He looks at my mouth, then up to my eyes. For a split second, the guy I spent the last few days with is there. But just as quickly, his expression shutters, and that guy is gone.
He leans in and kisses me. But it’s not like the kisses at the cabin. It’s brief and impersonal. Almost like a period at the end of a sentence. Or a goodbye.
“You better go see Carson,” he says before turning to slide into his car. “Don’t keep him waiting.”
“Lou—”
“Go, Tanner. I’ll see you soon.”
I stand there in the rain, water dripping off my nose, watching helplessly as he drives off without looking back.
I swipe my key card to get into the garage, deciding not to bother taking my bag upstairs. I need to get to Carson to find out what’s going on before I lose my mind. When I get into my car, my hands are shaking so bad I can barely start the engine.
Our little bubble didn’t just burst. It exploded.
Walking through the Sasquatch practice facility to Carson’s office feels like walking to the gallows. The cool air, the faint hum of the ice plant, and the smell of rubber mats and hockey gear are normally a comfort, but not today.
My chest is tight with the familiar vise grip of anxiety, squeezing my lungs until breathing feels like something I need to think about, rather than an automatic function.
I check my phone one last time as I approach the admin office, but there’s nothing from Louis. Of course there’s nothing. He kissed me goodbye like I was a distant relative he was seeing off at the airport instead of someone he had spent the last four days in bed with.
I shove the phone into my pocket and square my shoulders. Here goes.
Carson’s assistant, Kelly Garneau, smiles when I walk in. “Hi, Tanner. He’s expecting you. Go ahead in,” they say.
I swallow hard before knocking.
“Come in.”
The Sasquatch’s general manager is sitting behind his desk, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the Seattle skyline. It’s gray and rainy again, which seems appropriate, given my mood.
“Hi, Tanner. Have a seat.” He gestures to the chairs across the desk.
I guess we’re getting right to the point.
My knees wobble as I sit down, but I keep my face neutral.
“I’m going to cut right to it,” Carson says, his voice low and steady. “I received a call from the Minnesota Stars this morning.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Okay,” I manage to say. It comes out like a croak.
“As you’ve probably heard, Connor Hansen, their starting goaltender, went down during their final game before the break. He’s not going to be back in the lineup this season.”
I nod since I can’t seem to find my voice at the moment.
“They’re interested in acquiring your contract, Tanner.”
The air leaves the room.
I blink, my brain scrambling as I try to process. “They—they what?”
“They’ve made a trade offer. A significant one.” Carson opens the folder, glancing down at a sheet of paper before sliding it across the desk toward me. “The offer is more in line with what an established starting goaltender would be worth.”
I stare at the paper. Names. Numbers. Assets. All in exchange forme.
“Why?” I whisper. “I’ve only played, what? Fifteen games?”
