I chuckled. “Maybe I just like hitting people.”
“Nah,” he shook his head, still bouncing on his toes. “I’ve seen you like hitting people. This was different. This was personal.” A grin spread wide across his face. “You got a girl you’re trying to impress or something?”
“Just focused.”
“Focused,” Perez repeated the word like he was tasting it. “Right. Focused.” He stopped bouncing.
His gaze dropped to my open palm before I could curl my fingers inward. The tape I’d wrapped around my hand had loosened during the game, and the gauze underneath had shifted.
Perez pointed, still grinning. “Woah. Is that from a puck or a girl?”
The teeth marks had scabbed over, a messy crescent of broken skin already fading at the edges. Karter had left it there on the bus.
My face remained blank. “Hooked up with a chick at that bar. She got a bit rough.”
“A bit rough?” Perez grabbed my wrist and tilted my hand toward the fluorescent lights, squinting at the mark. “Bro, this looks like she tried to take a chunk out of you. What did you even say to her?”
I grinned. “Nothing she didn’t like.”
Perez let out a short laugh, but the sound died fast. He stopped bouncing. Those sharp eyes drifted across the noisy room, past the row of stalls, and landed on Karter. The stare held a second too long.
Turning back to me, his grin had thinned to almost nothing. “Yeah, I mean... just make sure it doesn’t get too rough, man.”
His tone put me instantly on edge.
My muscles tightened with a sudden rush of anger at the implication, because I did not need Perez monitoring me or trying to figure out my personal shit.
I glared at the floor and fought the urge to snap at him. I couldn’t read his mind to know if he was suspicious or just making a bad joke, but the idea of anyone watching me that closely made my skin crawl.
I grabbed my clothes and got dressed as fast as possible to escape the tension. The hallway outside the locker room was freezing, and the strap of my bag dug into my shoulder.
Fans were still cheering upstairs over the win. The sound brought a wave of pure relief crashing over me. Earning a real pro salary and leaving my old life behind was within reach.
A guy in a tailored suit blocked my way to the parking lot. I shifted my weight and took him in with a quick scan.
He had a sharp gaze and the steady confidence of someone holding all the cards. His clipboard and lanyard marked him as being on official business. The AHC logo on that lanyard stood for the American Hockey Circuit, a minor league where guys actually got paid to play.
“Zotov,” the man said, offering his hand. “Gavin Phillips. Good game today.”
I shifted my bag and shook his hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“You play a tough game,” Phillips assessed me from head to toe. “And we like your physicality. You don’t back down from a hit. That’s exactly what we need on the roster.”
“That’s my job on the ice,” I said. I met his gaze head-on and braced myself.
“I will get straight to the point,” Phillips said. “We have a roster spot opening up on our Iowa affiliate next season. It comes with a standard entry-level AHC contract. We like your size and the aggressive game you play.”
An entry-level contract meant an actual salary. It meant pulling my mother out of her double shifts and finally getting out of Detroit. I forced my expression to stay blank and nodded. “I could be a good fit for Iowa.”
“You would,” Phillips agreed. “But we also saw the tape of your ejection yesterday.”
The fallout from my violent anger was already here. I played the role of the dedicated team guy perfectly and kept my voice even. “I was defending a teammate.”
“Well, we are willing to overlook it as a one-time thing,” Phillips said. “You protect your guys. I respect that. But we need players who can keep their noses clean.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” Phillips leaned in a little closer. “I need you to hear me clearly. An entry-level contract is a trial run. If you stepout of line again, on or off the rink, you are off our draft board entirely.”
