Chapter 26
Draft Prospects
Luke
Coach Harper didn’t look up from her clipboard when I skated to the bench.
“Carter. Stick in the rack. Office. Five minutes.”
She didn’t shout, which was worse. Harper shouting meant she was coaching you. Harper speaking in that flat, library voice meant something was happening off the ice.
My stomach dropped. Ryan.
Had he figured it out? Had he realized that “stomach flu” was a lie and seen two pairs of shoes by the bed? Or worse, had he heard us before he knocked?
“Copy,” I said, my voice tight.
Ryan skated by, tapping my pads with his stick. “Principal’s office?”
I searched his face for a sign—judgment, disgust, a smirk. Nothing but the usual chirping grin. If he knew he’d almost walked in on me hooking up with my roommate, he was hiding it well.
“Probably film review,” I lied, though my pulse was hammering against my neck protector. “I was late on the post-seal during the penalty kill.”
Ryan didn’t look convinced, but he let me go.
I showered in record time—three minutes, cold water, no soap—and threw on my team tracksuit. I ran a hand through my wet hair as I walked down the concrete tunnel toward the admin offices.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. A text from Austen: Ledger review at 8? I have snacks.
I looked at the screen. For the last month, that text would have been the highlight of my day. Ledger review was code. It meant locking the door. It meant the quiet heat of his skin against mine.
But now, looking at the words, all I could think about was the sound of Ryan’s fist pounding on the wood. Boom. Boom. Boom.
How fast the air had left the room. Austen scrambling for a shirt, his eyes wide with a panic that I had put there.
I slid the phone back into my pocket without replying and knocked on Harper’s door.
“Enter.”
I stepped inside. The office was small, smelling of dry-erase markers and stale coffee. But today, the air was heavier.
Harper wasn’t alone.
Sitting in the folding metal chair opposite her desk was a man who looked like he’d been ironed into existence. Navy suit, gray tie, haircut that cost more than my tuition. He held a tablet like a weapon.
“Have a seat, Luke,” Harper said. She didn’t smile.
I sat. My knee started bouncing instantly. I forced it to stop.
“As you know, this is Gulliver Vane,” Harper said. “He’s with the Minnesota organization.”
The air left the room. The Minnesota Wilds. The team my dad had played on for two seasons before his knee exploded. The team that was practically a religion in my house.
“Mr. Carter,” Vane said. His voice was smooth, polished. He didn’t offer a hand. “I’ve been watching your lateral movement. Your recovery time is… elite.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’re looking at our roster for the summer Development Camp in St. Paul,” Vane continued. “It’s an invite-only camp. Eight goalies. Two contracts at the end of it.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. This was it. The conversation I’d played in my head since I was four years old, strapping pillows to my legs in the driveway.
“I’d be honored,” I said, my voice sounding thin.
“We think you’re ready,” Vane said. He tapped the tablet. “We like your numbers. We like your size.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “And we appreciate the context your father provided.”
The room went dead silent.
“My father?” I asked.
Vane smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Rick has been very… proactive. He’s been sending us tapes since October. Every shutout. Every save percentage update. He’s been very clear that you are one hundred percent committed to the path. No distractions.”
I felt sick. The breakfast burrito I’d eaten churned.
I wasn’t here because I’d posted a .930 save percentage. I was here because Rick Carter was calling in favors, selling me like a used car to his old buddies.
Before I could process that, the door behind me opened.
“Sorry I’m late,” a voice boomed. “Traffic on I-90 is a killer.”
I froze. I knew that voice. It was the voice that narrated every mistake I’d ever made on the ice.
Rick Carter walked in. He was wearing a leather jacket over a cashmere sweater, looking every inch the retired pro. He filled the small office instantly—not with his size, but with his gravity.
“Dad?” I whispered.
He grinned, clapping a hand on my shoulder. His grip was heavy. “Hey, kid.”
He looked at Vane. “Gulliver. Good to see you. How’s the knee?”
“Better than yours, Rick,” Vane said, actually chuckling.
My dad laughed—a loud, charming bark that made people want to lean in. He sat in the empty chair next to me, dragging it closer until our elbows touched.
“So,” Dad said, leaning back. “We talking contracts? Or is my boy still on probation?”
“We were discussing the camp,” Vane said. “And the expectations.”
Dad nodded, his expression shifting from jovial to serious. He looked at me. It was the look. The one he used when I let in a soft goal in pee-wee. The one that said, I love you, but only if you’re worth it.
“Luke knows the expectations,” Dad said softly. “Focus. Discipline. He knows what happens when you take your eye off the puck.”
He tapped his own bad knee. It was a joke, but it wasn’t funny.
“He wants what’s best for me,” I said to Vane, the words tasting like ash.
“He wants a return on investment,” Vane corrected. He leaned forward. “And so do we. If we offer you this slot, Luke, we need to know you are the player he says you are. Disciplined. Focused. Singular.”
He let the word hang there. Singular.
“We don’t want campus drama,” Vane said, his gaze flicking to Harper and back to me. “We don’t want grades slipping. We don’t want… entanglements.”
Entanglements.
The word hit me like a physical blow.
Austen’s shirt inside out. The way I’d shoved him off my lap when Ryan knocked. The lie I’d told through the crack in the door.
If Ryan had pushed that door open…
If Vane knew what I was doing in Room 317…
My dad leaned in closer. “Luke doesn’t have entanglements,” he said smoothly. “He knows the drill. Hockey first. Everything else is noise.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Right, Luke?”
I looked at him. I saw the pride in his eyes—pride that was entirely conditional on me being the version of his son that played for the Wild. The version that wasn’t gay. The version that wasn’t in love with his roommate.
If I told him the truth, that pride would vanish. It wouldn’t be anger. It would be worse. It would be indifference. He would look at me like a bad investment he needed to liquidate.
“Right,” I whispered. “Hockey first.”
“The camp starts July first,” Vane said. “But the vetting starts now. We’ll be watching.”
He stood up. The meeting was over.
“Think about it,” Vane said. “We need confirmation by Monday.”
I stood up, shaking his hand. His grip was dry and hard.
“Thank you,” I said.
Dad stood up too. He hugged me—a quick, hard embrace that smelled of expensive cologne and expectations.
“Proud of you, kid,” he murmured in my ear. “Don’t blow it.”
He walked out with Vane, laughing about old times.
I walked out of the office. I walked down the tunnel, past the locker room, past the weight room. I didn’t stop until I hit the exit doors and burst out into the cold morning air.
I sucked in a breath, but it felt like breathing through a straw.
My phone buzzed again.
Austen: Update: I bought the good pretzels. The ones with the peanut butter.
I stared at the screen.
The vetting starts now.
Ryan bought the lie. But luck is a variable you can’t control.
If I took this spot, I was gone in July. If I took this spot, I had to live up to my monk nickname. I had to be exactly what everyone wanted, but Austen.
In hockey culture, “distraction” was code for anything that didn’t help you win. And being queer in a development camp full of guys fighting for two contracts? That was a target on my back the size of a barn door.
I looked at the text. The ones with the peanut butter.
So small. So kind. Exactly the kind of “entanglement” Vane warned me against.
I realized I couldn’t protect Austen. The closer we got, the more likely I was to drag him down with me when the hammer dropped.
I typed three dots. Then I deleted them.
I turned my phone off.
I started walking. Not toward the dorm. Toward the gym.
I needed to lift until I couldn’t feel anything else.