I bypass the elevator and take the stairs to the parking lot two at a time. The offer sitting on Carson’s desk is everything I’ve ever thought I wanted.
But as I hurry to my car, all I feel is confusion.
I need to look Louis in the eye and ask him why he went cold on me. I need to know if the last four days were real or if I was just a convenient distraction.
If he gives me one reason to stay, I’ll fucking burn that trade offer to the ground.
Chapter 19
Louis
The silence in my condo presses against my eardrums. The TV is on, but I’ve got the volume muted; the voices of the announcers from the Toronto-Florida game were grating on my nerves.
I’m sitting on the edge of my couch, having a staring contest with Cookie, who is basking under his heat lamp. He does a slow, jerky push-up, tilts his scaly head, and gives me his most judgmental look.
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter, rubbing my face with my good hand. “I’m an asshole. You don’t have to say it.”
Cookie flicks his tongue at me. It feels like an indictment of my character.
My shoulder throbs. I should ice it. I should do my physio exercises. Instead, I'm sitting here replaying the last hour in my head like the game tape of a blowout loss.
I lean back, closing my eyes, but the image of Tanner standing in the rain is burned into the back of my eyelids. He looked like a kicked puppy, wet, confused, and looking at me with those blue eyes that are usually analyzing everything around them. As I drove away, they were full of hurt.
My chest squeezes, a physical pressure that has nothing to do with the torn muscle fibers in my shoulder and everything to do with the fact that I just ripped my own heart out and tossed it onto the wet pavement.
I stand up, restless, and pace the length of the living room. Four days ago, this was home. Now, after the last few days of soft firelight, the smell of cedar and sea salt, and the heat of Tanner’s skin pressed against mine, this place feels like an empty museum.
My phone sits silently on the kitchen island. I circle it like it’s a bomb.
Tanner's probably still with Carson. Or maybe he’s done and he’s sitting in his car right now, processing the news that Nichole dropped on me during the drive home.
“Hansen’s injury is bad, Lou,”my agent’s voice echoes in my head, bubbly and excited.“The rumor is he’s done. Minnesota is coming after Sinclair, and they’re offering the moon. First-round pick, prospects. They’re ready to hand him the keys to the franchise.”
I stop pacing and look out at the gray city.
“If they trade him, that’s fucking fantastic for you,”she’d said.“Trading your backup while you’re still out on IR, it shows how much confidence they have in you. They’re still 100 percent committed to you as their starter, which means your contract extension offer is going to be great.”
She’s right. It’s great for my career. It’s the job security I’ve been stressing about for six months.
So why does it feel like shit?
If Tanner stays here, what is he? My backup. He sits on the bench in a ball cap, opening the gate for me, waiting for me to fail or get hurt again.
“He deserves better,” I say aloud to the empty room.
Cookie stares at me, blinking one slow eye.
Tanner is twenty-three. He’s explosive, technical, and hungry. He’s a little rough around the edges, but in Minnesota? He’ll betheguy. The star. He gets the validation he’s been chasing his whole life, the proof that he’s not just a guest in someone else’s house.
And there’s only one reason for him to stay here: me. And what am I offering him? A secret relationship with a guy who isn’t even sure who he is anymore? A guy whose only serious relationship has been with the game of hockey. I always thought of myself as a goalie, and it’s always been enough. But the way Tanner looks at me makes me feel like so much… more. And I don’t know what to do with that.
A maybe-relationship with me isn’t a good reason for him to pass up an opportunity to achieve all his dreams. An opportunity that may not come up again for years.
Minnesota is offering him everything he’s ever wanted. The only thing I have to offer him is myself.
The choice is obvious. I just wish it didn’t make me feel like my insides were being scooped out with a melon baller.
BZZZZT.
