Chapter Twenty-Five
Crumbling
Banks
“We need to talk.”
Four words I’ve learned to dread.
My agent, Rick Castille, sits across from me in a coffee shop near the arena. He has that look on his face—the one he wears when he’s about to deliver bad news and wants me to stay calm.
I’m not going to stay calm.
“Then talk,” I say.
Rick takes a sip of his overpriced latte, stalling. He’s been my agent for eight years. He negotiated my first real contract, handled both trades, got me the deal I’m currently playing under. He’s good at his job.
Right now, I want to throw his latte in his face because he’s acting cagey as hell.
“The Knights are hesitant to re-sign,” he finally says.
The words land like a punch to the gut. I keep my face neutral. “Hesitant how?”
“They’re concerned about your age, your injury history, and the cap hit.” He sets down his cup. “You’re thirty now, Banks. You’ve got a lot of miles on your body. The shoulder injury last year, the knee the year before—teams notice that stuff. It all adds up.”
“I played seventy-eight games last season.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been healthy all year.”
“I know that too.” Rick sighs. “Look, it’s not about what you’ve done. It’s about what they think you can do going forward. They’re looking at the numbers, the projections, and they’re getting cold feet.”
“So what are they offering?”
“Nothing yet. That’s the problem.” He meets my eyes. “They’re exploring other options.”
“Other options.”
“Trade options.”
The word hits harder than any punch. Trade. Again. Another city, another team, another locker room full of strangers. Another place that doesn’t want me.
“Where?” My voice comes out flat. Controlled.
“Seattle’s interested. So is Vegas.” Rick pauses. “And there’s been some noise from San Jose.”
Seattle. Vegas. San Jose.
All of them are across the country. All of them three thousand miles from New York. Three thousand miles from Winnie.
“When would this happen?”
“Nothing’s decided yet. The deadline isn’t for another month. But if the Knights can’t come to terms, they’ll want to move you while your value is still high.” He leans forward. “I’m telling you this now so you’re not blindsided. So we can strategize.”
Strategize. Like my entire life isn’t hanging in the balance.
Fuck.
My fists clench under the table. “What do you recommend?”
“Honestly? Play well. Stay healthy. Show them you’re worth the investment.” Rick shrugs. “That’s all you can do. The rest is out of your hands.”
Out of my hands. Story of my life.
Practice is a disaster.
I’m distracted. Sloppy. Missing passes I should make in my sleep, losing battles along the boards, and getting caught out of position. Coach yells at me twice. The third time, he just shakes his head like he’s given up.
I can’t focus. Every time I try to lock in, my brain circles back to Rick’s words.
I’ve been traded twice before. I know what it feels like—the upheaval, the uncertainty, the starting over. The first time, I was young enough to bounce back. The second time was harder.
Finding a new place to live. Meeting a bunch of strangers.
I don’t know if I can do it again.
And then there’s Winnie.
We haven’t defined what we are. We haven’t had the conversation about labels, commitment, or the future. We’re just… existing together, figuring it out as we go. I said I’d let her set the pace.
But how do you set a pace when the ground is shifting beneath your feet?
“Banks!”
I look up. The puck I was supposed to receive has sailed past me and into the corner. Zayden is staring at me, eyebrows raised.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You just missed an easy pass.”
“I said I’m fine.”
He doesn’t push it. Not then. But after practice, when the locker room has mostly cleared out and I’m sitting in my stall staring at nothing, he drops onto the bench beside me.
“What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
I don’t respond. Don’t look at him.
“You were somewhere else out there,” Zayden continues. “I’ve never seen you play like that. Not even when your shoulder was messed up.”
“Bad day.”
“This isn’t a bad day. This is something else.” He waits. When I don’t elaborate, he sighs. “Look, I’m not going to force you to talk. But whatever it is, you don’t have to deal with it alone.”
Alone. That’s the only way I know how to deal with things. Anything else would be completely foreign.
“I’m fine,” I say again. “Just tired.”
Zayden doesn’t believe me. I can see it in his face. But he’s a good enough friend not to push.
“Okay,” he says, standing up. “But if you change your mind, I’m here for you, bud.”
He leaves. I sit there for a long time, the silence of the empty locker room pressing in on me.
I should tell someone. Zayden. Winnie. Anyone.
But what would I say? Hey, I might be getting traded across the country, and I don’t know what that means for us, assuming there even is an us, which we’ve never actually established.
It sounds pathetic even in my head.
Besides, what’s the point of worrying her when nothing’s certain? The trade might not happen. The Knights might come around. Everything might be fine.
Or everything might fall apart.
Either way, it’s out of my hands. Just like Rick said.
