Chapter 10 #2
“That’s Murphy,” Edward says with the first hint of warmth I’ve heard in his voice since I arrived. “He doesn’t really like new people. Probably won’t come out while you’re here. Sometimes he hides for hours when strangers are around.”
“That’s fine,” I say, continuing to wipe down the counter. “I’m not really a cat person anyway.”
But even as I say it, Murphy proves me wrong. He darts out from his hiding spot and makes a beeline for my legs, immediately starting to rub against my jeans and purr like a small engine. The sound fills the quiet kitchen as he figure-eights between my feet, looking up at me with obvious adoration.
Edward blinks in surprise. “Well, I’ll be damned. That never happens. Murphy usually takes weeks to warm up to anyone new, if he ever does at all.”
I look down at the cat, who’s now sitting on my feet and staring up at me expectantly. “Guess he’s got different standards than most cats.”
When I reach down to scratch behind his ears, Murphy melts into the touch.
He flops over onto his back, exposing his belly and purring so loudly it’s almost comical.
When I finally stop petting him and go back to cleaning, he follows me around the house like he’s appointed himself my personal supervisor, weaving between my legs and occasionally stopping to head-butt my shins.
It’s nice, actually. A living buffer between me and Edward and all the things we’re not saying to each other.
After I finish straightening up the main areas, I take stock of what needs to be done in terms of practical help.
The refrigerator is nearly empty, just some expired milk and leftover takeout that’s seen better days.
His medicine cabinet is well-stocked, but he’s clearly been living on whatever delivery services can bring him.
“I’m going to make a grocery run,” I tell him. “What do you actually eat these days?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Edward.” I use his first name deliberately, not ready for anything that implies more familiarity. “What do you need from the store?”
He gives me a short list of basics. Bread, eggs, some frozen meals that are easy to heat up. I add things he doesn’t mention but obviously needs, like fresh vegetables and actual protein that isn’t processed.
I grab some things for myself too while I’m at the grocery store, since I’ll need food at the cabin. Chicken, veggies, sandwich supplies, coffee—the basics for someone who doesn’t plan to do much cooking.
When I get back to Edward’s place, Murphy greets me at the door like I’ve been gone for weeks instead of just over an hour. He winds around my legs, purring and meowing in what sounds like an extended commentary on my absence.
“Miss me, big guy?” I ask, scratching his head before I carry the grocery bags to the kitchen.
I’m unpacking everything into Edward’s refrigerator and cabinets when my phone rings. My agent Brody’s name flashes on the screen, and my pulse immediately jumps despite my attempts to manage expectations. This could be it. This could be the call that changes everything.
“Please tell me you have good news,” I say, answering on the second ring.
“I wish I did, Asher.” Brody’s voice is apologetic but direct, which I appreciate. No point in drawing out bad news. “Seattle decided to pass. They’re going with someone younger, someone they think has more upside potential.”
The words hit like a blow to the chest. That makes two teams now that have decided I’m not worth the risk or the investment. Two teams that looked at my stats, my injury history, my age, and decided to go in a different direction.
“What about the other possibilities we talked about?” I ask, setting down a carton of eggs so I can focus on the call.
“I’ve got calls out to Denver and Toronto. There might be something developing with Minnesota, but honestly, it’s a long shot at best. Teams are being more cautious this year, especially with players coming off injuries.”
We talk for a few more minutes about strategy and backup plans, but the whole conversation feels like I’m helping to plan my own professional funeral. Every word confirms what I’ve been afraid to admit to myself. Maybe I really am done. Maybe twenty-nine is the end of the line for me.
When I finally hang up, Edward’s watching me from his chair in the living room. He obviously heard enough of the conversation to know it wasn’t good news.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Just work stuff,” I say, not wanting to get into the details with him. The last thing I need is pity from someone who walked out of my life years ago. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
But even as I say it, I can feel the frustration and anxiety building in my chest like pressure in a steam cooker.
Two rejections down, and how many realistic options left?
Maybe everyone’s right. Maybe I really am washed up, a has-been at twenty-nine who’s fooling himself into thinking he’s still got something left to offer.
I finish putting away the groceries and make my excuses to leave.
Edward thanks me for the help and the food and asks if I’ll come back again soon to check on him.
I give him some noncommittal answer about staying in touch, both of us knowing we’re avoiding the bigger conversation that needs to happen eventually.
Murphy follows me to the door, looking pitifully disappointed that I’m leaving. I give him one last ear scratch, and he purrs as if I’ve just made his entire week.
It’s a good thing Maplewood isn’t an easy town to get lost in, because I barely pay attention to the route on my drive back to the cabin, my thoughts churning with frustration and self-doubt.
By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m wound tight with anxiety about my career, my future, everything I thought I knew about myself.
After parking in the driveway, I grab the groceries I bought for myself and head to the main cabin, needing the distraction of practical tasks and maybe some human company that doesn’t come with twenty years of baggage.
Kat answers when I knock, looking comfortable and relaxed in dark jeans and a soft-looking, cream-colored sweater. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s got a smudge of what looks like charcoal on her cheek, probably from whatever art project she’s been working on.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the grocery bags. “Brought some stuff to contribute to the kitchen. Hope that’s okay.”
“You didn’t have to do that, but thank you.” She steps aside to let me in, and I catch that almond and cinnamon scent again. The one from my dream. “Come on in.”
