Page 78 of Pucking Forbidden

When I walk up the porch steps of Mrs. Clay’s house, the familiar smell of old wood, lavender soap, and black tea relaxes me in an instant.

“Julian,” she greets me, her voice a little breathless.

Her face lights up, the deep wrinkles around her eyes crinkling. We go to the kitchen, and when she reaches for the kettle, her fingers have a slight, persistent tremor she tries to hide by gripping the handle tightly.

“You look exhausted, boy,” she scolds, setting two steaming mugs on the kitchen table. “Don’t they let you sleep in Colorado?”

“I sleep fine,” I lie, pulling out a chair for her. I don’t sit down yet. “You look tired, Grams.”

“I’m old, Julian. I’m allowed to be tired.” She waves a hand dismissively, sitting down with a small groan she tries to muffle with a cough. “Tell me about your game. I watched it on the television. You scored a beautiful goal. Who was that girl sitting behind the bench wearing your jersey? She looked like she was about to jump over the glass.”

My heart does a violent thud against my ribs.

“Just a friend,” I answer, my voice rough. I sit down across from her, leaning my elbows on the table, desperate to steer the conversation away from the girl who is currently burning a hole in my sanity. “Grams, I’m worried about you.”

She stops fixing her tea, her gaze sharpening. “I don’t need you worrying about me.”

“I’m serious,” I push, my voice dropping. I look at her shaking hands. “You’re alone out here. The winters are brutal. I’m looking at...things. Opportunities. I might have a chance to come back here. To play for Chicago. I could buy a house close by and be here every week. I could take care of things.”

Mrs. Clay sets her spoon down with a sharp clink. The warmth drops out of her expression, replaced by the fierce, unyielding strength that kept me from going to jail when my old man was at his worst.

“Julian Wilder, you listen to me,” she snaps, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. “I did not sell my husband’s jewelry and send you to that camp so you could come back here and be an old woman’s nursemaid. You have a life. You have a team that loves you. You belong out there, chasing that Cup, not hovering over me because I move a little slower in the mornings.”

“It’s not just about that,” I mutter, looking down at my mug. “The money is different. The security…”

“Do not lie to me,” she interrupts, her tone softening but remaining firm. “You are running scared from something, or you are trying to carry the world on your shoulders again. Stop it. I am fine. You focus on your life, Julian. Do you hear me?”

I look at her, seeing the stubborn set of her jaw. I know that look. There’s no pushing past it tonight.

“Yeah,” I whisper, reaching across the table to lay my hand over hers. “I hear you.”

I let it go for the time being, but the worry stays with me, a heavy, cold rock in the center of my chest.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: AN OBJECTIVE OPINION

JULIAN

By the time I get to O'Hare Airport the next morning, I’m sitting by my gate when my phone buzzes, and I see that the official offer from Chicago is waiting in my inbox.

I pull up the PDF. The numbers are staggering. It’s significantly more money than the Night Hawks can offer under their current self-imposed salary cap. It’s a four-year deal, fully guaranteed. It’s closer to Mrs. Clay. On paper, every single metric says this is the easiest decision of my career.

Yet, as I sit and gaze down at the message, I can’t shake the memory of Coach Williams’s slick, transactional eyes. I don’t trust him. Not the way I trust Coach Sullivan, who took a chance on a rough, unrefined kid from the AHL and turned him into a top-line NHL winger.

I need an objective opinion. A legal opinion, even.

I scroll through my messages from Coach until I find the name and number he gave me for his son. Liam Sullivan, Hadley’s dad. I hesitate a long moment, wondering if this is a good idea. Is this betraying Hadley in some way? Should I really ask him for help, especially considering what’s happened between Hadley and me? Pretty sure if her dad found out I’d kissed the ever-living hell out of her, he’d kick my ass instead of representing it.

Letting out a long breath, I shake my head and press dial before I can talk myself out of it.

The phone rings three times before a deep, authoritative voice answers, “This is Liam Sullivan.”

“Mr. Sullivan, it’s Julian Wilder. I play for the Night Hawks, and Coach Sullivan gave me your number,” I say, keeping my tone strictly professional. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

There’s a brief pause on the line, the sound of papers shifting. “Wilder! Good to hear from you, son. No, you’re not interrupting a thing; you're completely fine. My father actually mentioned you might be reaching out. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve got a contract proposal from an outside team,” I say, walking toward a quieter corner of the terminal. “It’s an official offer for a mid-season trade or an off-season signing. The numbers are high, but something about the structure and the clauses feels restrictive. I wanted to see if you’d be willing to look it over.”

“An outside team?” Sullivan says, sounding curious. “Is it Chicago? I know that’s where you’re from.”