Chapter Twenty-Eight An Objective Opinion
JULIAN
By the time I get to O'Hare Airport the next morning, I’m sitting by my gate when my phone buzzes, and I see that the official offer from Chicago is waiting in my inbox.
I pull up the PDF. The numbers are staggering. It’s significantly more money than the Night Hawks can offer under their current self-imposed salary cap. It’s a four-year deal, fully guaranteed. It’s closer to Mrs. Clay. On paper, every single metric says this is the easiest decision of my career.
Yet, as I sit and gaze down at the message, I can’t shake the memory of Coach Williams’s slick, transactional eyes. I don’t trust him. Not the way I trust Coach Sullivan, who took a chance on a rough, unrefined kid from the AHL and turned him into a top-line NHL winger.
I need an objective opinion. A legal opinion, even.
I scroll through my messages from Coach until I find the name and number he gave me for his son.
Liam Sullivan, Hadley’s dad. I hesitate a long moment, wondering if this is a good idea.
Is this betraying Hadley in some way? Should I really ask him for help, especially considering what’s happened between Hadley and me?
Pretty sure if her dad found out I’d kissed the ever-living hell out of her, he’d kick my ass instead of representing it.
Letting out a long breath, I shake my head and press dial before I can talk myself out of it.
The phone rings three times before a deep, authoritative voice answers, “This is Liam Sullivan.”
“Mr. Sullivan, it’s Julian Wilder. I play for the Night Hawks, and Coach Sullivan gave me your number,” I say, keeping my tone strictly professional. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
There’s a brief pause on the line, the sound of papers shifting. “Wilder! Good to hear from you, son. No, you’re not interrupting a thing; you're completely fine. My father actually mentioned you might be reaching out. What can I do for you?”
“I’ve got a contract proposal from an outside team,” I say, walking toward a quieter corner of the terminal.
“It’s an official offer for a mid-season trade or an off-season signing.
The numbers are high, but something about the structure and the clauses feels restrictive.
I wanted to see if you’d be willing to look it over. ”
“An outside team?” Sullivan says, sounding curious. “Is it Chicago? I know that’s where you’re from.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my throat dry.
“I see,” Sullivan murmurs, his tone softening into a warm, reassuring rhythm.
He lets out a low, understanding chuckle that takes the edge out of the conversation.
“Listen, Julian, I know how overwhelming it is when a team drops a massive offer on your desk out of nowhere. It’s easy to get dizzy looking at those numbers. ”
He pauses, the sound of a pen tapping lightly against his desk transmitting over the line.
“Do me a favor and send the full document over to my personal email. Let me take a look at the fine print for you. I’ll dig into their recent cap history and see how they’ve treated guys in your position during past trades, just to make sure they’re actually going to look after you.
A mid-season move is a hell of a hurdle, son.
You’ve got time on your side here, so don't feel pressured to rush into anything just because they're flashing a big paycheck at you.
We're going to make sure you get exactly what you've earned.”
I feel weirdly relieved at his words. “I won’t. Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“I’ll get back to you in a couple of days,” he says, and hangs up.
I lower the phone, the weight of the secret settling into my bones, heavy and suffocating.
Jensen, Carson, Jayce, Zander, Owen...they’re my family, and here I am, secretly flying to Chicago, secretly talking to an elite attorney, secretly planning to possibly leave them.
The guilt creeps in like a cold poison in my veins.
It doesn’t care that I’m doing it for Mrs. Clay.
It doesn’t care that I’m trying to survive.
Like when I was a kid, working my ass off to support me and Dad whenever he gambled away his paycheck.
This still feels like a betrayal. No amount of logic can make that guilt go away.
When the plane lands back in Denver, the air is crisp and thin, smelling of the Rocky Mountains. I grab an Uber, but I don’t go to my apartment. I need to move right now. I need the ice.
I head straight to the arena. It’s an off-day, so the building should be pretty empty. Dropping my gear bag on the bench, I look out at the ice.
I’m surprised to see the silhouette of a player already out there. The lights are half-dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pristine white surface. The sound of edges digging violently into the ice echoes through the cavernous rafters.
I frown and the next second, realize it’s Theo.
He’s doing suicide drills, pushing himself from the goal line to the blue line, stopping hard, spraying ice, and sprinting back.
His chest is heaving, his face flushed red under the dim lights.
He looks exhausted, but there’s a stubborn, desperate focus in his eyes that I recognize instantly.
It’s the look of a guy who feels like he’s falling behind and is willing to destroy his own body to catch up.
I don’t say anything at first, just lace up my skates, pull on a practice jersey, and grab my stick.
When I glide out onto the ice, the smooth slide of the steel against the surface calms the chaos in my brain. Theo stops at the blue line, bending over and resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily as he looks up at me.
“Wilder,” he breathes out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. “Didn’t think anyone else would be here today.”
“Needed to clear my head,” I reply, skating a slow circle around him. I look at his posture and the way his weight is distributed on his skates. “Your timing is off on your transitions, kid.”
Theo sighs, straightening. “Yeah. I know. I’ve been trying to keep up with the pace during regular practices, but everything moves so damn fast. I feel like by the time I process the defensive shift, the puck is already past me.”
I look at him for a second. Theo is young, raw, and talented, but he didn’t grow up fighting for his life on the ice as I did. He relies on instinct, and right now, his instinct is panicking.
