Chapter 21
Louis
The emptiness of my condo makes it seem like the walls are closing in on me.
Rain lashes against the floor-to-ceiling windows, distorting the lights of the city below as I pace back and forth across the floor, wearing a divot into the hardwood.
My shoulder’s aching, dull but relentless, but that pain is nothing compared to what’s going on in my head.
And my heart. And the worst thing is that I did it to myself.
I stop in front of Cookie’s terrarium. He’s lounging on his basking rock, his head tilted and one reptilian eye fixed on me. He looks bored and, as usual, kinda judgy.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I snap. Jesus, things must be bad if I’m snapping at my little bearded buddy.
Cookie doesn’t move though. He stares at me like he knows what I did, and he’s dying to tell me I’m an idiot.
Go be great, kid.
That’s what I said. Like I’m some kind of martyr, I sent Tanner Sinclair off to Minnesota to be the star he deserves to be, because there’s not enough room for both of us in Seattle.
I check my phone for the fiftieth time in the last ten minutes. It’s almost 10:00 p.m.
Maybe Tanner’s already packing. Or maybe he’s on with his agent, going over last-minute details before the paperwork gets finalized, probably first thing in the morning.
And there are no take-backs in the NHL. Once those papers are signed, he’s gone.
I rotate my shoulder. It’s still stiff, but the range of motion is there. The surgery worked; I’m healing. In a few weeks, I’ll be the starting goaltender for the Seattle Sasquatch again.
And that’s the problem. As long as I’m on the active roster, Tanner’s blocked. He’s the backup. If I wasn’t standing in his way, the Sasquatch couldn’t trade him. He could have everything he wants—everything he deserves—and stay where he belongs. Here. With me.
My heart hammers in my chest as I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts to Carson Wells. It’s late. You don’t call your general manager at ten thirty at night unless someone is in jail or dead.
I don’t give one tiny rat’s ass. I hit the green call button.
“Louis?” Carson’s voice is surprised. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to call so late, Carson, but I have to talk to you,” I say. My voice is like gravel.
“Now?” Carson asks, clearly surprised.
“It can’t wait. It’s about Tanner.”
There’s silence for a moment. “You have my address?”
“Yes, I’ll be there in half an hour.” I end the call before he can reply, then grab my keys, throw on a hoodie, and shove my feet into my sneakers.
Cookie watches me go, his head tracking my movement to the door.
“I’m fixing it,” I tell my lizard. “I’m fixing it.”
The drive to Mercer Island is a blur of rain and red taillights. My wipers slash back and forth on high speed, fighting a losing battle against the weather, but I don’t slow down.
My mind drifts back to a few years ago, when we won the Cup. An expansion team. A bunch of castoffs—guys other teams didn’t bother to protect, players they figured they could live without. We were stitched together from everyone else’s leftovers.
And somehow, we went all the way. We won the whole damn thing.
It was the sweetest victory any of us could have imagined, because every single guy in that room had something to prove. And man—did we ever prove it.
I think about the two Vezina Trophies I won for being the best goalie in the entire league. The first was only my third year in the league, and the second was with the Sasquatch, the year we won it all.
I think about the way I still get a chill down my spine when the crowd screams LUUUUUU. The way fresh ice feels under my skates before I scrape it up. The perfection of a crisp, clean edge of a freshly cut crease.
Then I think about Tanner. How he built me a pillow nest so I could sleep more easily after my injury.
The almost childlike joy and awe on his face when he stared out at the stormy ocean off the Pacific Northwest coast. The way his bright blue eyes turn to a steely gray color when he’s hungry for me.
The gentle tone of his voice and his sweet, almost shy smile when I told him he would never be a guest when he’s with me.
Retirement.
Even the word makes me uneasy. My entire life, I’ve thought of myself as a hockey player. I don’t know who I am without it. But when I’m with Tanner, somehow, I feel like something more than just a player.
I don’t know exactly what comes next if my days aren’t filled with practices and games and travel. But for the first time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel like a terrifying void. It feels like possibility. And with Tanner beside me, I’m not afraid to find out.
I can’t imagine a life without hockey, but what’s worse is imagining one where I hang on too long. Where I become that guy people watch with pity, shaking their heads, wondering why he didn’t know when to walk away.
Tanner’s twenty-three and brilliantly talented. He deserves to be a starting goalie. Sure, we could work together a little longer—hell, I’ve got a lifetime of tricks I could teach him, and I’d love to do it. But he won’t need me forever. He’ll be ready soon.