I follow her to the kitchen and start unpacking the groceries, putting things away in her fridge and cabinets. She must’ve run to the store at some point too, because the kitchen is more stocked up than it was the other night, and the cozy cabin feels calming after the tension of visiting Edward.
“Mind if I use the kitchen to make some lunch?” I ask, pulling out sandwich supplies.
“Of course, make yourself at home.”
I start putting together turkey sandwiches, unconsciously prepping two of them as I cut thick slices of the whole-grain bread I bought.
I’m lost in thought about the call from Brody, about what it means for my future.
Two rejections down, and every day that passes without interest from another team makes the next conversation harder.
I hear Kat start to leave the kitchen, probably giving me space to work, but then her footsteps stop. When I glance up, she’s studying my face with those perceptive green eyes.
“You okay?” she asks. “You seem… I don’t know, just off or something.”
I’m about to brush her off the same way I did with Edward, give her some generic response about everything being fine.
But something stops me. Maybe it’s the fact that she picked up on my mood so perceptively, or maybe it’s the way she asked the question as if she really wants to know rather than just making polite conversation.
“I got some bad news about work today,” I say, opening the package of turkey. “Another team decided to pass on me.”
“I’m sorry. That really sucks.”
“Yeah, well.” I add turkey and cheese to both sandwiches, trying to keep my voice neutral. “It’s part of the business, right? Not everyone’s going to want you.”
“But it still hurts when they say no.”
Something about the simple acknowledgment, the fact that she doesn’t try to minimize it or offer empty platitudes, hits me in the chest.
“Yeah, it does,” I admit in a low voice.
“Especially when you start wondering if maybe they’re all going to say no.
If maybe you’re not as good as you thought you were.
” I blow out a breath, admitting a truth that I’ve never really said out loud before.
“I’m starting to worry that the shoulder injury might have totally derailed everything.
That I’ll never be able to get back on track.
Like maybe my time is just up, you know? ”
She frowns. “But you’re fine now, right? Physically?”
“Yeah, I’m completely fine. Cleared by every doctor, every physical therapist, the whole medical team.
The shoulder’s stronger than it was before the injury, if anything.
” I pause, not sure why I’m telling her all this.
“But when I was out for those months, it’s like something changed.
I lost my groove, my confidence, whatever you want to call it.
And I can’t figure out how to get it back. ”
She’s quiet for a moment, considering what I’ve said.
“It’s scary,” she says slowly. “Putting yourself out there with something you love so much, and letting people judge whether it’s good enough.
Whether you still have what it takes. I feel that way sometimes when I submit my art for jobs or book illustrations.
It’s so personal, you know? When someone rejects my work, it feels like they’re rejecting me as a person.
Like they’re saying I’m not talented enough, not worth their time. ”
She stops suddenly, one hand fluttering in the air as if to brush away what she just said. “I know it’s not the same as professional hockey.”
A flush creeps up her cheeks as if she’s embarrassed to have made the comparison.
“No.” I shake my head, my gaze caught on her face. “No, that sounds… it sounds like you get it.”
I’ve never heard someone put it into words like that, to sum up what I’ve been feeling but haven’t quite been able to articulate.
She does get it. The vulnerability of putting yourself out there, the fear that maybe you’re not good enough anymore, that creeping worry that maybe you were never as good as you thought.
“How do you deal with it?” I ask curiously. “When you start doubting yourself like that?”
She considers the question while I go back to assembling the sandwiches, cutting them diagonally the way my mom used to when I was a kid.
“I try to remember why I started doing art in the first place,” she says after a beat.
“Not for the jobs or the money or other people’s approval.
I do it because I love creating things, because I love the feeling of bringing something to life on paper.
That it’s for me first, before it’s for anyone else. ”
She pauses, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“My grandmother always tells me that if you do something because you love it, really love it, then the other stuff will follow eventually. The success, the recognition, all of that. But you have to hold on to the love part, especially when everything else feels uncertain.”
I nod thoughtfully, staring down at the sandwiches, lost in my own head for a moment.
When I snap back to the present moment, it hits me that I’ve been so caught up in my conversation with Kat that I’ve made the sandwiches bigger than either of us can probably eat.
“Want to share these monsters I just created?”
She grins. “Really? Sure. I’m starving.”
We sit at the small table by the window, moving on to lighter topics of conversation.
She tells me what she’s been up to so far today, and although I don’t really want to talk about my dad, I do tell her about Murphy and his dramatic personality—as well as his apparent obsession with me.
She laughs brightly at that, and as we finish eating, I find myself reluctant to leave.
But I can’t justify staying longer without seeming like I’m overstaying my welcome.
“Thanks for lunch,” she says as I start clearing our plates. “And for letting me talk your ear off.”
“Thanks for letting me vent about my career stuff. I didn’t realize how much I needed to talk about it.”
“That’s what fake girlfriends are for, right?” she says with a grin.
I laugh despite my mood. “If that’s true, you’re setting the bar pretty high for fake girlfriends everywhere.”
I head back to the guest house, carrying a few staples for my tiny kitchen and mulling over our conversation.
Honestly, I feel a whole hell of a lot better than I did when I first got back. The frustration and anxiety that’s been eating at me since Brody’s call has faded to something manageable. Not gone, but not consuming my every thought either.