Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
I drop my bag back on the bench and head into his office, eyebrows raised and heart rate kicking up just a little. I quickly analyze every move I made in the game and can't pinpoint any one mistake that cost us the game. It was hard fought, and in reality, they just outplayed us.
“Why don't you sit down, son,” he says, pointing to the empty chair on the other side of his desk.
I drop into it, suddenly feeling like I'm about to get scolded even though the talk he gave our team after the game hadn't been a bad one.
“What's up, Coach?” I ask, trying to temper my nerves.
“I got an interesting call earlier this morning and I didn't want to bring it up until after the game.”
I blow out a breath. “So, this isn't about anything I did wrong during the game?”
Coach waves me off, shaking his head. “No, I already spoke my piece on that. We played well, they just played, well…weller.” He laughs at his own joke, and I join in. “We'll get them next time,” he says with an air of confidence that tugs on something in the back of my mind.
“What was the call about?” I ask.
“Right,” he says losing a little bit of that laughter. “The owner of the Sharks wants to have a sit-down with you. He's been following you since we played our first preseason game, and he wants to talk to you about a possible trade.”
My blood runs cold.
The Seattle Sharks have been one of my favorite teams since I was a kid, but hearing the word trade has my entire body locking up. I shift awkwardly in my seat as if that will help me remember how to breathe.
“Wait, why do they want to sit down with me? Couldn't you and the owner just decide to trade me?”
“Of course, we could,” he says matter-of-factly. “But that's not how I do things and by some lottery-level luck and divine intervention, Crossland McClaren doesn't do things that way either. We’re both on the same page that we take our players’ desires and best interests to heart. We said as much to the Sharks’ owner, which then led to me being the messenger that they want to sit down with you.”
“Do you want to get rid of me, Coach?” I ask, and hate how my voice cracks around the question. I’ve grown attached to him, not to mention the team. The idea of which is almost laughable at this point, seeing as how I would’ve signed a trade agreement with the Sharks in a microsecond had it been my first week here. It’s almost impossible to think about how much has changed in such a short amount of time.
Blakely’s face flashes behind my eyes, my heart rebelling at any decision that would take me away from her.
Fuck me. That settles it. I'm in love with her. Even thinking the declaration has a wave of warmth crashing over me.
“No, I don't want to get rid of you,” Coach finally answers my question. “But I also don't want to hold you back. You know how good of a player you are. You know how vital you are to not only this team but how valuable you could be to another. And I'm never going to be one to get in the way of what your own definition of success is. This business may be filled with passion and heart, but it's still a business. I understand more than anybody, you have to go where the money is. I don't know what number the Sharks are going to offer you, but if it's one that you like, there’ll be no hard feelings if you make that decision. I want you to know that.”
He really means it, I can tell that much. And while I know he isn’t wrong about money and business and hockey, there is one giant factor that’s currently swaying my decision.
Because really, when I actually allowed myself to think about wearing a Sharks jersey, Blakely isn’t the only thing that’s giving me pause. She’s a giant fucking factor, for sure, but my team...the Badgers have become my team. And it’s become an honor to fight and strive with these guys as we try to bring ourselves out of the trenches.
Coach pushes something across his desk, and I pick it up. “That's the number the owner told me to have you call to set the meeting. You can pass it on to your agent or do it yourself,” he says. “Either way, he's pretty laid-back about the whole thing. It seems like he's a good owner, even though I haven't met him personally.”
I pocket the card, and nod at Coach. “I'll think about it,’ I say. “Thanks, Coach. Is there anything else?”
“You got somewhere important to be?” he asks with an oddly knowing look in his eyes.