He sent over a few offers after my NAPH comeback games, but I’m not an idiot. I know how this game works and I know I got lucky with the team believing in me by sending me to rehab and the Iceguard. But I also know that if I come back playing well, my value proposition starts to change, and at some point the potential liability of the bad boy of hockey starts to outweigh the comeback story. And solid veteran players are their own commodity in the NAPH.
“I read some offers. All I’m asking is the freedom to build something when I’m off the ice. I can shepherd a rookie. We also all know that my knee and my age put limits on my usefulness.”
“No one is saying that, Monroe, Jesus.”
“Maybe they should be,” I counter. “It’s the truth. My contract is almost up, that’s part of why I’m at the Iceguard. If I come back, it’s on my terms. My swan song, Jerry. I’ve got a bar to open. I’ve got someone waiting. I don’t have the spoons to pretend otherwise.”
He’s quiet before I hear that familiar chuckle again.
“Roe Monroe just had to go and get his priorities straight. You’re gonna make me earn this one, huh?”
“Isn’t that what they pay you for?”
“Have your agent send me the specifics of what you want.”
“You first. Send me what the offer is and you can anticipate my counter. I’m not playing, Jer. These are my terms.”
Jerry sighs, but it’s affectionate. “Alright, Monroe. I’ll have it to your agent and you by Monday.”
Later that night, I wait until it’s that quiet time of the evening when Jamie is occupied upstairs and dinner is finished and put away before I go find Thatcher in his workshop.
I watch him for a while before I speak. His movements are slow. Careful. There’s music playing low—some bluesy instrumental track I don’t recognize.
He pauses. Looks up. Doesn’t speak.
I move closer, enjoying the way his eyes darken as I get closer to him. There’s something heady about knowing I turn him on by my mere proximity.
“I got some news today,” I say, and he stills.
“Good news?” he asks, wiping his hands to give me his full attention.
“They want me back. For next season.”
Still nothing. Just that steady, unreadable Thatcher stare.
“They’ve got a hotshot kid they think I can stabilize . . . Dom. It’s basically a year. I said yes, on one condition.”
He picks up and then sets the brush back down.
“No trade clause,” I say. “One team. One city. No bouncing. No bullshit.”
A long silence.
Then, quietly.
“This is what you want? You’ve got more than a year in you, Rory.”
“I want to finish this the right way,” I say. “I want to give them everything I’ve got left and then come home to you. I want a full life after the NAPH.”
His breath catches, just a little.
“I want you. I want the bar. I want Jamie. I want all of this. But I also want to walk away from the game knowing I didn’t quit before I was done. I want to make that call, not the game.”
He nods once. Then again, slower. If anyone can understand where I’m coming from, it’s Thatcher.
“Then go,” he says.
I cross the room, reach for his hand, and pull it gently from the lacquered wood.
