Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Cross-Checking - Forcefully hitting an opponent with both hands on the stick (penalty).
Taranis
I wanted to do something normal with him, not just lurch from one crisis to another, but the press didn’t let up, and to make matters worse, I knew I had to see my agent who was here with the team. He repped Max, Cole, and Phoenix as well, and Weston was a good guy.
I was thirty-seven in three months. The trade window had closed, which was good and bad.
Good because I felt at home with the Dragons—even before Cinder had arrived—and I had zero interest in playing for another team.
Bad because I hadn’t been offered a contract extension.
It was like they weren’t sure they wanted me, but they didn’t want anyone else to have me either.
I knew I should walk… but then what? Hockey had been my entire life since I was ten.
I knew Marc, for example, was looking forward to retirement, as he had a huge family, including some vineyard in the Niagara peninsula he was all set to inherit if he wanted, and five kids. I was pretty sure his wife was pregnant with their sixth.
I didn’t have that. Family, that was. Not that I was interested in a wife.
I’d known I was gay since around sixteen.
And yeah, I was late to that realization, but it had been my first season with the U18s, and to get thrust from a tiny farm where we saw no one, into a full-on buffet of male hotness made every fantasy come to life.
Not that I ever even dared look at them. And then hockey had become my life.
As dragons, we knew that at some point we had to withdraw from current life. The public weren’t ready for an eternal lifespan, and I knew dragons like Ignatius made it work by simply reinventing themselves every so often.
Well, it wasn’t simple, but it could be done.
I just wanted another two, three years to get ready for something else. But I had friends now. Friends that understood secrets. And while being gay wasn’t something the hockey world exactly embraced, this particular team cared more about how many goals Cole scored, not who he had in his bed.
We were off today, and I had the meeting with Weston.
I’d wanted to ask Cinder to stay with me last night, but he shied away with the number of reporters about, and I didn’t blame him.
We also had to talk about us, because I wanted more.
I’d had the best night of my entire life with him, but I didn’t know how he felt.
That, plus the huge glaring secret between us.
Weston's hotel suite was nicer than mine—corner room, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor, the kind of space that said "successful agent" without screaming it.
He'd ordered coffee and pastries, laid out on a table by the window like we were having a civilized business breakfast instead of discussing the slow death of my career.
"Taz." He stood when I entered, his handshake warm and firm. "Good to see you. How's the knee holding up?"
"Fine." I settled into the chair across from him, accepting the coffee he poured. "Better than fine, actually. No issues since the first game."
"Good. That's good." He studied me over the rim of his own cup, something thoughtful in his expression. "You look different. More... settled."
I didn't know how to respond to that, so I just shrugged.
Weston set down his coffee and pulled out a tablet, scrolling through what I assumed were my stats, my contract details, all the numbers that reduced a twenty-year career to data points on a screen.
"I'll be straight with you," he said. "The front office hasn't made any moves toward extension talks. They're watching. Evaluating."
"Evaluating what? I've been solid this season."
"You have." He nodded slowly. "But you're also nearly thirty-seven in a position where most goalies retire in the thirty-three to thirty-five age range. They're being cautious."
The words landed like lead in my gut. I'd known this was coming—had been bracing for it since my last birthday—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way I wasn't prepared for.
"What are my options?"
Weston leaned back, crossing his arms. "You could test free agency. There are teams that would grab a veteran goaltender with your numbers. But..." He hesitated.
"But?"
"But I don't think that's what you want." His eyes met mine, sharp and knowing. "You've found something here, Taz. With this team. These players." A pause. "This organization understands things other teams don't."
The way he said it made my dragon stir—not in alarm, but in recognition.
Like he was speaking a language I'd forgotten I knew. I gazed at him. He wasn’t a dragon, I knew that.
Or one that could shift, certainly. But maybe he knew more than I thought.
Trusted humans weren't detectable in the same way a dragon recognized another dragon.
"What exactly are you saying?"
