He looks up startled, wearing the exact expression of someone caught doing something he shouldn’t, like a kid with crumbs on his face swearing he didn’t touch the cookies. “Nothing,” he says, but the hesitation in his voice is louder than any confession.
“Carts,” I press, stepping closer, using the nickname like a key to unlock whatever he’s hiding. “What aren’t you saying?”
He shifts, his weight moving from foot to foot in that nervous dance people do when they’re about to deliver news that will ruin someone’s day. Or their week. Maybe their entire future. He glances at Rocky, who suddenly becomes fascinated with his clipboard, studying it like it contains the meaning of life rather than practice schedules and equipment inventory.
Dewey sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Look, man, I don’t want to stir the pot if it’s nothing, but…I also heard something earlier today about…changes.”
“Heard what? Whatchanges?” I snap back.
“I was walking past the coaches’ office after practice,” Dewey begins reluctantly, his voice dropping. “The door was open, and I heard ’em talking. They said…if you’re not fully ready to play by the end of October, they’re putting you on waivers.”
The words hang in the air like a toxic cloud. I stare at Dewey, but I can’t speak, can’t move, can’t do anything except wait for the rest.
“They’re planning to send you to the minors,” he continues, his expression pained. “And then trade for that kid to replace you.”
Rocky lets out a low whistle. “Damn. That’s cold.”
My mind buzzes with white noise, my pulse pounding in my ears like a countdown clock that’s suddenly gotten much, much louder. And quicker. I’ve imagined scenarios like this before, but hearing it confirmed, spoken aloud in this hallway by a friend who’s witnessed so many of my victories…it’s worse than I had ever imagined. It’s not speculation anymore. It’s not my anxiety creating worst-case scenarios. It’s real. Scheduled.
“Sorry, Clerky,” Dewey, the reluctant messenger says. “I didn’t want to tell you, but…I figured you deserved a heads up.”
Rocky clears his throat awkwardly. “I mean, this doesn’t mean it’s a done deal, right? Coaches talk all the time. Maybe they’re just spitballing ideas.”
“It didn’t sound like spitballing,” Dewey says quietly. “It sounded like a plan.”
I exhale sharply, my fists clenching and unclenching at my sides in a rhythm that’s keeping time with my racing heart. Pent-up anger, frustration, humiliation. It all swirls inside me like a perfect storm, but I don’t let it show. Not here. Not now. Not in this hallway where the walls have eyes, and the echoes carry straight to management’s offices.
Dewey shifts again, clearly uncomfortable with my silence. “Look, man, if it happens—and that’s a big if—it doesn’t change who you are. You’ve got nothing left to prove to anyone.”
“Yeah,” Rocky adds, his tone unusually sincere. “You’re still Liam LeClerc. You’ve already accomplished more than most who make it to this league.”
I glance at them, my lips twitching as I fight off a grimace. “You guys planning my retirement party already?”
I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone, opening the calendar app with fingers that are surprisingly steady given the recent developments. My thumb hovers over the screen as I count silently, each number a small act of defiance. “One…two…three…four…five.”
Five weeks. Thirty-five days. Eight hundred and forty hours give or take until the end of October. That’s what stands between me and the minors, between the current Liam LeClerc and whoever comes next.
I tuck the phone back into my pocket and look up.
“I’ve got five weeks,” I say simply, my voice carrying more conviction than I feel. “I’m not done yet. Hockey may be pushing me away, but I’m not going anywhere.”
Dewey blinks, startled by the resolve in my voice. “Five weeks, huh?”
“That’s all I need,” I reply, slinging my bag over my shoulder and heading toward the locker room with purpose that’s only partly manufactured.
Behind me, I hear Rocky’s voice, pitched just loud enough for me to catch: “Guy’s got some fight left in him, eh?”
“More than some,” Dewey says in response. “Let’s just hope it’s enough.”
Five weeks to write the next chapter of my story before someone else writes its ending for me.
Chapter Nine
Sweat clings to my white T-shirt, and I maintain my balance despite everything screaming for mercy. This is what desperation looks like when it puts on black ballet slippers.
Petra moves in front of me with predatory focus, studying my stance with unwavering intensity. “Alright,” she says, clapping her hands. The sound echoes through the studio. “Let’s go through the positions again. First position.”
Over the last week, my body has been taking notes even as my mind has struggled to keep up. I slide into first position, then move into second with a smoothness that surprises both of us. Then third, fourth, fifth—each transition feels like muscle memory I shouldn’t have yet.
