Tension instantly locked up my shoulders. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Derek Turner.” He held out a hand. “Chicago, NHC.”
The National Hockey Circuit. The actual big leagues.
I met his palm for a firm shake, my other hand clamping down hard on my duffel strap. An NHC contract meant real money and a massive signing bonus. It meant I could really pull my mom out of Detroit and tell her she never had to work a double shift at the nursing home again. This was the exact lifeline we had spent our entire lives bleeding for.
“I liked your game tonight,” Turner said, his eyes scanning me with a cold, corporate assessment. “Chicago is looking for a physical, stay-at-home defenseman to add to its development roster. Someone who clears space and plays smart.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Plus, you don’t take stupid penalties. That kind of discipline is rare.” Turner crossed his arms, looking satisfied. “So, we want to sit down and discuss a potential entry-level contract with our organization. Coffee tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” the blunt answer slipped out. “Name the time.”
“I’ll text you the details.” Turner nodded, but his expression suddenly shifted. A serious, corporate mask slid over his face. “A heads-up, Zotov. Chicago protects its investments. We do thorough background checks on all our prospects.”
“Background checks?” I asked.
Turner waved a hand as if it were just boring paperwork. “Standard league procedure. Criminal records, social media, general character stuff. The franchise doesn’t like PR nightmares. We just want to make sure there is no drama hiding in your closet before we put money on the table.”
It was probably a routine speech for him, but my gut went cold. The math of the situation changed in a split second.
If Chicago sent someone to dig into my life, they might eventually find out about Karter.
My jaw locked tight. It took serious effort to keep my face totally blank, but years of practice kicked in.
You take the hit and you don’t let them see it hurt.
“Understood, sir,” I said, my voice flat.
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
Turner pivoted away and walked down the hall. Rooted to the concrete floor, I watched him go until my phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, the screen lit up with a message.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Then it buzzed again. And a third time.
My mom had this habit of treating text messages like a series of formal letters, hitting send after every single thought. A small smile cracked my usual deadpan expression as I unlocked the screen to read them.
Mom: Lekha, thank you for the money transfer yesterday.
Mom: But the heating bill was higher than I thought. The landlord won’t take a partial payment.
Mom: I am going to pawn the old silver tea set. Please keep your paycheck for food this week. You need your strength for hockey. Love you.
The smile dropped right off my face. She was about to sell the only nice thing she owned just to keep her apartment above freezing, and the guilt hit me.
I leaned back against the cold wall behind me and stared at the screen. I could picture that silver tea set sitting on our scratched kitchen table back in Detroit. It was the only thing of value she hadn’t sold.
The hallway suddenly felt way too small.
Turner had just offered me a real ticket out of this life, provided my secret with Karter didn’t blow up in my face. Now my mom was selling her last piece of family history to keep the heat on.
I checked the time at the top of my phone screen. It was almost six o’clock. The pawn shops on our street rolled their steel grates down at six sharp. So, my mom wouldn’t make it before they locked the doors tonight. That gave me until they opened tomorrow morning to figure something out.
Swiping out of my messages, my thumb tapped my banking app. I watched the loading wheel spin and braced myself for the bad news.
Available balance: $57.00
