Chapter twenty-two
Hat Trick - When a player scores three goals in one game.
Phoenix
When I woke, Cole was dressed in soft joggers and one of Ignatius’s too-big hoodies that made him look younger and painfully breakable. The sleeves swallowed his hands. He gave me a small smile. Shy. Almost nervous. “Morning.”
“Hey.” I tried to smile back. It felt stiff. “Sleep okay?”
He nodded. “Better than…any night I can remember.” That hit somewhere tender and aching. Before I could respond, Ignatius’s voice boomed from the kitchen:
“COLE. GET IN HERE BEFORE I COME DRAG YOU.”
Cole startled. I snorted despite myself. “He sounds cheerful.”
“He sounds dangerous,” Cole murmured, but he followed me after I dressed.
The kitchen smelled like eggs and toast and the fancy coffee Ignatius brewed that was probably filtered through gold. He stood at the island, holding his tablet like it was a sacred artifact. When he saw Cole, he didn’t bother with a greeting. He slammed the tablet down dramatically. “You,” he announced, “are being sent to Toronto.”
Cole blinked. “…What?”
Ignatius dragged both hands down his face. “Why do I even try to be theatrical? Fine. Let’s try again.” He cleared his throat. “Cole Armstrong—You have been selected as the Western Division's Last Man In.”
Silence.
Cole stared. I stared. Even the kitchen appliances seemed to stare.
Then Cole whispered, “You’re joking.” I opened my mouth to ask what the hell they were talking about, but Ignatius continued.
“Why would I joke about this? Do I look like a man who jokes about anything except tax loopholes? You’re in, Cole. The fans voted you in.”
Cole stood frozen. Like he needed someone to rerun the words through a different speaker.
“All-Star,” he echoed. “But—I missed a game. I disappeared. My stats—”
Ignatius cut him off with a slicing motion. “Your stats are exceptional. Your fan base is feral. And half the league saw the hit you took and the way you bounced back from it. Humans love a comeback narrative. Dragons love one even more. The fans voted you in. The league confirmed it this morning.” Cole swayed.
“Sit,” I blurted, catching his elbow just as he listed slightly toward the fridge. “Jesus, Cole, sit down.”What the hell was a last man in?
I decided to ask because it seemed like a big deal. Ignatius didn’t even give me time to sit down before he launched into it.
“Phoenix,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose like I was already exhausting him, “let me make this very simple, because Cole is too modest to vocalize any of this.”
I blinked. “Okay…?”
“Cole has been voted theLast Man In,” he said with unnecessary fanfare.
I stared at him. “Which means…what exactly? Because everyone keeps shouting it like it’s the second coming.”
Ignatius sighed, the long-suffering kind that implied I was both hopeless and adorable. “The All-Star rosters get mostly chosen early in January. But every division getsone extra spot—a fan-voted wild card. The fans decide the final player. That’s whatLast Man Inmeans.”
“So…he was the last one picked?” I asked, wincing a little.
Ignatius glared at me like I’d confessed to a crime. “No, you tragic boy. It means he won the popularity war. It means the fans looked at hundreds of players in the Western Division and said, ‘Give us Cole Armstrong.’ It means they fought for him. Ten votes a day, per person, for a whole week. And he won by a landslide.”
I felt my chest warm in a way I didn’t want to examine too closely. “Really?”
“Really,” Ignatius said, gentling slightly. “The Last Man In isn’t a pity vote. It’s the fan favorite. It’s the player theywantto see shine on the biggest stage.”
