Page 77 of Pucking Forbidden

I shouldn’t have done it. I definitely shouldn’t have said what I said afterward. Panic had clawed its way up my throat the second she moaned into my mouth. That soft, vulnerable sound had shattered the illusion. It reminded me exactly who she was… a sweet, pristine girl who deserved everything good in this world, way too innocent for a fucked-up, damaged person like me.

I’m a walking disaster, and all I'd do is pull her down into the dark with me.

It’s the same suffocating terror that paralyzed me last week. When I walked away from her then, leaving her alone after almost crossing the line, it felt like tearing my own ribs open. I’ve spent the days since rotting in my own head. I’ve forced myself to maintain the distance because I thought I was protecting her from the wreckage of my life.

Yet when she showed up tonight wearing my jersey, every ounce of my restraint had turned to ash.

You think you do now, but you’ll come to your senses and leave.

The words tasted like ash when I spoke them, but they were true. My mother left before I could even read. My brother left the second he was old enough to pack a bag. My old man drank himself into a coffin. People leave. It’s the only absolute truth I’ve ever known. A girl like Hadley would eventually look at my scars, see my dark thoughts, and she would realize she made a massive mistake.

I look at the clock. Only a few minutes have gone by. It feels like it’s been hours. The lack of sleep has turned into a dull, throbbing pressure behind my eyes. I pull out my phone to clear the notifications, intending to delete the standard post-game wrap-ups from the league, and see that I’ve got an email.

Subject: Chicago Ironclads - Official Inquiry

I stare at the screen. It’s from Coach Williams’s office. The invite is official. They want a face-to-face meeting. A real, concrete conversation about what a mid-season trade or an off-season free-agent move would look like.

It’s exactly what I started weeks ago when I was worried about Mrs. Clay. It’s what I wanted.

Looking at it now, with the taste of Hadley still lingering on my lips, the reality of it suddenly feels suffocating. If I take this meeting, I’m taking a step across a line I may not be able to uncross.

I don’t give myself time to think. I can’t afford to over-analyze. If I do, I’ll think of the WILDER 18 jersey Hadley was wearing last night and I’ll lose my nerve. My fingers move quickly across the keyboard, typing a short, professional response.

I can fly out tomorrow. Let’s do it.

I send it and sit back, feeling like my stomach is sinking to the floor. It’s done. No taking it back.

For better or worse, I’m talking to Chicago.

The visit to Chicago is a bit of a blur.

On the surface, everything about the Ironclads organization is flawless. The facilities are state-of-the-art. The locker rooms are pristine, the training staff has resources that rival Olympic training centers, and the budget is massive. There are no salary cap gymnastics here. They have the cash, and they are willing to spend it to get what they want.

After my tour, I met Coach Williams for the first time. Sitting in his office, the leather chair beneath me smelling of expensive polish. He’s a veteran coach, a guy with a couple of rings and a reputation for being a hard-nosed tactician. Except, lately, he’s been on a losing streak, which I know is why he’s pushing so hard for me to join his team.

“We need a guy like you, Julian,” Williams declares, leaning forward and resting his thick forearms on his desk. He points a finger at me. “We’ve got plenty of fast, flashy kids who can score goals when the sun is shining. What we don’t have is grit. We don’t have a right wing who can grind people into the boards, protect the crease, and still put up twenty-five goals a season. You fit the blueprint of what we’re missing.”

He lays it on thick, walking me through line configurations, showing me exactly where I’d slot in next to their franchise center. He talks about power-play time, leadership roles, and the kind of stability a long-term contract offers.

It’s all pretty straightforward and a tempting situation…but there’s something that feels off about the whole thing.

There’s an edge to Williams’s voice. A slickness in the way he pushes the pitch that makes my stomach turn. When he talks about the team, he doesn’t talk about them like a unit, but like pieces on a chessboard. I don't see the respect I get with Coach Sullivan. Williams looks at me like I’m an asset he’s trying to acquire at a discount before my market value spikes.

Still, I brush it aside, telling myself it’s just business. This is the NHL. Not everyone gets the tight-knit, family culture we built in Colorado.

When we begin wrapping up the meeting, he shakes my hand and says, “We’ll email you the contract to look over, and once things are to your liking, we can meet again and sign. I’ll have my assistant arrange things.”

“All right,” I nod. “Thank you.”

With that, I leave, satisfied with the terms he outlined for me.

However, I carry the uneasy feeling with me, buried deep beneath my ribs as I leave the arena.

That night, I take the commuter train out to the suburbs. The transition from the gleaming downtown skyline to the weathered, working-class neighborhood of my youth is a physical weight.

As the train screeches to a halt and I step out onto the cracked pavement, I feel a surprising wave of relief wash through my chest.

The neighborhood is caked in grit and dirt, the neon signs of the local diners flickering over rusted chain-link fences and water-stained brick. It’s a far cry from the pristine luxury of the Night Hawks' world. Every ambitious bone in my body wants to conquer that gleaming downtown skyline. I can't deny the truth as the cold, exhaust-heavy air fills my lungs. I still feel at home here, among the rundown streets and the broken pavement.