Minnesota.
Cold. Far. A different time zone. A different everything.
Eric’s voice cuts in, practical. “They’ll send paperwork. You’ll get your travel itinerary. Reporting date is in ten days. You’ll fly out after our next home stand.”
Ten days.
My heart hammers. “Ten days?”
“Yes,” the player relations guy says. “We’ll coordinate with your current housing. We’ll work with your reps. The receiving team will provide temporary accommodation until you secure something permanent.”
Temporary.Everything feels temporary suddenly, even my skin.
The GM clears his throat. “This isn’t about performance,” he says, and I almost laugh because of course it’s about performance, it’s always about performance, but not in the way he means. “We value you. This is a business decision.”
Business.
I stare at the carpet, jaw tight, because if I let my face move, I might make a sound I can’t take back.
Eric asks, “You got questions, Ollie?”
A hundred. A thousand.
I have one that matters, and I can’t ask it because it isn’t about contracts or logistics. It’s about what happens when the person you love is in another country and you’re about to be halfway across the continent.
Instead, I say, “When does it go public?”
The GM replies, “We’re aiming for tomorrow morning. We’ll want you available for a brief media statement. Nothing extensive. We’ll script it.”
Scripted. Of course.
“Okay,” I say, because “okay” is what I’m good at.
More voices. More scheduling. Someone mentions a press window. Someone mentions a jersey number. Someone mentions “transition support,” like they’re moving me to a new department.
My brain can’t catch up.
Finally, the GM says, “We appreciate everything you’ve done here,” like it’s a goodbye.
I swallow and nod. “Yeah,” I manage. “Thanks.”
The call ends in a cluster of polite noises, and the room goes silent.
I don’t move for a long time. I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand, screen dark now, staring at my knee like I can force myself to feel something normal.
Minnesota.The word repeats in my head in a slow loop.
My chest feels tight. My hands are cold. My heart is beating too fast, too loud, like it’s trying to outrun the truth. I should call Rafe. I should tell him right now. He’s my husband.
The thought lands heavy and sharp, because being someone’s husband is supposed to mean they get to know things. Big things. Life things. The kind of thing that changes the map of your world.
I stare at his name in my recent calls. My thumb hovers. If I tell him now, he’ll hear it as me leaving. If I don’t tell him now, it becomes betrayal.
There’s no good option. There’s just the one that hurts less in the moment. I choose the coward’s middle ground.
I tell myself I’ll wait until after the media statement. Until I’ve spoken to PR. Until I’ve got details. Until I can present it like a plan instead of a wound.
Until there’s a better time.
