"So, webelieve you're going to fit in well here,"he says after we've settled in our chairs."I know Coach Shaw and his staff have some exciting plans for you."
Travis nods in agreement."We've got a solid core group, and your speed and creativity areexactlywhat we need on our top line with Collings and Cote."
The knot in my stomach loosens a little.
"I appreciate the opportunity,"I say, meaning every word."I know there are… concerns about my... time with the Jaguars."
They both nod, their expressions serious. Carson looks to Coach Shaw."Look, Jamie, I watched you prettycloselywhile we worked in Florida together. I know how much talent you have, and I also know you've got a great work ethic. I know things in that locker room weren't ideal,especiallyfor an LGBTQ player."
"That being said,"Carson interjects, his tone gentle but firm,"we're taking a calculated risk here. The Sasquatch team culture we're building is important. We believe in you, but you'll need to prove yourself to your teammates."
"Of course."I straighten in my chair."Whatever it takes."
We talk for a few more minutes about how I'll fit into the lineup, and Coach's plans for how to use my skills. The familiar territory of hockey strategy settles my nerves. This is what I know, what I'm good at. It's nothing like Florida, where I wasconstantlyfighting for ice time and trying to prove myself worthy of a roster spot.
"We're building something special here,"Carson says."There's an opportunity for you to be a big part of that. But it'sreallyup to you, Jamie."
"I promise, I'm up for the challenge,"I sayconfidently.
Chapter 3
RYLAN
Iunlock my front door, stepping into the familiar calm of my apartment. The late afternoon sun streams through floor-to-ceiling windows of the impersonal but beautiful high-rise condo with peekaboo views of Elliott Bay. Everything sits exactly where it's supposed to in the open-concept space, throw pillows placed neatly on the charcoal sectional, coffee table magazines aligned at right angles, kitchen counters gleaming and uncluttered.
The familiarity of my space should calm me, but tonight it justfeelsempty. My brother Nick's OHL jersey hangs in its frame on the wall, the only personal touch in the whole place. Everything elsecouldbelong to anyone. The neutral gray and black colors, the clean surfaces and modern furniture chosen more for style than comfort.
Tossing my keys on thetable, I toe off my shoes and set them on the rack by the door before heading down the hall. My housekeeper was here today and the fresh citrusysmellof cleaning products lingers in the air. My bedroom has the same minimalistfeelas the rest of the place, my bed made and my closet perfectly organized.
Everything controlled. Everything in its place. No surprises, no mess, no chaos. This is the one space I can control just about every detail. Even though I've lived here for three years, my condo still looks like a show home. That's how I've always liked it.
A career spent bouncing between teams has taught me how to live knowing that Icouldbe traded at any time, meaning I'll have to pack up and move at the drop of a hat. The minimalism of my home is kind of like armor against that uncertainty. Usually, the rigid order helps my nerves in check, gives me something solid to hold onto. But right now the pristine countertops and careful organization are not doing jack shit to calm the swarm of butterflies in my stomach. Between that loaded talk with Carson and running into Jamie fucking Pirelli, my carefully maintained equilibrium is shot to hell, and no amount of perfectly arranged throw pillows can fix that.
I change into comfortable grey sweatpants and a soft, well-worn t-shirt from my junior days. I need to find a calmer headspace. With camp starting tomorrow morning, I can't afford any distractions, especially with what I nowknowabout the owners beingthis closeto blowing up the whole team.
Unfortunately, the soothing predictability of my weekly meal prep routine doesn't work to settle me this evening. My mind keeps drifting back to the moment Jamie Pirelli walked into Carson's office. Those blue eyes, the unexpected jolt that shot through my entire body when we shook hands. His presence hit me like a physical force—and that is not something I want to examine right now.
The knife slips as I'm dicing chicken, almost catching my finger."Fuck."I set it down, bracing both hands against the counter. I cannot afford to lose my shit now. Not with the team in such a precarious position. Not with everything I've worked so goddamn hard to keep buried.
My throat tightens. Thirteen years in the NHL, keeping this part of myself locked up so tight that sometimes I can almost pretend it doesn't exist. But five minutes in the same room as Jamie Pirelli and suddenly it's like my walls are made of glass instead of brick.
The opening notes of"The Hockey Song"blast from my phone, and relief floods through me at the familiar tune.Thank fuck. I grab it like a drowning man reaching for a life preserver.
"Hey, Lou."
"Dude! You'll never believe what just happened to me at Whole Foods. So this chick comes over to me, right, and—"
He stops mid-sentence like somehow hecan tellbefore I've even said one damn word, that something's up with me. We've been close for so long, Louknowswhat I'mfeelingbefore I do a lot of the time. With one very large exception.
"What's going on?"he asks.
"Nothing. Just... youknow… getting ready for camp tomorrow."Despite my best efforts, my voice is strained.
"Ry."His tone shifts."You've done, like, a dozen training camps. Try again."
I lean against the counter, pinching the bridge of my nose and squeezing my eyes shut.Resistance is useless, I swear."Carson told me today that the Evertons aren't happy,"I say, referring to the wealthy family who owns the Sasquatch."They're leaning on Carson to produce significantly better results by the All-Star break or..."I trail off, not wanting to say it out loud.
"Yeah? What else?"
