Unfortunately.
I stare at my vibrating phone while standing in the parking lot outside Sweet Seasons Bakery. Snow drifts lazily across Main Street, coating Briar Cove in more soft white layers while the bakery windows glow warm gold against the gray winter morning.
Inside, I can see Sadie moving behind the counter. Jillie stands on her usual stool wearing an oversized apron that says SPRINKLE SUPERVISOR in glitter marker.
My chest tightens automatically at the sight.
The phone keeps vibrating.
MARCUS, AGENT FROM HELL flashes across the screen.
Accurate contact name.
I answer reluctantly. “Please tell me nobody died.”
“That depends how emotionally attached you are to Frostholm.”
I close my eyes briefly. There it is. The thing I knew was coming eventually.
Trade season.
Even standing here in Briar Cove with powdered sugar permanently embedded in my bloodstream somehow couldn’t stop hockey reality from finding me.
“What happened?” I ask quietly.
“You got an offer.”
Not unusual.
Except Marcus sounds excited. Too excited.
“The Vipers reached out officially this morning.”
I go completely still.
Ah.
That’s different.
New York Vipers.
Massive market. Massive media attention. Massive pressure.
The Vipers are the kind of team that players dream about joining when they still think fame feels like victory.
Months ago, I would’ve killed for this, probably literally.
The Vipers are hockey royalty. Deep playoff runs. National endorsements. Primetime coverage every week. Career resurrection territory after the disaster my reputation became last season.
It’s exactly the kind of reset everybody thinks I need.
Marcus keeps talking while I stare through the bakery windows.
“Fresh market. Fresh media cycle. New locker room. Bigger sponsorship potential. This could completely rebuild your image.”
Image.
Always the image.
