“What changed?” I asked. “You were terrified at Thanksgiving. Now you’re saying let them talk.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I realized something. Hiding from you was killing me. But you choosing to stay—choosing me—that’s worth the risk. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know if people will figure it out or what they’ll say or what it’ll cost us. But I know I’m not letting you go. Not without a fight.”
I pulled him closer, kissed him hard. “I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever.”
“Good.” He pulled me into a kiss, deep and certain. “This is our home now. Not mine. Ours.”
“I need to tell the landlord,” I said when we broke apart. “That I’m not coming back. That I’m—” I paused. What was I doing? “Subletting? Giving up the lease?”
“You’ll figure it out,” Marco said. “Right now, you need to get ready for practice. You have a game to win tonight.”
Practice was intense. Coach pushed us hard, running drills until my legs burned and sweat soaked through my practice jersey.
Afterward, as I was heading to the locker room, Coach Wilson called out, “Savard. My office.”
My stomach dropped.
I followed him down the hallway, my heart pounding. Coach’s office was small, cluttered with trophies, tablets, and monitors. He closed the door behind me and gestured to a chair.
“Sit down.”
I sat, my hands gripping my knees.
Coach didn’t waste time. “I had a conversation with Greer this morning. About you.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
“Your performance this season is significantly below your usual standard. You know that. I know that. And management knows that.” He leaned back in his chair. “Greer’s getting calls. Boston, Toronto. They’re both interested in trading for you.”
“I’m working on it?—”
“I know you are. I can see it during practice.” His voice was firm but not unkind. “But Greer’s losing patience. He told me this morning, roster freeze is December twentieth. If you haven’t turned this around by then, he’s going to make a move after Christmas.”
The air left my lungs.
“What does ‘turned this around’ mean?” My voice came out rough. “What does he want?”
“Consistent production. No more zero-point games. No more costly turnovers. He needs to see the player you were last season, not whoever this is.” Coach met my eyes. “I don’t know what’s going on with you, Savard.”
“I’m trying?—”
“I know you’re trying. But trying isn’t enough. You need to actually do it.” He paused. “You’ve got three weeks until the roster freeze. Three weeks to show Greer you’re worth keeping. After that, if you’re still playing like this, he’ll trade you.”
“I understand, Coach.”
“I hope you do.” His expression softened slightly. “You’re an outstanding player, Savard. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. Whatever’s gotten in your head, you need to figure it out and fix it.” He leaned forward. “If there’s something I can help with—ice time, linemates, a different role—tell me. I don’t want to lose you. But I can’t protect you if you’re not producing.”
I appreciated the offer more than he knew. But this wasn’t something he could fix with lineup changes or extra practice time.
“I appreciate that, Coach. Really. But this is something I have to work through myself.” I met his eyes. “I will fix it.”
He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. “All right. I’m trusting you on that.”
“I won’t let you down.”
“See that you don’t.” He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “Let’s see some progress tonight against Dallas.”
I nodded and left his office, my legs shaky.