I’ve heard stories about how Minnesota’s front office likes to chew up young players and spit them out.
I know Tanner will be able to deal with it, and if he goes, he’ll be a huge success.
But he’ll be alone again. He’ll slip back into feeling like a guest in his own life, retreating into the safety of data and numbers and analysis.
And eventually, the game will freeze him from the inside out.
I can’t let any of that happen.
As I exit the highway onto the darker, winding roads of Mercer Island, my heart is in my throat. What if I’m too late? What if he’s already signed? What if I’ve missed this chance at a life I never even knew I wanted—but now need more than anything?
I pull up to Carson’s gate and punch in the code. The iron gates swing open slowly and ominously. His modern-style home is stunning, all glass and cedar with incredible views across Lake Washington to Seattle. Lights are on downstairs, making the house look warm and inviting.
I pull up to the front and sit there for a moment, listening to the rain on a roof like a drumroll.
Here goes nothin’.
As soon as I get out of my SUV, the rain soaks through my hoodie, plastering it to my back. But it feels good, in a weird sort of way. I don’t run to the door; I march.
A few seconds later, the heavy wood door opens, and Carson Wells stands there, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded college T-shirt, his glasses perched on his nose. At first, he looks confused, but as he takes me in, his expression turns to concern.
“Louis?” he says, stepping back. “Jesus, come in out of the rain.”
I step into the foyer. I’m dripping on his expensive slate tile. I don’t wait for an invite to the living room. I don’t take off my shoes.
I turn to face him. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, choking me.
“Don’t trade him,” I say. My voice is steady. Steadier than I feel.
Carson frowns, closing the door behind me. “Louis, let’s go sit and talk about this. Tanner—”
“I’m gonna retire, Carson.”
He freezes. A blank, stunned look on his face. “What?”
“My shoulder,” I lie. I look him right in the eye, summoning every ounce of acting ability I have. “I don’t think it’s healing properly. The docs say it looks good, but I know my body, and I don’t think I’m ever going to get back to where I was, Carson. I’m done.”
“Louis,” Carson says, his voice turning gentle.
“I’m retiring,” I repeat, louder this time. I take a step toward him. “Effective immediately.”
I take a shuddery breath. This is harder than I imagined.
“You can’t trade him if I’m not here. He needs to be the starter. The team needs him.”
I swallow the rest of my words. I need him.
Carson doesn’t say anything at first. He stands there in his foyer in his soft-guy-at-home uniform, looking at me like I’ve sprouted antlers.
Rainwater drips off my hoodie and hits his slate tile with steady little taps. My shoulder throbs like it wants to remind me this is real, even if the words coming out of my mouth aren’t the god’s honest truth.
Carson’s eyes flick down to my wet shoes, then back up to my face before he lifts a hand and scrubs it down his own face as if he’s trying to wake himself up.
And then—for some inexplicable reason—he smiles.
It’s a small smile. Like he’s watching a kid try to bluff at poker with a hand of garbage.
It is most definitely not the smile of an NHL team general manager whose franchise goaltender just announced, out of the blue, that he’s retiring.
My temper spikes so hard it’s like someone jammed smelling salts under my nose.
“Are you serious?” I snap.
His smile doesn’t disappear. Fuck me sideways, it actually seems to grow.
“Did you hear me?” I take a step closer, water squishing in my sneakers. “I said I’m done.”
Carson holds my stare for a long beat. He just waits. Like he’s waited out a lot of men in a lot of rooms.
“You should come in,” he says, nodding toward the living room. “Before you flood my entryway.”
“I don’t need a tour,” I bark. Because seriously: What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“Louis.” His tone isn’t angry, but it does command attention. The man might be the youngest GM in the league, but I can understand how he’s achieved this position. His tone brooks no argument.
I clench my jaw tightly as I follow him into his living room. The house smells like cedar and expensive coffee.
He gestures to the couch before sitting in a chair across from it. He looks like he belongs in every room he walks into. Meanwhile, I’m still dripping rain on his floor like a Labrador retriever.
Carson studies me again with that calm, practiced gaze.
“Okay,” he finally says. “Tell me what’s going on.”
I swallow hard. The lie is sitting on my tongue like a stone.
“My shoulder isn’t right,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “It’s not coming back the way it should.”