Chapter 20
Tanner
Iclose my apartment door behind me, and the lock clicks shut with a heavy, expensive thud, shutting out rain and the city. I wish it could shut out the noise and chaos in my head, but it doesn’t.
But I keep going. I don’t collapse. I don’t slide down the door like a character in a movie who just got his heart broken. I don’t have time for that. I have a system.
I toe off my sneakers and place them on the rubber mat, the heels perfectly aligned with the edge.
I peel off my soaked hoodie. The fabric is heavy, and it smells like wet pavement.
I take it to the bathroom and hang it over the shower rod to drip.
Then I grab a towel and rub it roughly over my short hair.
Look at the math.
Louis’s voice is a loop in my head.
You don’t say no to the NHL.
I walk into my perfectly clean, organized kitchen. It looks exactly like it did the day I moved in, minus a few protein powder containers on top of the fridge. There are no photos on the walls. No throw blankets on the couch. No mess.
It looks like almost anyone could live here. It’s not a home; it’s more like the place of someone who’s ready to up and leave at a moment’s notice. No fuss, no trouble. Someone who’s low-maintenance.
I sit at my small, glass dining table, the surface cold against my forearms. I open my laptop, the screen casting a blue glow in the dim room.
The email from Carson is there with the details of the trade. If I want it.
It’s right there in black and white. A significant jump in salary, along with a bunch more bonuses for consistent play, number of games played, and even more if the team makes the playoffs.
I should be over the damn moon. This is it.
This is the thing I’ve been grinding for since I was nine years old, dragging used pads across the ice in a freezing community rink.
I’m looking at a starting job in the NHL.
I’m looking at the proof that I’m not just a scholarship kid with secondhand gear.
The math says I’m ahead. So why do I feel like I’m going to throw up?
This is a chance for greatness. The chance to become the face of the team for as long as my career lasts. But looking at the offer, I don’t feel happiness or excitement. I don’t even feel fear or nerves. The only thing I feel is this sick, hollow nausea, churning in my gut.
I close the laptop with a snap and stand, needing to move, to do something with myself that isn’t sitting still.
I grab my duffel bag to start unpacking. I unzip it, intending to sort the laundry, to put everything in its place. Then I pull out the flannel shirt I wore yesterday morning.
The scent of cedar and wood fire hits me first. Underneath that is the clean, sharp smell of the ocean and the specific, warm scent of Louis.
Suddenly, it hurts to breathe, and I struggle to suck in a jagged breath.
Suddenly, I’m not in my sterile apartment, I’m back on the cliffside path beside the ocean, the wind turning my cheeks ruddy and the waves crashing below. Lou’s voice is rough and full of sincerity.
“You’re not a guest here, Tanner. Not with me.”
I grip the flannel shirt, my knuckles turning white.
Then I hear his words from half an hour ago, standing in his kitchen. “It was a break. It’s not real life.”
His expression was hard, his eyes cold. Like he was wearing a mask.
I look around my apartment that looks more like a show home or an upscale hotel. I am a guest in my own life here. If I go to Minnesota, I’ll get a bigger apartment. Maybe even a house that I’ll fill with expensive furniture I don’t care about.
I’ll be the starting goalie on the city’s NHL team.
But I’ll still be a guest. I’ll still be hiding my sexuality, hiding a huge part of myself so I don’t rock the boat for anyone or cause any inconvenience. I’ll be “low-maintenance Tanner.” Useful and efficient.
But I’ll be alone.
My brain, usually my best weapon, finally reboots. The emotional noise clears, and the analytical engine kicks in. I stop staring at the offer and start analyzing everything that happened over the last few hours.
I replay the conversation with Lou in his kitchen. I try to take my hurt out of it for a second and remember exactly what was said, what he looked like, his body language—all the variables. Looking at the data.
Louis stood there, telling me it was a fling. He told me it was just for fun, that it didn’t matter to him whether I stuck around or not.
But when I first got to his place, he didn’t look like someone who didn’t care. He looked devastated.
And when he said, “Look at the math,” he shrugged, trying to make me think he believed what he was saying, but he didn’t look at me. He looked down at his hands and then at the floor. The corners of his mouth were turned down.
If he really didn’t care, he would have been able to look me in the eye. He might have been feeling relieved, but he wouldn’t have been acting like he was hurt or like he was feeling guilty about hurting me. He wouldn’t have looked like he wanted to throw up.
“If you stay here, you’re riding the bench, kid.”
That’s what he’s afraid of. Not us. He’s afraid of me failing to reach my goal.
He thinks the job is the most important thing in the world to me, because that’s what I’ve always shown him.
That’s what I told him. That’s what I’ve believed.
He’s pushing me away because he believes I need to take that job to realize all my dreams, and he’s trying to make it easier for me.
He thinks I want the starting job more than I want him. Maybe that was true a few months ago. Hell, maybe it was even true a few weeks ago. But it’s not true anymore.
I look down at the flannel shirt in my hands. The smell of the fire is already fading. If I accept this offer and go to Minnesota, it’ll be gone forever.
I swore a long time ago that I wouldn’t be a burden. I watched my mom struggle, saw how hard she worked, and I learned to make myself small, to require as little as possible so I didn’t add to her stress. I learned that being “good” meant being “easy.”
Louis is doing what I’ve done my entire life—making himself small because he thinks that will make life easier for someone else: me. And I don’t ever want to be the reason anyone, especially Louis Tremblay, tries to make himself small.
I drop the shirt back into the bag.
I don’t want to go to Minnesota. I don’t care about being the number one goalie if it means starting over in another city where, once again, I’ll be a guest in my own life.
