Coach Merwood clapped me on the shoulder after the game, his dwarf-lord eyes twinkling with pride. “You’re on the path now. Solid ground, solid stance, solid man. Don’t look back. Keep moving forward.”
I promised him that I would, knowing exactly who to thank for how solid I am these days. Being with Charlotte has rewired something inside of me. Before I met her, I was pretty damned skeptical about the “transformative power of love.”
Yes, people are capable of transformation, but only if they want it for themselves and are willing to put in the work. No one, no matter how much they love you, can do that for you. I was dead certain of that. I still am in many ways.
But I’m also certain that falling for Charlotte has made me a better man, and I’m so grateful for it.
So grateful, it fucking sucks to be away from her, even for a few days.
I grab my water bottle, draining it in long pulls as I think soothing thoughts. We fly out this afternoon for another gamein Manitoba tomorrow, but I’ll be back in New Orleans on Wednesday morning. Back to my bed. Back to my girl, who has already informed me she’ll be sleeping over at my place to show me how much she’s missed me.
I’m daydreaming about all the ways I’ll show her how much I missedherwhen the gym door swings open.
I glance up, seeing Liam, the assistant equipment manager.
I flash him a smile he doesn’t return, my first hint that my rosy morning is about to go off the rails. Liam is a warm, laid-back guy, the kind who’s always ready with a joke. But he isn’t joking today. Hell, he won’t even look at me.
He glances at the floor, then at the wall, then at a spot over my left shoulder before murmuring, “Coach needs to see you, Baylor.”
My gut tightens. He never calls me “Baylor.” No one on the team does. And Coach calling a meeting before eight a.m. on a non-game day?
Fuck…
Whatever this is, it’s bad.
“Can I ask why?” I say, snagging my towel from the bench and giving my face another swipe.
“It’s not my place,” he mumbles, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “He’s in the visitors’ coach office. I’ll show you the way, but yeah…not my place.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and final.
Not my place.
The only thing I can think of that isn’t Liam’s “place” would be disciplinary action or…a trade. And considering I’ve been a model citizen and a star player the past few weeks, I seriously doubt I’m being disciplined.
Which means…
Fuck. It probably means I’m packing my shit and heading to a new city, a new team, a new life. Effective immediately.For whatever reason, management must have decided I’m good leverage for something they want or need more than a key defender. The Voodoo is weak on younger offensive stars. Our first line from last year is still carrying the offense.
Could be that management has decided I’m a good bargaining chip for beefing up the second line. All the work I’ve done to level up could have bumped up my value, making them decide to cash in while they can.
Ten days ago, this would have twisted me in knots. I would have raged. At least internally. And the chances that I would have punched a wall on my way out? Less than zero. Far less.
But today?
My stomach is still in knots, but as I grab my duffle bag and follow Liam out into the hall, I’m not balling my hands into fists. The anxiety pulsing through my bloodstream is real—Where are they sending me? How far from NOLA and my life there, and Charlotte?—but I’m…okay.
I’m still steady, just like Coach said.
As Liam leads me deeper into the maze of offices beneath the stadium, I wonder if Coach knew about this yesterday? When he told me to “keep moving forward.”
Maybe, but I doubt it. There was no sign in his muddy green eyes that he was anything but happy. I’m pretty sure Merwood likes me as a person, and I know he likes what I bring to the team. He might agree that trading me is the best thing long term, but I don’t think he’d be happy about it.
We reach the designated office—a cramped, sterile room just off the visitors’ locker room, reserved for visiting coaches—and Liam pushes the door open.
I swear, the temperature in the room drops thirty degrees the second I cross the threshold. Coach Merwood sits at the small desk, his dwarf-lord beard sticking out in a dozen differentdirections like a startled cat. But there’s nothing startled about the look he’s giving me.
He just looks…disappointed.
