I stare at the contract, trying to process what I’m hearing. Fifty thousand dollars to let in goals during games that supposedly don’t matter.
“I need to think about this.”
“Of course. But I need an answer by tomorrow night. We have opportunities coming up, and we need committed partners.”
“What if I say no?”
“Then you say no. We thank you for your time.” Petrov’s smile doesn’t fade. “Though I should point out that players in your situation don’t get many chances to secure their future. You’re twenty-six, coming off performance issues, watching a rookie waiting to take your job. How many more opportunities will you get?”
“And if I say yes?”
“Then you make fifty thousand dollars per game while keeping your starting position. Think about it, Tate. You’re going to have bad games, anyway. You might as well get paid for them.”
He slides the portfolio toward me. “Take the night to consider everything we’ve discussed,” he says, standing up. “If you’re interested, call the number on the contract. We can arrange to meet tomorrow night to finalize the details.”
“Where?”
“I’ll text you the location once you confirm your interest.” He extends his hand for a final handshake. “Either way, Tate, I want you to know that our organization respects your talent and your potential. Not everyone in this business does.”
I leave the office in a daze, the portfolio burning the tips of my fingers. I flip it open once I’m sitting in my truck. The language is complex and way over my head. But the financial details are crystal clear. Fifty grand per “consultation engagement.”
I place the portfolio on the seat next to me and press the ignition button.
On the way home, I think about Zane’s financial struggles with his father’s care, about my own uncertain future.
And I also think about getting fifty thousand dollars per game for doing something I might end up doing anyway if my performance anxiety returns.
By the time I reach my apartment, I’ve almost convinced myself that this is a reasonable business opportunity.
The part of my brain that isn’t desperate knows me better. I’d be throwing games for money. It’d be against the code of conduct for the team and league. I’d be breaking rules.
But then my mind trips back to Zane struggling to keep his father in care and about my own family.
And Parker is hanging back, just waiting for me to shit the bed so he can swoop in.
Petrov is right. Not every game matters equally, and if I’m going to have bad nights anyway, maybe I should be compensated for them.
I pull out my phone and stare at Petrov’s contact information.
The Calgary start is my first real chance in months to prove I deserve to be the starting goalie for the Raptors. If I play well, if I show that I’ve overcome whatever was holding me back, maybe I won’t need Petrov’s offer.
But if I struggle, if the performance anxiety returns...
I put the phone away without making a decision.
After the game, I’ll know whether I’m good enough to succeed on my own terms.
If the answer is yes, I’ll call Petrov and decline.
If the answer is no...
I fall asleep with the contract on my nightstand, fifty thousand dollars per consultation dancing through my dreams.
Tomorrow’s game will tell me everything I need to know about what kind of player I really am.
And what kind of man I’m willing to become.
TWENTY-NINE