That night, I lie in bed and stare at my phone.
Winnie and I have been texting every night. Just small things—how was your day, did you eat, what are you watching. The kind of mundane communication that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow means everything.
Her last message came in an hour ago.
Winnie: Long day. My feet hurt, and I think I’m getting a cold. But I keep thinking about your birthday and smiling like an idiot. Is that weird?
It’s not weird. I’ve been doing the same thing.
I start typing a response.
Me: I need to tell you something
I stare at the words. Delete them.
Me: There’s something going on with my contract
Delete.
Me: I might be getting traded
Delete.
Me: I don’t know what’s happening with us, but I need you to know
Delete. Delete. Delete.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. The cursor blinks, waiting.
What am I supposed to say? How do I explain that the life I’m building—the one that finally, finally feels like it might be worth something—could be ripped away at any moment?
How do I tell her that I’m terrified? That I haven’t been this scared since I was seven years old and a social worker told me my mother wasn’t coming back?
I can’t. I don’t have the words.
I type:
Me: Goodnight, Win.
Her response comes quickly:
Winnie: Goodnight, tough guy. *heart emoji*
A heart. She sent me a heart.
I set down my phone and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
This is what I wanted. Someone who texts me goodnight. Someone who sends hearts. Someone who makes me smile like an idiot when I think about them.
And now I might lose it.
Not because I did something wrong. Not because I pushed too hard or pulled away or fucked it up the way I’ve fucked up everything else. Just because some people in suits decided I’m not worth the investment. Just because the business of hockey doesn’t care about the life I’m trying to build here.
I think about calling her. Hearing her voice. Telling her everything.
I don’t.
Instead, I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling, the same way I’ve been doing my whole life. Waiting for something bad to happen. Bracing for impact.
The worst part is, I don’t know how to do anything else.
The next few days are a blur.
I go through the motions. Practice. Meetings.
Games. I play well enough not to draw attention, but not well enough to silence the doubts.
Every time I step on the ice, I wonder if the scouts are watching.
If the front office is taking notes. If this shift, this game, this moment will be the one that tips the scales.
Winnie texts. I text back. We make plans, then I cancel them—”tired” or “busy” or “early practice.” Excuses that aren’t quite lies but aren’t quite truth either.
She notices. Of course she notices.
Winnie: Is everything okay? You seem distant.
Me: Fine. Just work stuff.
Winnie: Want to talk about it?
Me: Nothing to talk about.
The lies taste like ash in my mouth.
I tell myself I’m protecting her. That there’s no point in worrying her until something is definite. That she has her own life, her own job, her own problems to deal with.
But the truth is, I’m scared.
I’m scared that if I tell her, she’ll realize this isn’t worth it. That I’m not worth it. That she signed up for a fake relationship with a hockey player to keep the guys off her back, not a real relationship with a man whose entire future is uncertain.
I’m scared that she’ll leave.
Everyone leaves. That’s what I learned a long time ago. People leave when things get hard. People leave when you need them most. People leave, and then you’re left standing in the wreckage, wondering what you did wrong.
I can’t watch Winnie leave.
So I keep my mouth shut. I smile when I’m supposed to smile. I text goodnight like everything is normal.
And I fall apart a little more each day.
It’s ten PM when my phone rings.
I’m not asleep—haven’t been sleeping much at all lately—so I see Winnie’s name light up the screen immediately.
“Hello?”
“Hey.” Her voice is soft, sleepy. “Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Liar.” A pause. “I couldn’t sleep. Kept thinking about you.”
My chest aches. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Another pause, longer this time. “Banks, what’s going on? And don’t say ‘nothing.’ I know something’s wrong. You’ve been pulling away all week.”
I close my eyes. The truth is right there, on the tip of my tongue.
I might be getting traded. I might have to leave. I might lose everything.
“I’m just stressed,” I say instead. “Work stuff. It’s not a big deal.”
“It feels like a big deal. You feel far away, even when we’re talking.”
“I’m right here.”
“Are you?”
The question hangs in the air. I don’t have an answer.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “I know I’ve been weird. I just need to get through this week, and then—”
“Then what?”
Then I’ll know if I’m staying or going. Then I’ll know if there’s any point in fighting for this.
“Then things will be better,” I finish. “I promise.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice is careful. Measured.
“Okay. I trust you.” A breath. “But Banks? When you’re ready to talk—I want you to know—I’m here. Whatever it is, we can figure it out together.”
Together. Like it’s that simple.
“I know,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Goodnight, tough guy.”
“Goodnight, Win.”
I hang up and sit in the dark, phone clutched in my hand, hating myself for every word I didn’t say.
She trusts me.
And I’m lying to her.