He’s asleep before I finish pulling the blanket up. I linger next to him for a long minute, watching his chest rise and fall, and then finally shuffle to my own bed.
Alone in the dark, I let myself cry.
23
LIAM
Sam flips through my contract,shaking his head. “Jesus, Callaghan. Your agent’s been robbing you blind, man. This is a straight-up standard rookie deal with no bonuses, no incentives, or anything else. You’ve been starting for how long now?”
I let out a low whistle. “I kinda figured it was basic, but I thought all the bells and whistles were for the guys with more years under their belt.”
Sam shakes his head. “No, man. If you put up good numbers, you’ve got leverage even as a rookie. You’ve been a starter the last two years, but your contract is the lowest on the team. That’s crazy.”
I rub the back of my neck. “So what’s next?”
He leans in, smirking. “Welcome to pro sports, rookie. Look, I’m gonna work up a renegotiation. But fair warning: if I get you more money, management might get twitchy. Salary cap’s tight, and they might want to move you for some fresh blood.”
I frown. “You think Penn playing well puts me at risk?”
“It could. Owners see a strong backup and a starter asking for more money—they do the math. And you know the Reapers haven’t exactly been setting the league on fire. Budgets are lower. A good deal for you here would be a steal for another team. If I get them to agree to my numbers, another team might snatch you up at a price they couldn’t otherwise afford.”
I let out a breath. “So… I could end up anywhere.”
He gives a sympathetic shrug. “That’s the nature of the game, man. But, honestly? If it gets you away from all the off-ice drama in Chicago, it might be a blessing in disguise.”
I nod, feeling a little lighter. “Guess all I can do is trust you and be ready for whatever happens.”
Sam grins. “Leave the fighting to me. You focus on the ice.”
As he walks me out, I realize a trade might be the best shot I’ve got. If it means getting the hell away from Chicago and the fucking mafia.
I’m all in.
It’s time to start cleaning up the mess on and off the ice.
Clutchingthe folder stuffed with every financial record I could find, I walk into a quiet neighborhood coffee shop.
There’s a blonde lady in black glasses already waiting at a corner table. She sits tall, scanning the door, and gives me a little wave as soon as she spots me.
“Are you...Ellie?” I ask.
She stands, rubbing her palms on her jeans before offering her hand. “Yes, Ellie Kovalenko.”
“Russian?” I say, nodding at her last name.
“Uh, no, I don’t speak Russian,” She laughs, shaking her head as she adjusts her glasses.
“No, I meant your last name. It’s Russian?”
She smiles, motioning for me to take the seat across from her. “Actually, my husband’s Ukrainian. He plays hockey, too.”
My eyes go wide. “Wait, Michal Kovalenko is your husband?”
Holy hell, Michal Kovalenko is a beast of a defender for Oakland. He’s on track to be one of the greats someday. He’s like ten years older than I am, and I remember having his poster on my dorm room wall for a while.
She nods, blushing a little. “That’s him. We met when I was sorting out his finances, same as I’m doing for you now. One thing led to another, and here I am, building a whole career out of helping hockey players get their lives together.”
I sit back, feeling a thousand percent less nervous. She’s kind of nerdy, kind of like a hot librarian, I guess.
