I call my agent from the tunnel while the Zamboni fires up.
"Silas," he says, like we're picking up mid-conversation. "You looked at the numbers?"
"I did."
"It's a solid offer. There are teams that would—"
"I'm staying," I say. "Two years. No trade unless I ask. Get it done."
A beat of silence. I can practically hear him smile. "Copy that. I'll push it through."
I hang up and stare at the scuffed rubber matting under my skates. I don't feel fireworks or anything dramatic. Just steady, like I finally made a decision I can stand behind.
In the locker room, I don't say anything. I don't have to. News moves around teams fast. Rooks throws a balled-up sock at my head and misses on purpose, which is his way of saying he's happy. One of the younger guys I've been riding hard gives me a look that's half relief, halfteach me that shoulder fake again,please. Thorn doesn't look at me when I pass him in the hall. He doesn't need to. He already knows.
After I pick up Aubrey, the truck smells like cinnamon from this morning's spill and crayons from whatever world exists under the passenger seat. My phone buzzes at a red light.
My Girl: Survived info session. Bought highlighters in three shades of unhinged.
Silas: Hot.
My Girl: You're the worst, 32.
Silas: You're the one who tattooed my number on your body…twice.
My Girl: And I'd do it again. What's your point?
Silas: My point is you're stuck with me. Pizza for dinner?
My Girl: Promise? And yes to pizza.
The house is warm when I step inside. The porch light clicks off behind me. Aubrey's at the table with a glue stick and three sheets of glitter paper, elbows planted, tongue sticking out in concentration. Oakley's at the stove, hip leaning against the counter, ponytail a mess. She looks up, and that look hits me the same way every time.
I drop the pizza on the counter. "Twenty-four pepperoni. One soda. Democracy will decide blanket count."
"Justice is dead," Oakley murmurs, but she's smiling.
Aubrey doesn't look up from her art. "You're late."
"I'm five minutes early."
"Same thing." She flips a page and tapes a lopsided lightning bolt to the corner.
We eat standing up because why not? Oakley steals a slice the second I open the box, and I let her because she's braver than me about hot cheese burns and because watching her laugh around a piece of pizza might be my new favorite thing.
When Aubrey disappears to "organize" her crayons into kingdoms that will be at war by morning, Oakley wipes a thumb over a smear of sauce on my jaw.
"How'd it go?" she asks.
"Practice? Thorn tried to eat a whole funnel cake yesterday and paid for it today."
She rolls her eyes. "Not the sugar crimes. Your news."
I lean against the counter next to her. "I said yes."
Her mouth opens on a soft breath. She doesn't gasp or ask if I'm sure. She just steps closer and rests her forehead against my chest for a second.
"You already did," she says against my shirt. "Long before you signed anything."
