She's a lot harder to convince than she looks, especially when she's working. But I've got my ways. By the end of her second week in Chicago, I've fucked her all over the house, interrupting her work more than I should admit.
I'm not sorry about it.
I am worried as hell about her going back to Minneapolis, though. I've always thought my life was here, keeping an eye on Hattie, ensuring our mother couldn't hurt her anymore. But the closer we get to finishing the brunt of the work Tia needs to do, the more I find myself questioning if that's true anymore.
Hattie is happy and thriving, living her own life. She has Sidney now. Does she really need me hovering in the background, waiting to swoop in and rescue her?
No. The answer is no.
But Tia needs me. And Tia's life is in Minneapolis. It's at Hearthstone. Every day, that becomes more abundantly clear. That job is her life. She loves it too much for me to ask her to give it up to move here permanently.
Which is how I find myself outside of Coach's office before practice, pacing a goddamn hole in the linoleum.
"Fuck," I finally mutter, rapping on the door.
"It's about goddamn time," he growls from the other side. "Get in here and stop stressing me out, Ward."
How long has he known I've been out here? Shit, knowing him? The whole time. Not much happens around here without him knowing.
I step into his office, closing the door behind me. He's seated behind his massive desk, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, one brow arched, his ruddy face set in a permanent scowl.
One wall is a whiteboard, with stats and plays scribbled all over it. Playbooks, stat binders, and medical references line the shelves behind his desk, with memorabilia scattered around. A solitary box of equipment rests in one corner, the rest of the office a scattering of furniture, with a worktable shoved up against the wall.
"Can we talk?" I ask.
"Assumed that's what you wanted when you started pacing a goddamn hole through the floor out there," he says, jerking his head toward a chair parked in front of his desk. "What's up?"
I take my time getting comfortable, trying to put my thoughts in order. "I have a question."
"Out with it already, Ward," he growls, twirling his finger in an impatient circle. One thing Coach isn't is a patient motherfucker. "What do you want?"
"If I were to request a transfer to another team…what would that look like?" I ask.
He freezes, but he doesn't look surprised, not entirely. Just…full of dread, as if he knew this was coming but hoped he was wrong. "Which team?"
"The Mavericks."
"Minneapolis," he murmurs.
I jerk my chin in a nod.
"Dacen Reaper is their goalie."
"Yeah."
"You wanting to transfer because of your mother or because of your girl?" Coach asks point blank.
"Honestly?"
"Do I look like I want you to lie to me, Ward?"
"Always figured this would be where I retired," I say. "But I don't think I ever asked myself what I wanted until recently. I just played where I was needed, where I could keep an eye on shit and make sure my mother was behaving herself." I blow outa breath. "I've realized recently that she isn't my cross to bear, and I can't spend the rest of my life living under her cloud to protect everyone else, not when what I really want belongs in Minneapolis. My future is with her."
Coach is silent for a moment, processing, and then he sighs. "You're right about one thing, son," he says. "Your mother isn't your cross to bear. You've done enough. If you're sure about the transfer—really sure—I'll do what I can to make it happen." He holds up a finger. "But only if Reaper is willing. I'm not giving up your stats if I'm not getting his."
Fuck. My hands shake, so I thrust them into my pockets. "Thanks, Coach."
"Don't thank me yet, Ward. It might not happen."
