CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Luke’s phone rang as he walked toward his front door a few days later, carrying multiple bags of groceries. He’d only made one trip—because who fucking made multiple ones if they didn’t have to?
Cowards, that was who.
By the time he got through the door, the call had ended, but it started up again after he got the damn bags set down on the counter and stripped out of his jacket. Luke grumbled, took a look at the screen, and realized it was his agent.
He managed to get the earbuds connected just in time for Mac to hang up again. Luke sighed and called him back.
“Hey,” Mac said after the call connected. “You are there.”
“Hey.” Luke set a carton of eggs on the counter, the grocery bag rustling. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s up?”
“Just wanted to give you an update on where we’re at with negotiations,” Mac said.
“Alright,” he said warily. He leaned against the counter with a sigh.
He could already tell it wasn’t going to be what he wanted to hear. Mac started those conversations with, Hey, good news!
“It’s … they’re willing to go up in AAV but the most they’ll give you is one year.”
“Goddamn it.” Luke got it. The team had some wiggle room in what they could afford to pay him this season, but committing to a second season when a player his age tended to rapidly decline physically was a big gamble. But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting.
Mac cleared his throat. “I think a lot of it has to do with being unsure where O’Shea is at and how the season will go.”
Luke nodded. Connor’s shoulder issues weren’t exactly a secret. He’d been out on and off for brief periods because of it throughout the years, but at some point, he was going to need to have surgery done. “Sure, I know about O’Shea’s shoulder …”
“Yeah, but it’s not just that. His contract’s up at the end of next season.”
“Oh, come on,” Luke scoffed. “It’s not like he’s gonna have to beg for a contract. He’s a cornerstone of the fucking franchise. Besides, his play hasn’t exactly dropped off. They’ll give him whatever he wants.”
“Yes. But what I’m hearing isn’t coming from ownership. It’s that he’s giving himself that time to swing hard for a Cup this season or next, then weighing retirement at the end of that second season.”
“Oh.” Luke frowned. He hadn’t known that.
“To be clear, this isn’t something I’ve heard directly from anyone. It’s just general talk around the league so it may not even be accurate, but if it’s true it does impact what happens going forward.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“However, I think the ownership group was hoping that Connor’s son would at least be drafted by the time Connor retires …”
“Nolan’s fifteen,” Luke said with a scoff. “He’ll be sixteen this summer. He won’t be draft eligible for another two and a half years.”
“Sure,” Mac said. “But if you don’t think they’re hoping they can draft him …”
“Oh, I’m sure they are,” Luke said. “They’d love to get another O’Shea in there before Connor’s gone. I just don’t think it’s realistic that he’ll be NHL ready in time for them to play together the way Finn, Pat, and Connor did with Declan.”
“Look, I get you. I’m just saying I think they’re hoping that at minimum they can draft Nolan, get him up in the NHL for at least a game, and still have Connor playing—”
“No fuckin’ way,” Luke scoffed. “I mean, if that works out, that would be a hell of a storyline but …”
“I know. It’s a long shot. And I have no idea what Connor is actually planning. He’s not my client so this is all probably thirdhand at best. I just wanted you to be aware it’s going to be a factor.”
“Right.” Luke rubbed his head. Though, if Luke remembered right, Mac was Jesse’s agent. So, he might know more than most.
“So what does this have to do with me?” Luke asked.
“This season has taken everyone by surprise. After missing the playoffs last season, the Harriers had pretty much been written off as contenders—”
“I know that,” Luke said impatiently.
“So no one expected the team to be where they’re at in the standings right now.
And no one can predict what it’s going to look like once the team’s in the playoffs.
If from now until the trade deadline in March, someone critical is injured, Gavin may have to spring for someone to fill in that gap.
If everyone remains healthy and the team gets close but doesn’t quite make it, that changes the moves Gavin makes too. ”
“Sure, I get that,” Luke said, mulling over the possibilities. If they won a Cup this season—he knocked on the wooden cabinet door at even daring to think of that—then that changed the team’s trajectory too.
“So at this point, with so many questions up in the air, you’re not going to get more than a one-year deal from Gavin. I just don’t see the Harriers committing to anything until they know what direction the team is heading.”
“Fuck!” Luke slammed his hand down on the counter.
“I hear you. This isn’t where we’d like to be right now. But hey, that’s not to say they couldn’t sign you for another year after that if they still need you and you’re performing well enough.”
“It’s a gamble though.”
“It is. And I know you want stability.”
“Yeah, I fucking do.”
“But don’t forget, there are desperate GMs who’d love nothing more than to scoop you up and get you on their team so they can make a serious Cup run. We can make them pay for it, if that’s what you want.”
Luke sighed. The problem was what he wanted wasn’t an option. Gavin wasn’t willing to sign him to a two-year deal no matter what AAV he asked for.
Mac continued. “Bye week is coming up soon. Maybe take that time to think about things. Decide which you want more. Is it to stay in Boston and retire a little earlier? Or is it to go somewhere else for a longer term?”
“Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
Anger and frustration built up in Luke, threatening to explode out. But he trusted that Mac was doing his best for him, so he tamped it down long enough to thank his agent and say goodbye before he hung up and ripped the earbuds out of his ears.
He pushed off the counter and paced his kitchen, muttering to himself about asshole owners and GMs. He realized his food was still sitting out so he unloaded bags, stuffing the food in the cupboards and refrigerator hard enough that he broke two eggs in the carton.
He cleaned that up, the annoyance only adding to his bad mood.
After, he slammed the refrigerator door and a ceramic magnet popped off, falling to the kitchen floor and breaking. With an oath, he left it where it was and walked into the living room area.