Louis made a calculation, but he used the wrong variables. He thought what I wanted was to be the starting goalie on an NHL team. No matter what.
It turns out that’s not what I want more than anything.
What I want is to belong. To feel wanted and important, and to be a valuable part of something bigger than me.
Even though I’ve only been part of the Sasquatch for a few months, I’m already starting to feel those things.
Louis Tremblay is the biggest part of that.
I want Louis more than I want to be the number one goalie for the Minnesota Stars. I’m happy to be the backup for as long as it takes if it means I get a chance to be with him.
I grab my keys off the counter, not bothering to grab my phone, since I’m not going to call him. I need to take some ownership of my life before I can ask him if he wants to be part of it.
I yank the door open and march back out into the hallway.
The admin offices at the practice facility are quiet. The receptionist’s desk is empty, the computer monitors are dark, the usual hum of chatter is absent. But even though it’s getting late, I knew our GM would still be here.
It should feel eerie. A few hours ago, walking down this hallway felt like marching toward a firing squad. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and my palms were sweating so badly I had to wipe them on my pants before walking into Carson’s office. This time feels different.
I walk steadily and confidently, like I’m sliding into the crease for the start of the third period with a three-goal lead.
I’ve done my homework, so I know all their players, from their top guns right down to their fourth-liners.
I know where they like to shoot from, their favorite angles, and who’s more likely to fake a shot and pass it to a teammate rather than shooting it through traffic.
I know exactly what I need to do to protect this win.
When I get to Carson’s office door, I don’t hesitate. I lift my hand and knock firmly, more like a statement than a question, and push the door open when he answers.
He’s sitting behind his desk, as usual. I swear, the man must sleep here. The room smells like coffee and expensive leather, but it’s somehow both intimidating and comfortable at the same time.
He looks up, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline when he sees me standing in the doorway. He says something quick and low into the phone he’s got pressed to his ear and then takes his glasses off.
“Tanner?” He checks the heavy watch on his wrist. “I didn’t expect to see you back here tonight.”
He looks tired. The lines around his eyes are deeper than usual. He gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Did you have questions?”
“No questions,” I say, but I stay standing.
When you’re a guest, you sit where you’re told. You fold yourself up small so you don’t take up too much space. I’m done with that.
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, taking up space in the center of the room.
“I don’t need until noon tomorrow,” I say with confidence. “I know my answer now.”
Carson leans back, studying me. The “GM Mask” is firmly in place—stoic, unreadable, and a little intimidating. “Okay.”
The glossy Minnesota Stars logo is on the folder sitting on his desk, on top of a stack of papers. It’s a ticket to everything I’m supposed to want.
“I don’t want to go to Minnesota,” I say. “I want to stay with the Sasquatch.”
Carson doesn’t blink or smile. He laces his fingers together on top of the desk and gives me a hard look.
“You understand what you’re turning down, right, Tanner?
” His voice is low and measured. “Taking this opportunity could fast-track your career. Staying with the Sasquatch means you’ll likely be in the back seat until Tremblay decides to retire.
Are you going to be okay with that? Not just today, but for the next couple of years or more? ”
It’s the same argument Louis used in his kitchen. You’ll be riding the bench, kid. It’s the logical argument.
“I know,” I say. “It doesn’t make sense on paper. And maybe a few weeks ago, I would’ve jumped.”
“But?”
I think of my pristine apartment. The flannel shirt I almost packed away.
“I’ve spent my whole life feeling like a guest,” I say. “Different teams, different billet families, different apartments that are all the same. I know how to pack my bags in ten minutes and move on. Low-maintenance.”
I suck in a deep, grounding breath. “I’m tired of packing my bags,” I say. “You told me I belong on this team. I believe you. I’d rather be a backup in Seattle than a starter anywhere else.”
Carson watches me for a long beat, like he’s looking for a sign that I’m making an emotional decision I’ll regret later. I don’t give him one. “We’re building something here,” I add, keeping my voice firm. “I want to be here when we win.”
Slowly, the tension in Carson’s shoulders drops. He lets out a long breath and smiles, his dark eyes lighting up with something that looks like relief. He looks ten years younger.
“I’m very glad to hear that, Tanner,” he says.
He takes the Minnesota folder and drops it into his bottom desk drawer before sliding it shut with a decisive thud.
“I didn’t want to lose you. We believe you’re the future of this team.
I brought it to you because I wanted to make sure you believe in the Sasquatch too. ”
The knot of tension in my chest finally begins to loosen.
“I really do,” I say, believing it.
Carson stands up and rounds the desk. He extends a hand. It doesn’t feel like a regular, perfunctory handshake between a boss and an employee. It feels like a promise, an agreement between two people who want the same thing.
“Good,” he says, gripping my hand firmly. “You do belong here. I’m so glad you know that.” He smiles. “Now, go home and get some sleep. You’ve got practice in the morning.”
“I will.”
I turn to walk out of his office, but before I get there, I turn back to him. “Thank you, Carson. This—feeling like I belong here—it, um, it means a lot to me.”
He nods, returning my smile. “I know, Tanner. I’m glad you’re here, on a personal level as well as professional.”
The hallway is just as quiet as it was before, but the air feels different. Lighter.
I push through the doors and step out into the cool Seattle rain. I take a deep breath, tasting the damp air.
Step one is done.
I look toward the parking lot, half expecting to see Louis’s truck, but the lot is empty except for my car and Carson’s.
I unlock my car, the beep echoing in the empty lot. I’m not a guest anymore. I’m home. And I’m going to fight for it.