Hard Check (Lakeshore Stags #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Leo’s palms were sweating before Briggs said a word.

The coach wouldn’t look at him—just sat there, chin down, hands folded.

Leo had sat in this chair enough times to know what eye contact meant to Briggs.

The benching in January, the scratched game against Duluth, and the talk after Rockford, where Leo earned a game misconduct for running his mouth.

Briggs had stared him down through all of it.

Now the man was studying his own desk, and Leo’s mouth went dry.

“Front office made a deal with Port Haven,” Briggs said.

Leo’s stomach bottomed out. He heard himself laugh—short, reflexive, already shaping itself into armor before his brain caught up. “That’s in Wisconsin, right?”

“The Lakeshore Stags, yeah.”

“That’s not—” He stopped, swallowed the rest of it, whatever it was going to be—that’s not a real team, that’s not where careers go to grow, that’s not what I fucking deserve—and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, casual as a man who hadn’t just been gut-punched. “When?”

“Effective today. Training camp’s a few weeks out, but I’d get up there sooner rather than later. Meet the coaching staff, get a lay of the land. Show them you want to be there.”

Leo pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and counted backward from five. A therapist had taught him that once. Or maybe he’d seen it on TikTok. Either way, his jaw still wouldn’t unclench.

“My agent—”

“Will have the details to you by the end of the day. I wanted to be the one to tell you, and I also wanted to have a chat with you.”

Briggs finally looked up. His coach’s expression wasn’t unkind, which somehow made it worse. Unkind, Leo could’ve fought. This was closer to pity softened by professional obligation, and it lodged in Leo’s chest like a stone.

“You’re talented, Vargas. Nobody’s questioning that.

” Briggs set his pen down again, adjusting it a millimeter.

He sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

He pursed his lips, the same way he did in the locker room following a shitty game.

“But talent’s only part of it. Think about whether you want to be part of a team. ”

Briggs was already standing. Hand out. Leo took it because that’s what you did—shook firm, smiled like it cost you nothing, said something about appreciating the opportunity that tasted like ash on the way out.

He didn’t remember walking down the corridor.

He barely registered the training room door, the equipment cage, the long hallway that smelled like rubber and industrial cleaner.

Before he knew it, he was in the parking garage.

The summer air was so thick it pressed against his chest like a hand.

He stood next to his Audi with his keys digging into his palm. Didn’t unlock it. Didn’t move. Just stood there breathing garage air and staring at the concrete pillar in front of him until his phone rang.

He didn’t need to check the screen.

“Mijo, what is happening?” Not a question. Carmen Vargas didn’t ask questions she didn’t already know the answer to. Lovely. “I just got off the phone with Delia, who heard from somebody in the front office that you’ve been traded? To where? No one is telling me anything, Leo. I’ve been calling—”

“Mom.” He thumbed the remote start and leaned against the trunk while the AC did its work, free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. “It just happened. I literally just walked out of Coach’s office.”

“Well, what did he say? What were his exact words?”

Leo closed his eyes. His exact words had been, “Think about whether you want to be part of a team,” which was coach-speak for you’re the problem. Leo was not going to hand those words to his mother like a loaded weapon she could use to burn the entire organization down.

“Standard stuff. Thanks for your time. Best of luck.”

“That’s it? After everything you’ve done for this team—after the season you just had—Leo, this is career suicide. They are burying you. I’m calling Phil. I’m calling the league office. There has to be grounds for—”

“It’s a trade, Mom. It’s not illegal.”

“Don’t take that tone with me. I am trying to help you.”

And she was. That was the worst part—he couldn’t even be mad at her because she meant every word. Carmen Vargas loved her son like a wrecking ball loved a building. Total commitment, zero awareness of the damage.

He sank into the driver’s seat and hissed as the heat seeped through his joggers. “I know. I know you are. But I need you to let me figure out the next step before you start making calls, okay? Let me talk to Phil first.”

“Phil should already be on the phone. Phil should have known about this before you did. What are we even paying him for?”

We. As if his agent was a family employee. As if any of this was happening to her.

