I look down at the flannel shirt in my hands. The smell of the fire is already fading. If I accept this offer and go to Minnesota, it’ll be gone forever.
I swore a long time ago that I wouldn’t be a burden. I watched my mom struggle, saw how hard she worked, and I learned tomake myself small, to require as little as possible so I didn’t add to her stress. I learned that being “good” meant being “easy.”
Louis is doing what I’ve done my entire life—making himself small because he thinks that will make life easier for someone else: me. And I don’t ever want to be the reason anyone, especially Louis Tremblay, tries to make himself small.
I drop the shirt back into the bag.
I don’t want to go to Minnesota. I don’t care about being the number one goalie if it means starting over in another city where, once again, I’ll be a guest in my own life.
Louis made a calculation, but he used the wrong variables. He thought what I wanted was to be the starting goalie on an NHL team. No matter what.
It turns out that’s not what I want more than anything. What I want is to belong. To feel wanted and important, and to be a valuable part of something bigger than me. Even though I’ve only been part of the Sasquatch for a few months, I’m already starting to feel those things. Louis Tremblay is the biggest part of that.
I want Louis more than I want to be the number one goalie for the Minnesota Stars. I’m happy to be the backup for as long as it takes if it means I get a chance to be with him.
I grab my keys off the counter, not bothering to grab my phone, since I’m not going to call him. I need to take some ownership of my life before I can ask him if he wants to be part of it.
I yank the door open and march back out into the hallway.
The admin offices at the practice facility are quiet. The receptionist’s desk is empty, the computer monitors are dark, the usual hum of chatter is absent. But even though it’s getting late, I knew our GM would still be here.
It should feel eerie. A few hours ago, walking down this hallway felt like marching toward a firing squad. My heart was hammering against my ribs, and my palms were sweating so badly I had to wipe them on my pants before walking into Carson’s office. This time feels different.
I walk steadily and confidently, like I’m sliding into the crease for the start of the third period with a three-goal lead. I’ve done my homework, so I know all their players, from their top guns right down to their fourth-liners. I know where they like to shoot from, their favorite angles, and who’s more likely to fake a shot and pass it to a teammate rather than shooting it through traffic. I know exactly what I need to do to protect this win.
When I get to Carson’s office door, I don’t hesitate. I lift my hand and knock firmly, more like a statement than a question, and push the door open when he answers.
He’s sitting behind his desk, as usual. I swear, the man must sleep here. The room smells like coffee and expensive leather, but it’s somehow both intimidating and comfortable at the same time.
He looks up, his eyebrows shooting toward his hairline when he sees me standing in the doorway. He says something quick and low into the phone he’s got pressed to his ear and then takes his glasses off.
“Tanner?” He checks the heavy watch on his wrist. “I didn’t expect to see you back here tonight.”
He looks tired. The lines around his eyes are deeper than usual. He gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Did you have questions?”
“No questions,” I say, but I stay standing.
When you’re a guest, you sit where you’re told. You fold yourself up small so you don’t take up too much space. I’m done with that.
I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, taking up space in the center of the room.
“I don’t need until noon tomorrow,” I say with confidence. “I know my answer now.”
Carson leans back, studying me. The “GM Mask” is firmly in place—stoic, unreadable, and a little intimidating. “Okay.”
The glossy Minnesota Stars logo is on the folder sitting on his desk, on top of a stack of papers. It’s a ticket to everything I’m supposed to want.
“I don’t want to go to Minnesota,” I say. “I want to stay with the Sasquatch.”
Carson doesn’t blink or smile. He laces his fingers together on top of the desk and gives me a hard look.
“You understand what you’re turning down, right, Tanner?” His voice is low and measured. “Taking this opportunity could fast-track your career. Staying with the Sasquatch means you’ll likely be in the back seat until Tremblay decides to retire. Are you going to be okay with that? Not just today, but for the next couple of years or more?”
It’s the same argument Louis used in his kitchen.You’ll beriding the bench, kid.It’s the logical argument.
“I know,” I say. “It doesn’t make sense on paper. And maybe a few weeks ago, I would’ve jumped.”
“But?”
