Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
DEIGO
I almost wish I was a smoker, because a last cigarette seems appropriate for a man about to face down the firing squad.
Standing outside the side door to The Doghouse, which is what our fans affectionately call the arena, I feel like I’m on my way to the gallows.
I don’t have a cigarette though. I didn’t even let myself stop for a cup of coffee on the way since I’m already jittery enough without adding caffeine to the mix.
I try taking a few deep breaths, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to calm my racing heart or trembling hands this time.
There’s a very real possibility that I’m about to walk in there and find out I’m being traded.
If that’s the case, there’s fuck all I can do about it.
I’ll be boxing up my apartment and getting shuffled onto the next plane to fuck-knows-where to play for a team that isn’t my team.
I’ve always known that getting traded, switching teams, is part of the deal when you go pro, but I guess there’s been this naive, hopeful part of me that clung like hell to the fantasy that I could play my whole career right here at home, with my sister living a few blocks away, in the city where my heart has always been.
Even when I was a kid, imagining myself as a future MVP, it was always for the Huskies.
I almost got cut from my first peewee team for refusing to put on the uniform because it said Raptors instead of Huskies across the front, and I was six, so that logic was solid enough for me at the time.
My dad had to take me aside and explain to me that I would have to play for a lot of teams with a lot of names before I was old enough and talented enough to get on the ice as a Husky, and that goal carried me through until I finally made it to where I wanted to be.
And now it might all be about to end.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out in a hurry.
Any excuse to delay going inside for another minute or two.
It’s a text from Callan, which is probably the only thing that could actually distract me before I find out my fate, even for a few seconds.
My heart rate slows down and I manage a few deep, shaky breaths as I click on his text to read it.
CALLAN: Just breathe. You’ve got this. You’re a solid, reliable player and they’d have to be idiots to trade you.
I huff out a laugh. I don’t know how he knew I was on the verge of a panic attack and needed to be reminded to breathe, but I’m not surprised. Callan’s intuitive, he knows shit, he’s got it together while I’m still hanging on to scraps of a mess that I’m hoping can be pieced back together.
I’m not even letting myself think about what getting traded would mean for whatever the hell this is between the two of us. It won’t matter anyway, right? We both know this will be over when the season starts one way or another. But if I get traded, it’s over now.
My stomach sinks and I type a response.
Maybe it’s better if we end this now while it’s still our choice.
I delete it without sending.
It kinda sucked waking up in my own bed this morning without you there.
I delete that one too.
DIEGO: Thanks. Whatever happens in there, I’ll probably swing by Sweat after. I’m either going to need to work off some rage or excited adrenaline.
CALLAN: My other morning client just rescheduled, so I’ll be ready for whatever you’ve got for me when you show up. See you soon.
CALLAN: And seriously, Fergie, you’ve got this.
I send a thumbs-up then shove my phone back into my pocket.
I don’t have the confidence Callan has that everything is going to be fine.
We all know that good players get traded all the time for all kinds of reasons, and they have plenty of reasons to put me on the chopping block.
But standing out here all morning isn’t going to change anything.
I’m only delaying the inevitable. When the other team’s defense is coming at me, I face them head-on, and that’s how I need to go into this meeting.
I don’t run from hard shit, and I’m not about to start now.
I don’t feel any calmer, but at least my hands have stopped shaking when I push the door open and step inside. I wish I could smell the ice from here, but in this part of the arena all there is to smell is unseen mold and stale sweat.
Midmorning without any events going on today, the building is quiet.
There’s maintenance staff, of course, and administrative staff in some of the offices I pass on my way through the labyrinth of hallways to Coach Gregors’ office.
The text was helpful, but I wish Callan was here in the flesh, giving me the pep talk I need as I get closer and closer to the Head Coaching office.
He didn’t say anything about the manager being here for the meeting, so maybe that’s a good sign? Or maybe I’m grasping at straws.