“I’ll call him right now. I promise.” He let his head fall back to the headrest and closed his eyes.

If he’d been a better player, he could have demanded Phil include teams he absolutely didn’t want to be traded to in his contract.

Unfortunately, being a solid semi-pro player meant he couldn’t afford to be picky. “I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Fine. But you call me the second you know something. The second, Leo.”

“I will.”

He ended the call and sat in the cold blast of artificial air, pressing both palms against the steering wheel until the leather creaked.

His phone rested on his thigh, screen dark.

He should call Phil. He should have a plan, a counter, a next move that proved he was still worth something to a team with better weather and more than one decent club.

His fate wasn’t going to change if he avoided making the call.

Phil picked up on the third ring with the studied calm of a man who’d already heard the news. “Leo. Yeah, I know this has to be a blow. I’ve been on the phone all morning.”

“So get me out of it.”

“It’s done, kid. The trade’s executed. Port Haven holds your rights now.”

“Then get me somewhere else. You’ve got contacts. Make some calls, let things settle, and—”

“That’s the play, yeah. Let things settle.

Give it a few weeks, let me feel out the landscape, see who’s got cap space and roster needs.

” A pause carried the weight of everything Phil wasn’t saying.

“But, Leo… Teams want to see you settle in. The optics of you refusing to report, or showing up with one foot out the door, that won’t help either of us. ”

“So I’m supposed to go to Wisconsin and pretend I want to be there?”

“You’re supposed to go to Wisconsin and play hockey. Which is what you do. The rest, we figure out.”

Leo stared at the concrete wall of the parking garage.

A pipe dripped somewhere overhead, arrhythmic and irritating.

Orlando in August. He was going to miss it—the heat that made your clothes stick, the way the sky went pink and gold at dusk, the drag brunch spot on Mills Ave where the bartender knew his order, the gym where nobody blinked at two men spotting each other too close, the whole gorgeous ecosystem of a city where he could be exactly who he was without having to worry about who might take offense.

Wisconsin. He’d been once, in college. A tournament in Milwaukee. He remembered cheese, cold, and a surplus of flannel.

“I’m driving,” Leo said.

“To Wisconsin? That’s like—”

“Eighteen hours. I know.”

“Fly. I’ll expense it.”

“I’m driving.”

If he flew, someone else controlled the altitude, the route, the arrival time. Leo had just lost control of everything else. He could have this. Driving would at least give him the illusion of choosing to go rather than being cast aside with nothing more than a few signatures.

Phil sighed. The sigh of a man recalculating. “Fine. Drive. But check in when you get there.”

“Yeah.”

He ended the call. Sat for another minute in the blast of AC, staring at his dashboard. Then he drove back to his apartment and packed.

The first four hours were an escape. Leo cracked the windows on the highway and let the noise fill the car, music loud enough to feel in his molars.

South Florida fell away in his mirrors—the strip malls, the Publix parking lots, the specific green of trimmed palms against bleached sky.

He didn’t think about anything except the road.

Somewhere around Gainesville, the radio played a song he’d danced to at Pulse’s memorial night, and he turned it off.

He stopped for gas outside Valdosta, splashed water on his face in a restroom that smelled like bleach and bad decisions, and bought an iced coffee that tasted like it had been brewed during the previous administration.

He texted his mother.

On the road. Will call when I get there.

Then silenced her thread so he wouldn’t be bombarded with even more messages about what a stupid decision it was to drive across the country alone.

Tennessee. The landscape started to shift—greener in a way that looked like someone had adjusted the saturation.

He passed through Nashville without stopping.

By Kentucky, the light had changed. Softer.

Less aggressive. The sun in Florida hit you like it had something to prove.

Here it just hung there, doing the minimum.

He drove through dinner on gas station jerky and a protein bar that stuck to his teeth.

His back ached. His right knee, the one that swelled after hard practices, throbbed in rhythm with the road seams. He made it to a Holiday Inn outside Louisville, ate a room service burger that was mostly bread, and fell asleep watching SportsCenter with the volume low enough that it was just noise.

His phone buzzed twice on the nightstand.

He let it sit, not in the mood to talk to anyone.