Hendricks’ jaw tightened. Just a fraction—just enough for me to see it. “The organization feels it’s the right move for both parties.”
“Both parties,” I echoed. “I’m having the best season on this team. My numbers are—”
“This isn’t about numbers, Dante.”
And there it was. The thing underneath the thing. The reason Hendricks wouldn’t look at me straight on, the reason the operations woman was studying her folder like it contained the secrets of the universe.
It was about something else. And clarity hit me harder than a high stick to the face.
Antoine Devereaux. Thirty-one years old, alternate captain, two-time All-Star, and the man I’d been stupid enough to fall in love with.
I didn’t know it then—not the full scope of it, not the specific lies or who he’d whispered them to. That would come later, in fragments, like pulling shrapnel out of a wound. What I knew in that moment was simpler and worse: the ground I’d thought was solid had been hollowed out beneath me for weeks, maybe months, and I’d been too blinded by the way Antoine smiled at me behind closed doors, and whispered things in my ear, to notice the sinkhole forming.
“The Dragons,” I said quietly. “They just had that betting scandal.”
Hendricks at least had the decency to flinch. “They’re rebuilding. They need young talent.”
They need bodies,I thought.And I’m the most expendable body you’ve got, because someone made sure of that.
“My agent—”
“Has been notified. There’s a flight to Denver in two hours, so grab a coffee. The team will handle logistics and pack your apartment.” He paused, and for one brief second, something that might have been regret flickered across his face. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ve got real talent, kid.”
Kid.Back to kid. The conversation was over.
I nodded because I didn’t trust my voice. I picked up the folder the woman slid across the table—new team contact info, travelitinerary, relocation details—and I walked out of that conference room with my spine straight and my face blank, because that was the one thing Antoine had actually taught me that was worth keeping: never let them see you bleeding.
Briggs caught my eye from across the terminal and raised a hand in a lazy wave. He didn’t know yet. None of them did. By the time they landed in Vancouver, my name would be scrubbed from the roster sheet, and Antoine Devereaux would have one less problem to worry about.
I’d been so stupid. He’d seemed distant and told me he was focusing on getting to the playoffs, and that I should too.
And I’d believed him.
I found a seat at an empty gate two terminals away—because I didn’t warrant a private plane now—set my bag on the floor between my feet, and stared at the departure board without seeing it.
Colorado. The Dragons. A franchise that had become a punchline two seasons ago when seven players and half the coaching team got caught up in a sports betting ring that made national news. Half their roster had been gutted. Their fan base was furious. The league had come down on them like a hammer, and now they were scrambling to fill seats with warm bodies who could skate in a straight line and not embarrass anyone further.
And I was one of those bodies now.
Although that wasn’t strictly true, I allowed. Their front line was on fire, and their goalie was like a wall. We’d played them twice so far this season and won both times, but you could tell they were improving, and I didn’t doubt they’d climb out of the wildcard spot.
My phone buzzed. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession. I pulled it out and saw the notifications already stacking up—a text from my agent, two from my mother, a push alert from TSN Sports with my name in the headline.
I opened the text from my agent first.
Dante. Just got the call. I know this is a shock. Don’t talk to media. Don’t post anything. Call me when you land in Denver. We’ll figure this out.
Figure this out. As if there was something to figure. A trade was a trade. The deal was done. My locker in that arena was already being cleaned out by some equipment manager who’d pack my gear into boxes with the same indifference he’d use for old tape and broken sticks.
I’d hoped to always play for the Grizzlies. Chicago was my home, where my family lived.
My phone buzzed with a good-luck message from my mom, assuming I was headed to the game and who wouldn’t know yet her baby was moving nearly a thousand miles away. I locked the screen and put the phone face-down on the seat beside me. I couldn’t call her yet. Not here, not in this terminal with its overhead announcements and its smell of chain restaurant coffee and its streams of people moving past me like I was a rock in a river. Not when I didn’t yet have the right words to explain what had happened.
My mother would cry. She’d try to hide it—she’d been trying to hide things from me since my father died, tucking her real feelings somewhere behind her eyes and offering me the steady version of herself instead while she worked three jobs back then. But I’d always been able to hear the effort in her voice, the way she breathed a little too carefully when she was holding something back. I couldn’t put her through that without at least understanding it myself first.
And my brothers. God. Marco would want to fly out. He’d say it casually, like it was nothing, like driving to the airport and buying a same-day ticket to Denver was something a guy working two jobs and raising three kids could just do. He’d offer anyway. That was Marco. Nicky would be angrier than I was,which somehow always made things worse; his outrage on my behalf had a way of making the thing more real, more final, more something-that-actually-happened-to-you. I wasn’t ready for either of them.
What I wanted, in a way that felt almost childish, was to sit at my mother’s kitchen table on Taylor with a cup of coffee I hadn’t made myself and let her not-quite-hide her feelings while I not-quite-showed mine. That was the comfort of home—not that anyone fixed anything, but that you could be broken in a familiar place among people who had already decided to love you regardless.