Weston smiled. "I'm saying that Coach Kinkaid has been your biggest advocate in every meeting I've had with management. He's the reason you haven't been traded already. He sees something in you that goes beyond stats and age."
Kinkaid. Another dragon, watching out for his own.
"He fights for you," Weston continued. "Every single time. And in my experience, when someone like Theron Kinkaid decides you're worth protecting, there's usually a reason."
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning I wasn't sure I was ready to unpack.
"You know," I said carefully, "most agents would just tell me to take whatever deal I could get."
"Most agents don't represent the players I represent." Weston's expression shifted—something almost wistful crossing his features before it disappeared. "I've learned that some things matter more than contracts and endorsement deals. Connection. Belonging. Finding the place where you fit."
My dragon pressed against my ribs, curious now.
There was something about Weston—something familiar that I couldn't quite place.
Not the hum of another dragon, definitely, but something adjacent.
Something that recognized what I was, even if I couldn't sense the same in him.
The real problem was that dragons lived a hell of a long time looking like they were fifty.
But we had the hockey player life expectancy of a regular human.
"What do you recommend?" I asked.
"I recommend patience." He set aside his tablet, giving me his full attention. "Let me work on the front office. Kinkaid has influence, and he's using it. In the meantime, focus on what you're doing here—on the ice and off it."
I thought about Cinder. About last night. About the way he'd looked at me when he said I'm not most people.
"And if they don't offer an extension?"
Weston's smile turned warmer. "Then we figure out the next chapter together. But Taz?" He leaned forward slightly. "I have a feeling this story isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."
I couldn’t help texting Cinder as soon as I got out of the meeting. The team was meeting for dinner tonight, and that meant the whole team, support staff included. I desperately wanted him to go.
The restaurant Seph had chosen was tucked into a side street in Gastown, candlelight, the kind of place that felt like a secret.
He'd booked the entire back room, which meant a long table that seated all of us: players, staff, Nancy, the equipment guys, even Phoenix, who'd wedged himself between Cole and Max like he'd been part of this team forever.
Cinder sat beside me.
Not across from me. Not at the other end of the table. Right there, close enough that our elbows bumped when we reached for the breadbasket, close enough that I could smell whatever soap he used—something clean and sharp, like eucalyptus.
"You're staring again," he murmured, not looking up from his menu.
"You're worth staring at. I thought we established this."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Repetition doesn't make it less embarrassing."
"For you, maybe. I'm having a great time."
He kicked me lightly under the table, and something warm bloomed in my chest that had nothing to do with temperature regulation.
The dinner was loud in the best way. Max was telling an increasingly embellished story about the time he'd accidentally locked himself in a storage closet during a road game in Nashville, complete with dramatic hand gestures that nearly knocked over Keegan's wine glass.
Keegan caught it without looking—reflexes that had nothing to do with hockey or his dragon and everything to do with months of practice sitting next to Max.
"—and the equipment manager just left me there," Max was saying, his accent thickening with indignation. "For forty minutes. I missed warmups."
"You missed warmups because you were hiding from Coach," Ash corrected from three seats down.
"I was not hiding. I was—"
"Hiding," the entire table said in unison.
Max clutched his heart. "Betrayed by my own family."
Cinder laughed—a real laugh, the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made his whole body shake slightly. I felt the vibration of it through the bench we shared, and my dragon settled deeper into something content and humming.
"Is it always like this?" Cinder asked me, leaning close enough that his breath warmed my ear.
"Pretty much. Worse on game days."
"How is that possible?"
"Seph once bet Ember he couldn't eat an entire wheel of brie before puck drop. Ember won. The locker room paid the price."
Cinder's face contorted with professional horror. "Please tell me someone intervened."
"Nancy tried. Ember locked himself in the bathroom."
"That's—" He shook his head, but he was smiling. "That's a health code violation."
"It was a war crime," I agreed. "But he scored a hat trick, so no one complained."