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It’s not like I thought it would last.
I’m coming out of the showers when one of the assistant coaches catches me. The GM wants to talk.
Shit. The last time I got flagged to meet with the GM out of nowhere, I was on a plane to Chicago the next week.
My gut fills with lead as I walk into the locker room still wearing my towel. O’Brian is doubled over watching some YouTube clip on Popov’s phone. Rux Meyers, still wearing half his gear, is walking on his hands, bare feet close to the ceiling. A handful of guys give me a nod or hold out a fist for knuckles. And that cold weight inside me doubles with the realization that I’m not fucking ready to leave these guys.
I’m not ready to leave this town, this city…Natalie.
That sick feeling starts to spread. My hands feel numb and the noise around me muffles when I think about skating out for the first lap and knowing she’s not going to be there. Because I’m in another state. In an arena she may never visit.
She won’t be watching me.
She won’t be cheering when I score.
She won’t be there.
I jam my legs into my track pants and throw on a sport shirt. I need to get upstairs. Stuffing my feet into my gym shoes, I pull out my phone and start scrolling through the sports feeds, because the sad truth is that shit like this gets out. And it’s not uncommon to have a trade reported before the player has even been notified. But there’s nothing about me beyond a few pictures from the shelter I spent some hours at last week and speculation about whether I’ll be starting the next game.
I couldn’t give a shit who starts. I just want to know if I’m going to be here.
What if they’ve got me on a plane tonight?
Will I even get to see her before I leave? Will I even get to say goodbye?
Fuck.
Mateo is outside the general manager’s office and waves me through with a clap on my back I can’t read.
Raking a hand through my hair, I realize it’s still half soaked. Well, it’s not like it’s going to cost me my spot on the team.
Marty Sheely is wrapping up a call, but signals for me to take a seat in one of the cushy leather chairs across from his desk. He finishes quickly and then leans back, arms crossed over his chest. Sheely is in his mid-forties, pretty fit for a guy who rides a desk, and known to be a straight shooter, so I’m not expecting him to dick me around.
“Vassar, you’ve been a thorn in my side since the day you arrived. This bullshit with Baxter— Well, we expected some. But we’d hoped you two would be able to put your differences aside for the sake of the organization.”
Shit. Did Baxter say something about Natalie? Or fuck, that doctor who walked in? I’d have sworn the guy didn’t see anything, and if he had, wouldn’t have cared. But—
“And I appreciate that you have.”
What?
“Hell, it’s no secret this isn’t the team you wanted to play for, but you’ve busted your ass for us. You’ve contributed to the community as much as any player here. And the way you’ve stepped up these past few months and especially these last couple weeks hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He levels me with a no-nonsense look. “But Baxter’s back this week. And it’s his team.”
Ah, and now I get it. I was looking a little too comfortable filling the captain’s shoes and they want to make sure there won’t be any issues with me giving them back.
“He’s a good leader.” I don’t particularly like saying it out loud, but that doesn’t make it untrue. “Glad to see him returning to play.”
A nod. And then he wags his head and drops an F-bomb under his breath. “I hope Oregon is able to give you what you need when the time comes.”
I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I’m not leaving now.
Which means there’s still time.
Though as I’m pushing from the club chair and reaching over the desk to shake his hand, I ask myself,time for what?