As he passed the basement door, he debated if he should go down and work out. Maybe take some of his frustrations out on a punching bag. But, no, he had a game tonight, and he had to be careful not to overdo it. He’d done that a few times and learned to regret it.
Maybe something physical that was a little less taxing then.
When Luke had moved into the house, it had been in pretty rough shape. It was the only reason he’d been able to afford a detached single-family home in South Boston, even on his salary.
He’d worked on it in the summers, going room by room, ripping them down to the studs, then putting them back together. He’d finished most of it except for one small room on the first floor. It had been a den at one point. Then had been turned into a home office.
He still wasn’t sure what he’d do with it long-term, but he should at least get it finished.
Now, he pushed open the doors and stood in the doorway with a frown, considering his options.
He was in a mood to take a sledgehammer to the shelves, but they were solid wood so it would be stupid to remove them until he was sure about what he’d do with them. Plus, even if he did want them gone, with the game tonight he needed to be careful.
He looked around. Hmm. He did have mudding to do on one wall where he’d ripped out the narrow door that led to the backyard and replaced it with French doors. The drywall around it had needed replacing after.
He’d done that bit, then taped the seams but he’d gotten too busy with the season to get much work done on actually finishing it. In his opinion, mudding and sanding was the single worst job in home renovation but today, it would fit his needs.
Some hands-on work to get him out of his head without exhausting himself physically.
Luke changed into ratty clothes and went down to the basement, praying his joint compound hadn’t hardened in the bucket. It still looked good though, so he grabbed that and his supplies.
Thankfully, there were already canvas drop cloths down, so he scooped up some drywall mud with his taping knife and slapped it on the first wall seam.
It took patience and focus to get it smoothed out, and the first seam wasn’t his best because it had been a while since he’d done this and he was still feeling agitated as hell.
But eventually it did some of what he needed, the repetitive physical labor cooling his frustration from a hard boil to something closer to a simmer.
Luke got into the groove after a while, slapping mud on, then smoothing it out, working it into the joint.
When he was done with all the seams on the wall around the doors, he examined his work.
It wasn’t his best, that was for damn sure. He was going to have a helluva lot of sanding to do. But a look at the time told him he needed to get his pre-game nap in soon, so that was a problem for another day.
He cleaned up his tools and grabbed his phone, then went upstairs.
In his bedroom, he closed the curtains, stripped off his work clothes, and face-planted on the bed.
He checked to be sure the alarm on his phone was set, then pulled the covers halfway over his body.
It wasn’t going to be a good nap, he could already tell that.
He could still feel the restless agitation in his body, that twitchy energy that would have him flopping around like a damn fish.
An hour and a half later, when the alarm went off, he sat up groggily and silenced it.
The nap had gone exactly the way he’d expected. He’d tossed and turned for a long while, only to drop off just long enough to fall deeply asleep and be woken up before he was ready.
He heaved himself out of bed with a sigh and went to eat his pre-game meal. While he waited for it to heat, he messaged Sebastian. You up for getting fucked after the game tonight?
He got a, Yes, in response as he ate his meal, which at least told him Sebastian was on board even if he didn’t sound very enthusiastic about it.
Luke glanced at the clock. Ehh, maybe he was just busy.
After his meal, Luke dressed in his gameday suit and listened to an audiobook on the way to the arena.
He’d never been much of a reader growing up, but a former teammate had hooked him up with some audiobooks about the history of the Old West and he’d fallen down a rabbit hole there.
He’d read about mining towns and Vegas and gunslingers.
Outlaws and cowboys and, lately, some books from Native writers, which reminded him of some of the stories he’d heard from Paiute guys he’d known.
Sometimes Luke missed where he’d grown up on the outskirts of Vegas, the dry dustiness of the Nevada landscape more to his taste than the heavy humidity of living right on the ocean.
But Boston was home now.
And every time his thoughts turned to leaving, to being traded to a new team and getting set up in a new city, it felt … it fucking felt wrong.
Even if the air was thick enough to make a man choke in the summers, a simple walk down the block leaving him with sweat sticking to his skin and running down his back, he didn’t want to leave.
Fuck. Why wouldn’t they just offer him a goddamn two-year contract?
Because you’re getting old, he reminded himself. Because who knows how long you might be useful to them.
Gavin might care about Luke, might treat him like a human instead of a pure asset, but he was still a businessman. Gavin still knew that if he valued sentimentality over profit every time, he’d be the one out on his ass.
Luke’s mood wasn’t made any better by the time he battled heavy Boston traffic and tried to park in his usual spot at the arena. A worker apologized as he rolled down his window, gesturing to the light above it.
“Sorry, Mr. Crawford. This light’s on the fritz. We would have waited but it’s been sparking and …”
Luke nodded, thanked the guy through gritted teeth, and parked in a different spot, annoyed by his routine already feeling off-kilter. It got worse when he went to eat his pre-game snack about an hour before puck drop and realized the pickles were the wrong kind.
It turned out the supplier sent a box of bread and butter pickles which were just disgusting as far as Luke was concerned. Some intern had run out to the store to get dill slices like he liked but they were stuck in traffic and weren’t going to make it in time.
So he nodded tersely and ate his plain peanut butter sandwich instead of the peanut butter and pickle one he’d had before every fucking game since he was twelve.
He barked at Tanner when he asked how his day had gone and growled at one of the rookies who knocked over his sticks before warmups and was generally in a foul mood as he tried to get back in his usual routine.
When they trooped off the ice after, Connor lifted an eyebrow and asked, “What crawled up your ass and died today?” and when Luke just shrugged, Connor told him to get it together.
Luke tried but it was just one of those fucking games. One where it all felt off from the start. And either it was like that for everyone else on the ice tonight or his foul mood was rubbing off on everyone.