Page 32 of In Your Wake

8

Wild Horses

Mitch

I’m never late. If league hockey teaches you anything, it’s to always be on time and never keep your teammates waiting. Punctuality is key, and if you don’t live by that one rule, you’ll get benched, or worse.

But tonight, I can’t be on time to save my life.

After a long shower, unable to think of anything but Maxine and her disruptive attitude, I step out and get a call from Phil. I’m already running late, so I let it go to voicemail.

While I’m getting dressed, I get a text.

Phil

Possible offer from Germany. I’ll be in touch.

ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!

Wincing, I rub the back of my neck. There’s no way I’m moving to Europe.

Me

Not a chance. It’s the US or Canada. Nowhere else.

Phil

Beggars can’t be choosers.

Is that what I am now? A fucking beggar forced to accept a deal with a German team so I can keep playing the sport I live and breathe for? My chest tightens at the prospect. It’s one thing not to play because of an injury. It’s a whole other thing to never play again.

Still, I won’t leave the continent, especially not now.

Me

I’ll play the minors if I have to. But I’m not leaving.

Phil

You’ve got to be kidding!

I don’t respond, picturing the vein in his temple bulging in frustration. A few minutes later, I get another text.

Phil

I’ll see what I can do.

If only for a second, I grin. Phil and I go way back. He’s been my agent for years, and I’m sure he’s pulling out what limited amount of hair he’s got left, but I appreciate his effort. He’s one of the few people I know who doesn’t want to see me fail, so I hate how much it feels like I’m letting him down.

Now that my future hopes are all but snuffed out, I shove the phone into my pocket and head downstairs. I’m almost out the door, trying to breathe away my foul mood, when the sound of Dad’s walker scratches the floor behind me.

“Have you two patched things up yet?” he asks, his voice stronger than it’s been the last few days. His complexion is pinker than usual, too, which could mean the new medication is working. Or maybe it’s a sign that Max’s denial is rubbing off on me.

“This is Maxine we’re talking about, Dad. The only person who’s more pigheaded than her is—”

“You?” he interrupts with a small smirk.

“Yeah, exactly. She won’t have anything to do with me. So, I hate to say it, but this might be impossible.”