I movetowards the kitchen. Coffee. Strong, black, and scalding. That’ll burn away the unsettling thoughts in my head.
The coffee maker hisses, a precise, mechanical sound. I lean against the cool granite countertop, trying to anchor myself in the familiar.
The tree lighting.Why the hell did I agree to it? Tabby’s pleading eyes, the charged, awkward silence after Holly’s impulsive invitation… it was a weak moment. I’d panicked, fallen back on the easiest play: appease Tabby, make her happy.
Now, in the cold light of morning, it feels like a catastrophic error. A public event. Crowds. Noise. Carols.Holly.Sitting together?
The memory of her smile when I’d agreed – surprised, hopeful, lighting up her whole face – flickers in my memory. Dangerous. So dangerous.
The coffee maker beeps. I pour a mug, the dark bitter liquid steaming. I take a gulp, letting the heat scorch my throat.
Alright, focus.Today’s schedule: breakfast for Tabby, check practice film, maybe hit the gym early. Avoid thinking about twinkle lights and cocoa stations and Holly’s laugh. Stick to the game plan. Hockey. Fatherhood. Order.
My phone buzzes on the counter. The sharp, businesslike trill reserved for one person: Matthew Thompson, my agent. A jolt of adrenaline hits my system. Thompson doesn’t call for chit-chat. Especially not at 8:07 AM.
I pick it up. “Thompson.”
“Blake.” His voice is crisp, efficient, cutting through the morning quiet like a skate blade. “Got a minute? Need to run something by you.”
“Go ahead.” I keep my voice level, professional.
“Alright. So, end of season projections are looking solid. Your numbers are holding strong, leadership metrics are good, especially considering the… adjustments… the team’s been making.” He pauses, the unspokenadjustmentshanging there – the new assistant coach, the shifting lines. “Management’s pleased. Very pleased.”
“Good to hear.” I take another sip of coffee.
“Yeah. Thing is, that kind of performance… it attracts attention. As it should.” Another pause, this one heavier. I can hear papers shuffling on his end. “Got a call yesterday. Unofficial, off the record. But serious interest.”
My grip tightens on the mug. The smooth ceramic is suddenly hot against my palm. “Interest?” I prompt, keeping my tone neutral.
“San Francisco,” Thompson says. “The Gold. They’re… restructuring. Looking for a veteran D-man to anchor their blue line. Someone with lots of playoff experience.” He ticks off the points like items on a checklist. “They see you as a cornerstone piece, Denton. A foundational move.”
San Francisco. Three time zones away. A complete reset. New team. New city. The thought should be… intriguing? Interesting? A major career move. Instead, it feels like a sucker punch to the gut.
“Unofficial though,” I say.
“Yes, but they seem committed,” Thompson corrects, his voice firm. “Ownership’s opening the checkbook. They’re talking a significant extension, Denton. Long-term security. Top dollar. The kind of contract that sets you and Tabby up for life.”
Security. The ultimate goal. The reason for every check, every blocked shot, every sacrifice.
“They’d want an answer before the trade deadline, obviously. Gives them time to maneuver if you’re a no-go. But the vibe… it’s serious. Very serious.”
Serious. Long-term. Security. The words are sledgehammers against the structure I’ve built here. The structure that suddenly includes a bakery owner whose touch haunts me.
“I see,” I manage, my voice carefully devoid of inflection. “What’s the Blades’ position?”
Thompson snorts softly. “Officially? They value you immensely, blah blah blah. Unofficially? They know your contract is up in eighteen months. They see the Gold’s interest. It’s leverage, Denton. For them, for you. This is good. This isverygood. Options are power.” He pauses. “But… it’s alsopressure. They’ll want to know where your head’s at. Sooner rather than later.”
“Understood,” I say, the word clipped. Final. “Send me whatever preliminary details you have. I’ll look them over.”
“Will do. Just… keep it close for now, okay? Until things firm up.” Thompson’s tone shifts, a fraction warmer. “This is big, Blake. Really big. Could be a defining move in your career. Think about the future. Tabby’s future.”
“Yeah,” I rasp. “I will.”
“Good man. Talk soon.” The line goes dead.
The silence of the apartment rushes back in, louder than before. The only sound is the faint hum of the refrigerator. And my own heartbeat, a heavy, dull thud against my ribs.
I stare out the window. The Chicago skyline is a jagged silhouette against the gray winter sky. Familiar. Solid. Or so I thought. Now it looks… temporary.
