“Monty.”Conrad Pierce’s tone shifts—persuasion mode sliding into place.“You’re going to a team that wants the Cup now.They’re not rebuilding.They’re not waiting.They want you to be the guy.”
I clench my jaw.“I already am the guy.”
“You’re going to be the guy on a team that can actually finish,” he pushes.
That hits a tender place inside me.A place that has wanted one thing for years and never admitted it out loud because wanting makes you vulnerable.
Sure, I want that Cup.Not as much as I want Vesper, but I do want it.
I want it in my bones, in my hands, in the muscle memory of every practice and every bruise and every night I went home alone because obsession is easier than intimacy.
I want it because the Cup is proof.
Proof you mattered.
Proof the suffering made something.
Proof you weren’t just a body on skates wearing a mask and rituals that make people laugh until they realize those rituals are the only thing keeping you sane.
I fucking want it.
That doesn’t mean I want to be moved like furniture to get it.
“Who am I being traded for?”I ask because I need something concrete, something I can grab before anger turns into something that scares me.
He gives me names.Prospects.Picks.A forward with potential.A defenseman Portland doesn’t want to lose, but will.It’s all numbers dressed up as strategy.
“You need to remember,” he says, “this is management.This is the cap.This is?—”
“This is them deciding I don’t belong,” I cut in.
“Monty, that’s not?—”
“Fuck, but it is,” I interrupt him, wanting to throw my phone, wanting to fire him.Wanting to ...I’m so fucking done with this shit.
ChapterTwo
Alberto
The anger finally stops pretending it’s just frustration and turns into something I can’t keep contained anymore.
“That’s exactly what it is,” I say, and my voice climbs.I start pacing barefoot on hardwood that stays cold no matter how long I’ve lived here.“I’m not wanted.I’m used.”
He starts to respond, but I don’t let him.
“Do you know what it’s like,” I say, because the truth is clawing its way up and I can’t hold it down anymore, “to keep proving you’re enough and still getting told to pack your life into boxes like it’s nothing?”
“Monty—”
“I was six,” I spit, and the number tastes like metal.“I was six when I learned people leave.I didn’t choose that.I didn’t earn that.It just happened, and everyone called it tragic like that word could make it softer.”
“I know this is triggering,” he says carefully.
I laugh, harshly.“Triggering.That’s a nice word.Corporate grief.”
“Albert,” he says, quieter, “I’m not your enemy.”
I press my palm to my forehead.My skin is hot, my pulse too fast, my whole body buzzing like it wants to bolt.There’s so much going on, including the part that my name is Alberto.Bert for some, Monty for others.Never Albert.It’s like he doesn’t give a fuck, but at the same time he’s been good at his job for years.
