Page 106 of With the Assist

His phone slides across the table with the contract notes pulled up. Numbers and bullet points stare back at me as a reminder that nothing is ever as simple as it feels in the moment.

“The front office is happy,” he continues. “They like your bounce back. They like your effort, but the last few seasons still matter. It’s your inconsistency they’re worried about. The narrative around you doesn’t disappear overnight.”

I stare at the screen without really seeing it.

“You need a damn near perfect rest of the season. No stretches where you disappear. You do that, and we have leverage. You don’t, and we’re talking short-term deals again. Prove-it contracts.”

Something sharp twists in my chest, annoyance flaring up my spine.

“Of course. I’m only worth something if I’m flawless.”

It always comes down to this. I’m a caged animal that can be shipped off at a moment's notice. I’m only useful if they decide I am.

Ryan’s eyebrows lift. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

The edge in my tone surprises even me. This isn’t how I talk to Ryan. He’s been with me since before my rookie season, through injuries, rehab, and late-night doubts I barely admit to myself. He’s never sugarcoated things, but he has always been on my side.

He exhales slowly, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Hey. What’s going on with you?”

The answer piles up all at once. The contract. The future. The woman I cannot stop thinking about, who made it very clear she doesn’t want complications, even as she let me into her bed.

Everything feels out of my control. My career. Whatever is happening with Wesley.

It feels like I’m walking a tightrope with no net, aware that one misstep could send everything crashing down, while someone unseen waits below with a blade, ready to cut the line to see what happens.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, forcing myself to breathe. “That was out of line.”

Ryan watches me for a beat longer, then nods. “Yeah. It was. And that’s not like you.”

“I know.”

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he says more gently. “I’m telling you this so you understand the stakes. You’re playing great. Keep doing that. Control what you can control.”

Control.

The word sticks with me long after lunch ends, mostly because it’s starting to feel like I have none.

The city noise hums around me as I head straight to the rink from the restaurant.

I contemplate texting Wesley, something casual that acknowledges our night together while taking the pressure off, but I chicken out.

I don’t know which version of me she wants tomorrow or if she wants me at all.

The parking lot looks gross with gas streaking through the puddles of melted snow, and piles of icy, black sludge along the edges despite the sun. I click the engine off but stay in the car. The arena looms in front of me like a concrete reminder of everything I’m supposed to be prioritizing.

Players drift in and out through the side entrance with their heads down, each of them wrapped up in their own rituals. Normally, I’d already be inside, carrying out my own routine. Today, my body feels stalled, like my brain forgot to send the signal.

My phone buzzes against my thigh, the vibration sharp in the quiet of the car. I don’t look at it right away. There’s a small, stupid part of me that hopes it’s her, even though I know better. I’m not sure what I’d even say if it were.

I finally glance down at the screen.

My sister.

It rings once more than necessary before I answer. “You have a sixth sense, you know that?”

Delaney laughs immediately. “I do. It tingles every time you’re brooding somewhere with bad lighting.”