Page 36 of Unmanageable

He just got married.

Yesterday was supposed to be entirely about him and Ivy, the biggest night of their lives, and I’m standing here realizing my best friend was busy analyzing my expression instead of just enjoying his own wedding reception.

“Callie, fuck, I’m sorry,” I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. “Yesterday was your night. I didn’t mean to be—I shouldn’t have been checked out. I was just—”

“Hey, drop it, I don’t care about that,” Callahan interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “I’m asking because I watched you looking at Scottie like she was the last person on Earth. And that speech… you weren’t talking to the room, Cash. You were talking right to her.”

I let out a long breath, staring down into the liquid in my cup, unable to deny it.

There’s no point in lying to Callahan.

He’s known me since we were four years old; he can read my defense before I even set my skates on the ice. He’s seen me through every failed trade rumor, every locker room disaster, and every stupid decision I’ve ever made.

But instead of giving me a teasing smirk, he just studies my face, his arms crossing over his chest. He doesn’t look convinced—he looks concerned.

“Cash, come on,” he says. “Are you actually serious about this? Or are you just messing around because it’s the off-season and you guys have been bickering for three years?”

“What? No. I’m not messing around.”

“Because it looks a lot like your usual routine,” Callahan presses. “You love a challenge. You love pushing her buttons and getting a rise out of her. I need to know if this is just you playing a game because you’re bored and she’s a tough nut to crack. Because if you’re just joking around and you mess with her head in that van for two months, Ivy will actually castrate both of us.”

“I’m not playing, Callahan,” I say, my voice steady. “I’m entirely in. She thinks it’s a joke, too. She thinks it’s just some physical fixation and that I don’t know her. But I want to know every single piece of her. I want the real version, not the agent.”

He searches my eyes for a long, quiet beat. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders drops, and he nods, believing me.

“Good,” Cal says. “But Scottie’s tough, man. You realize you’re walking into a legal battlefield.”

He reaches out, his massive hand coming down on my shoulder, giving it a heavy, solid squeeze. “You’ve got, like, two months in that orange van of yours. If you can’t convince her it’s real by the time training camp starts, you’re a worse goalie than I thought.”

“Hey,” I mutter, a faint, relieved grin breaking through the seriousness. “I’m an awesome goalie, Callie.”

“Prove it off the ice then,” he says, turning back toward the terrace. “Come on. Let’s get back before Brick passes out into the butter and causes a scene.”

When we walk back out onto the terrace, the conversation has shifted toward the logistics of the upcoming week. The road trip is officially on the horizon, the reality of the off-season setting in as the wedding festivities draw to a close.

“So, when are you guys actually hitting the highway?” Marcus asks, looking between me and Scottie.

“Tomorrow morning,” Scottie answers for us. “The first stop is in Philadelphia.”

“Why Philadelphia?” Nico asks, leaning forward, his interest piqued. “You guys scouting?”

“Cash wants to visit some specific goalie development coach up there,” Scottie says, glancing at me. “Something about his lateral movement.”

I nod, taking my seat again. “Yeah. If I can shave half a second off my post-to-post recovery time, it changes everything. It’s the difference between a save and a highlight reel goal against me.”

Nico frowns. “You really think that the front office could trade you? Like… you’re really doing all this because you think the Reign are going to move you before the deadline?”

The table goes quiet for a second, the lighthearted wedding vibe dropping away to reveal the cold, hard reality of the business we all work in.

Before I can answer, Scottie’s voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and definitive.

“They will not trade him,” she says. “The front office might be looking at their cap space, and they might be taking meetings with other general managers because that’s their job, but as long as I’m managing his representation, Finnian is staying in a Reign jersey. His contract has a limited no-trade clause that kicks in on July first, and I’m already structuring the leverage we need to lock him down long-term. They’d have to give up three first-round picks and a starting defenseman just to clear the baseline value he brings to the roster.”

The guys all look at her, a few of them letting out low, appreciative whistles.

I watch her from the side, my chest tightening with that same, familiar heat from last night. She looks so small against the backdrop of the massive athletes, but the room is undeniably hers.

“That’s great, Scottie,” I say. “And I appreciate the legal muscle. But even if the contract is safe, I still have to try to be better. The league doesn’t care about last year’s stats. The second you get comfortable, some twenty-one-year-old kid comes in and takes your net. I’m not losing my spot to a rookie.”