A few seconds later, the heavy wood door opens, and Carson Wells stands there, wearing gray sweatpants and a faded college T-shirt, his glasses perched on his nose. At first, he looks confused, but as he takes me in, his expression turns to concern.
“Louis?” he says, stepping back. “Jesus, come in out of the rain.”
I step into the foyer. I’m dripping on his expensive slate tile. I don’t wait for an invite to the living room. I don’t take off my shoes.
I turn to face him. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, choking me.
“Don’t trade him,” I say. My voice is steady. Steadier than I feel.
Carson frowns, closing the door behind me. “Louis, let’s go sit and talk about this. Tanner—”
“I’m gonna retire, Carson.”
He freezes. A blank, stunned look on his face. “What?”
“My shoulder,” I lie. I look him right in the eye, summoning every ounce of acting ability I have. “I don’t think it’s healing properly. The docs say it looks good, but I know my body, and I don’t think I’m ever going to get back to where I was, Carson. I’m done.”
“Louis,” Carson says, his voice turning gentle.
“I’m retiring,” I repeat, louder this time. I take a step toward him. “Effective immediately.”
I take a shuddery breath. This is harder than I imagined.
“You can’t trade him if I’m not here. He needs to be the starter. The team needs him.”
I swallow the rest of my words.I need him.
Carson doesn’t say anything at first. He stands there in his foyer in his soft-guy-at-home uniform, looking at me like I’ve sprouted antlers.
Rainwater drips off my hoodie and hits his slate tile with steady little taps. My shoulder throbs like it wants to remind me this isreal, even if the words coming out of my mouth aren’t the god’s honest truth.
Carson’s eyes flick down to my wet shoes, then back up to my face before he lifts a hand and scrubs it down his own face as if he’s trying to wake himself up.
And then—for some inexplicable reason—he smiles.
It’s a small smile. Like he’s watching a kid try to bluff at poker with a hand of garbage.
It is most definitely not the smile of an NHL team general manager whose franchise goaltender just announced, out of the blue, that he’s retiring.
My temper spikes so hard it’s like someone jammed smelling salts under my nose.
“Are you serious?” I snap.
His smile doesn’t disappear. Fuck me sideways, it actually seems to grow.
“Did you hear me?” I take a step closer, water squishing in my sneakers. “I said I’m done.”
Carson holds my stare for a long beat. He just waits. Like he’s waited out a lot of men in a lot of rooms.
“You should come in,” he says, nodding toward the living room. “Before you flood my entryway.”
“I don’t need a tour,” I bark. Because seriously: What. The. Actual. Fuck?
“Louis.” His tone isn’t angry, but it does command attention. The man might be the youngest GM in the league, but I can understand how he’s achieved this position. His tone brooks no argument.
I clench my jaw tightly as I follow him into his living room. The house smells like cedar and expensive coffee.
He gestures to the couch before sitting in a chair across from it. He looks like he belongs in every room he walks into. Meanwhile, I’m still dripping rain on his floor like a Labrador retriever.