“Watch my feet,” I tell him.
I dig my edges in, driving forward. “When you’re tracking the play from the wing, you’re keeping your hips square to the puck.
That locks your ankles. If the play shifts, you have to completely reset your center of gravity.
” I demonstrate, cutting hard, fluidly switching from forward to backward skating without losing a fraction of my momentum.
“Open your hips up early. Read the defenseman’s shoulders, not the puck. The puck lies. The shoulders don’t.”
Theo watches me with hyper-focus. He nods, tries it, and stumbles slightly on the transition.
“Again,” I snap. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Don’t lean back into your heels when you drop your hips.”
We spend the next forty-five minutes breaking it down.
I walk him through the small details. The micro-adjustments in the ankles, the way to use the stick to force a defenseman to commit to a side, and the precise timing of a blind drop-pass among other things.
The types of things that don’t always get explained in the middle of a chaotic team practice when Coach is screaming at twenty guys at once.
Explaining the mechanics of the game comes a lot easier to me than I expected, and watching the lightbulb go off in Theo’s head as he finally nails a clean, fluid transition fills me with a satisfaction I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt.
Theo stops, breathing hard, a massive grin on his face.
“Damn, Wilder. Thanks. That actually makes sense now. Nobody ever broke it down like that before.” He leans on his stick, looking at me with genuine respect.
“You know...you’re a great coach. Seriously.
You ever think about doing this when your playing days are done? ”
The comment hits me like an unexpected body check. I take a pause, staring out at the red line.
A coach.
I’ve never thought about it. I’ve spent my entire life in survival mode, focusing entirely on the next game and the next paycheck to make sure I never end up broke and desperate again.
I’ve been terrified of what will happen to me once I retire, but standing here, seeing the progress a kid made in less than an hour with my help touches something deep inside me.
It feels good.
“Seriously, man,” Theo says, using his stick to tap a stray puck against the boards. “You’ve got a gift for it. Hadley actually mentioned the same thing to me the other day when we were talking about the team’s training schedule. She said you…”
The second her name leaves his mouth, the warmth in my chest vanishes, completely replaced by a sharp, ugly spike of adrenaline.
I look at Theo. The kid is good-looking and charismatic, and I suddenly remember him and Hadley talking to each other on this exact rink, looking a little too close.
A sharp, ugly spike of jealousy flares up in my chest before I can stop it.
I try to shake it off, telling myself she’s not mine, that I have no right to feel possessive over a girl I literally pushed away less than twenty-four hours ago, but the thought of any other guy getting close to her makes my jaw tighten until it aches.
Theo must see the sudden shift in my face. The grin drops from his lips, and he raises his hands in a defensive gesture, a knowing, slightly amused look entering his eyes.
“Whoa, okay. Look, bro,” he exclaims, stepping back a couple of inches on the ice. “Before you use me to test the glass integrity, let me just clear the air. I have absolutely zero interest in Hadley.”
My eyes narrow. Is this kid a fucking mind reader?
“What are you talking about?”
“I know she likes you. A lot,” Theo explains. “Like, it’s glaringly obvious to anyone with eyes. That’s why I did it. I’m the one who swiped your extra jersey from the equipment room and gave it to her before the game. I told her to put it on.”
I stare at him, completely stunned. A harsh, disbelieving laugh slips past my lips. “You stole my jersey?”
“Borrowed,” Theo corrects with a wink. “And it worked, didn’t it? I saw the way you looked up at the stands during warmups. You looked like a man possessed.”
The humor drops out of Theo’s face, replaced by something heavy and laced with old pain. He looks down at the ice, tapping his stick against his skates.
“Look, bro...take it from someone who knows. I lost someone I loved because I didn’t speak up. Don’t risk the regret. If you want her, fight for her.”
The words hang in the cold air between us. I swallow as they sink in.
“Think about it,” Theo murmurs, tapping my pads with his stick before turning and skating off toward the tunnel, leaving me alone.
The sound of the heavy metal door clicking shut echoes through the empty rink.
I don’t move. I stand there at the blue line, leaning my weight against my stick, staring out over the empty, gleaming sheet of ice.
Chicago made sense.
When I was in that office with Coach Williams, looking at the numbers, looking at the proximity to Mrs. Clay, it felt like the only logical path for a guy who has to protect his future. It still should make sense.
Standing here now, in the quiet of the rink that has become my sanctuary, with the weight of Theo’s words and the memory of Hadley’s lips sitting heavier in my chest than before...
it doesn’t feel that simple anymore. A hollow feeling settles in my gut.
I read him so completely wrong. I’ve been letting myself rot with envy, viewing Theo as a threat…
a young, charming competitor lined up to take everything I wanted.
I’d braced myself for a fight, completely blind to the fact that the kid wasn't trying to steal my girl or my spot on the ice.
If I leave, I’m not just trading teams. I’m leaving the only guys who ever treated me like a brother.
I’m leaving a coach who cares about my well-being.
I’m leaving the city that has a girl who looks at me like I’m more than a poor kid from an abusive household.
She even wears my number like she’s proud of it.
For the first time since I started this entire agonizing process, I look out at the empty net, and I start to wonder.
Maybe leaving isn't the smart move.
Maybe it’s just the easiest way to run away before someone has the chance to leave me first.