When I get there, the door is already ajar, but I knock anyway.
“Come on in,” he calls out gruffly, his chair squeaking and the quiet sound of A.M. sports radio coming from inside as I nudge the door the rest of the way open and step into the lion’s den. “Ferguson, good. Take a seat.”
I eye the chair on the opposite side of his desk and hesitate. Taking a seat feels like accepting my fate, and I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. I stuff my hands into my pockets and attempt a smile that I’m sure turns out to be more of a grimace.
“Not to be rude or anything, Coach, but can we just go ahead and rip the Band-Aid off? Am I traded?”
He wheezes a laugh and his big belly gyrates under his too-tight polo shirt. “Relax, kid, and take a seat.”
Kid. Thirty might look like a kid to him, with more than twice as many years under his belt, but it’s right on the cusp of geriatric when you’re an athlete.
If I’d had this injury at twenty-one, I wouldn’t be sweating it.
But thirty is just old enough that I might not be worth their trouble for the next five years or so before I age out of the league and have to consider what the rest of my life looks like post-retirement.
I grip the back of the chair and consider insisting again that he just spit it out already, but I don’t want to push my luck. As of right this second, he’s still my coach. He could have me on the ice doing sprints for the rest of the afternoon if he wants to.
I blow out a breath and take the seat, slumping a little, spreading my legs, and bouncing my knee as I gesture for him to go ahead and say what he wants to say. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips. I’m glad he finds this so amusing. It’s just my future, no big deal.
“I didn’t call you in here to tell you about a trade, so do me a favor and drop the attitude.”
Shit, okay, that’s something at least. I nod and do my best to pull my scowl into a more neutral expression.
“Sorry, Coach. All the coverage has been getting to me. I’ve been waiting to get this call since the season ended.”
“Turn off the TV—that’s my first bit of advice to you.”
I nod and let out a tight, quiet laugh. It’s basically the same thing Callan said to me weeks ago. I guess I should probably listen to my coaches.
“Will do, Coach. Now, can you tell me why you called me down here before I have a fucking stroke?”
“You haven’t been traded,” he says again, and my stomach sinks a little more, “but it’s not off the table.
” Coach holds his hand up to stop me from saying anything and goes on.
“You’re a good defenseman and you’ve always been a solid team player.
You don’t get into any trouble off the ice, at least none that’s ever made any headlines, and I can always count on you to have your head in the game.
The rest of the coaching staff is worried though, which is why trading you isn’t off the table just yet. ”
I sit up fully in my chair and lean forward with my elbows on his desk. My heart is still thundering, but this time it’s with determination. This situation isn’t hopeless. He’s telling me I need to fight for my position.
“I’m working my ass off, Coach,” I assure him.
“I stuck to all my physical therapy, and I’ve been working with a personal trainer for over a month now to make sure I’m stepping back onto that ice as the same player I was before my injury.
You don’t have to worry that I’ve gotten soft; I’m as focused as ever on winning the cup this year, and I’m ready to do whatever it takes to prove it to you and the rest of the coaching staff. ”
He nods but he doesn’t look convinced. “I’m glad to hear all that, but the concern we’re having is more…
ehm… personal.” He tugs on his collar and leans back in his chair, causing it to squeak in protest again.
“Hell, Ferguson, I’m just going to say it.
Brody is one of the best goalies in the league, and if I were in your shoes, the last thing I would want to do is make nice with the guy who’s been messing around with my ex.
We can’t have fights breaking out in the locker room or a lack of harmony on the ice though. ”
Oh.
I drag my hand over my mouth to hide my relieved smile.
Is that all this is about? I’ve barely thought about Brody and Crystal since I tossed her shit out weeks ago.
Granted, I’m still not feeling all that warm and fuzzy towards the rest of the guys, but I can honestly say that I’m over it.
I don’t know when it happened exactly, but sometime in the last month it just stopped mattering to me.
Callan’s face flashes through my mind and my smile fades.