And that’s the problem. As long as I’m on the active roster, Tanner’s blocked. He’s the backup. If I wasn’t standing in his way, the Sasquatch couldn’t trade him. He could have everything he wants—everything he deserves—andstay where he belongs. Here. With me.
My heart hammers in my chest as I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts to Carson Wells. It’s late. You don’t call your general manager at ten thirty at night unless someone is in jail or dead.
I don’t give one tiny rat’s ass. I hit the green call button.
“Louis?” Carson’s voice is surprised. “Is everything okay?”
“I’m sorry to call so late, Carson, but I have to talk to you,” I say. My voice is like gravel.
“Now?” Carson asks, clearly surprised.
“It can’t wait. It’s about Tanner.”
There’s silence for a moment. “You have my address?”
“Yes, I’ll be there in half an hour.” I end the call before he can reply, then grab my keys, throw on a hoodie, and shove my feet into my sneakers.
Cookie watches me go, his head tracking my movement to the door.
“I’m fixing it,” I tell my lizard. “I’m fixing it.”
The drive to Mercer Island is a blur of rain and red taillights. My wipers slash back and forth on high speed, fighting a losing battle against the weather, but I don’t slow down.
My mind drifts back to a few years ago, when we won the Cup. An expansion team. A bunch of castoffs—guys other teams didn’t bother to protect, players they figured they could live without. We were stitched together from everyone else’s leftovers.
And somehow, we went all the way. We won the whole damn thing.
It was the sweetest victory any of us could have imagined, because every single guy in that room had something to prove. And man—did we ever prove it.
I think about the two Vezina Trophies I won for being the best goalie in the entire league. The first was only my third year in the league, and the second was with the Sasquatch, the year we won it all.
I think about the way I still get a chill down my spine when the crowd screamsLUUUUUU. The way fresh ice feels under my skates before I scrape it up. The perfection of a crisp, clean edge of a freshly cut crease.
Then I think about Tanner. How he built me a pillow nest so I could sleep more easily after my injury. The almost childlike joy and awe on his face when he stared out at the stormy ocean off the Pacific Northwest coast. The way his bright blue eyes turnto a steely gray color when he’s hungry for me. The gentle tone of his voice and his sweet, almost shy smile when I told him he would never be a guest when he’s with me.
Retirement.
Even the word makes me uneasy. My entire life, I’ve thought of myself as a hockey player. I don’t know who I am without it. But when I’m with Tanner, somehow, I feel like something more than just a player.
I don’t know exactly what comes next if my days aren’t filled with practices and games and travel. But for the first time, that uncertainty doesn’t feel like a terrifying void. It feels like possibility. And with Tanner beside me, I’m not afraid to find out.
I can’t imagine a life without hockey, but what’s worse is imagining one where I hang on too long. Where I become that guy people watch with pity, shaking their heads, wondering why he didn’t know when to walk away.
Tanner’s twenty-three and brilliantly talented. He deserves to be a starting goalie. Sure, we could work together a little longer—hell, I’ve got a lifetime of tricks I could teach him, and I’d love to do it. But he won’t need me forever. He’ll be ready soon.
I’ve heard stories about how Minnesota’s front office likes to chew up young players and spit them out. I know Tanner will be able to deal with it, and if he goes, he’ll be a huge success. But he’ll be alone again. He’ll slip back into feeling like a guest in his own life, retreating into the safety of data and numbers and analysis. And eventually, the game will freeze him from the inside out.
I can’t let any of that happen.
As I exit the highway onto the darker, winding roads of Mercer Island, my heart is in my throat. What if I’m too late? What if he’s already signed? What if I’ve missed this chance at a life I never even knew I wanted—but now need more than anything?
I pull up to Carson’s gate and punch in the code. The iron gates swing open slowly and ominously. His modern-style home is stunning, all glass and cedar with incredible views across Lake Washington to Seattle. Lights are on downstairs, making the house look warm and inviting.
I pull up to the front and sit there for a moment, listening to the rain on a roof like a drumroll.
Here goes nothin’.
As soon as I get out of my SUV, the rain soaks through my hoodie, plastering it to my back. But it feels good, in a weird sort of way. I don’t run to the door; I march.
