“This is the dream, Colt,” Martin says, his voice buzzing with excitement. “This is what you’ve been working for since you were a kid! More money. More visibility."
More of everything my parents spent my childhood telling me was the ultimate goal. THEIR ultimate goal.
"This is your chance to play on a real stage, every week.Madison Square Gardens,kiddo!" Marty's practically singing now. "You'll be on national television every other night. Endorsement deals out the wazoo. This is it!”
I look at Zoey. She’s staring at me, her brows drawn together, her arms wrapped around herself like she doesn't know whether to be happy or cry.
“I, uh… Marty, this is great,” I say into the phone, my voice strangely calm. "I need to think about it, though."
“Think about it? Colt, this is a no-brainer! This is the kind of offer that changes careers. Changeslives. You’d be an idiot to—”
“I said I need to think about it.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to. “I’ll call you back.”
I hang up before he can protest.
The silence inside the Executive Box returns, deeper this time.
Zoey’s eyes haven’t left my face. “Who was that?”
“There’s… a trade offer,” I say, the words feeling like gravel in my throat. “Another team wants me. It's… it's New York.”
She just… blinks. Her arms tighten around herself, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
“New York,” she repeats softly, almost to herself.
“Yeah.”
“That’s… far.”
“Yeah.”
We stand there, facing each other in the luxurious, quiet box. Outside the window, the ice gleams under the arena lights, now empty and somehow even more perfect.
Zoey looks at the envelope in her hands, then back at me. The joy in her eyes from minutes ago has vanished, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
I want to say something. To tell her it’ll be okay. To promise we’ll figure it out.
But the words stick in my throat, because for the first time since I woke up with her beside me…
I'm not sure if we will.
Chapter 20
Zoey
Iknead the dough on the counter with a little too much aggression, my palms pressing, folding, pushing with a force that has nothing to do with gluten development and everything to do with the envelope propped against the flour canister.
Three hours ago, I was standing in an executive box overlooking the rink, holding this same envelope while Colt's agent offered him a life in New York.
We stood there for what felt like forever after he hung up, the two of us frozen in that ridiculous, beautiful suite while the bright lights hummed below and neither of us knew what to say.
Eventually, I told him I needed to get back.
That Morgan was home. That I had baking to do.
All of it true, but none of it the real reason.
The real reason was that if I stayed in that room one more second, looking at his face while he processed the biggest opportunity of his career, I was going to beg him not to take it.
