimbo is a good team owner. He just has different priorities than we do. We’re here to win and be good guys that kids can look up to. But Jimbo has to look at the bigger picture.”
Beck sighs. “He’s looking at it from the standpoint of our place in the league.”
“And if being a cowboy gets it done, then so be it,” Connor jokes. “He’s ready for a brawl.”
I roll my eyes. “Just wait till you’re pushing 70. Then we can talk.”
The locker room empties after that, leaving Beck and I last. He rubs his chin, looking worried. “So Grayson’s out.”
Grayson Reed is twenty-six years old. He's cheaper and younger, and they moved him without blinking. I've been telling myself for weeks that the trade talk is just noise, just the usual summer speculation. It's not noise anymore.
“I know. Reed had a so-so season this year, but I don’t think any of us realized that a trade was in the mix.”
“No.” He frowns. “You worried?”
I nod. “Pretty much always.”
“We should have a beer and talk more.” He glances at his watch. “I have to go get Rosie from the babysitter, though.”
“Later, man.” We fist tap and he strolls out of the locker room.
I follow a half minute later, feeling like I’ve run a gauntlet. Mollie is waiting in the corridor when I come out, leaning against the wall with her bag over her shoulder. She reads my face immediately.
"How bad?" she asks.
"Grayson's gone. Traded to Denver."
She goes still. "Grayson Reed?"
"Yeah."
"Thorne." She straightens up and her knee almost bumps mine with how close she's standing. "They're not trading you. You're the heart of this team, and everyone in that building knows it. No trade makes sense. You're untradeable."
She says it the way she'd say the sky is blue. As though she's mildly irritated that she even has to point it out.
My heart twinges in a way I'm not prepared for. My dad talks about my career like it's a portfolio to be managed. My agent talks about it in terms of market value. Beck talks about it by not talking about it at all. Nobody just says it like it's an obvious fact and then waits for me to catch up.
I don't know what to do with it, so I do what I always do. I deflect.
"You don't know that," I say.
