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ONE

CHARLIE HEART—SWEETHEART

One Week Before

“Shit,” I hiss, as I struggle to bend a corner of the box’s flap under the other flap. The contents inside threaten to overflow and with no one here to help me, it’s turning into a bit of a nightmare. But I don’t want to have to pack another smaller box of hand towels that I only own because my mom and my aunts decided I couldn’t possibly live without them.

One box of those is enough.

I fucking hate packing.

Hate it with a passion, but it’s only in the last week that I’ve rediscovered my hate for moving. I’ve lived in this house for ten fucking years, and every single dream I had when I bought it is now pretty much dead, buried, and turned to maggot food .

I’ve got no wife, no kids, no Stanley Cup rings... I do have five James Norris Memorial Trophies which is pretty cool, and I was the league MVP one year almost a decade ago. That only happened because my team made it to the playoffs when we had no business being there—a defenseman should never be a team’s top scorer, but I was, so I suppose I earned that trophy.

Being the player with the most awards that say I’m the best at being a defenseman is a privilege, but I’m not sure if it’s warranted considering I retired without ever getting to lift the most legendary trophy in all of sports.

It’s the only consolation for my battered self-worth, though.

I never dreamed of getting those trophies, and maybe that’s why I won them. Maybe ignoring your dreams is the way to get them?

I’m sure there are many people who believe in manifestation—like my mom—who’d balk at my thoughts, but the evidence does point that way.

I finally manage to close the lids of the box and I tear off a big strip of tape and slap it on top. Then I haul yet another flat box on top of the table after I carry the filled one to the growing pile that’s taking over what used to be my living room, when my phone starts vibrating furiously on the table.

I think about letting it go to voicemail since there’s only two options for who it could be.

On the one hand it could be any member of my family, who I adore, but they’ve been supportive in a pitying way since I announced my retirement, and because it’s been four months, I’m tired of it.

It could even be my uncle Enzo calling about the house I’m having built for myself back home, but I don’t really feel like talking about that while I’m leaving the home I thought I’d live in forever.

The other option is Woody, my agent, wanting to talk about the sponsorships or career opportunities he’s been telling me about the last few months, but I’m not ready to listen to them yet. I don’t have the heart to do it.

The fact that I know retiring is the right thing to do for me doesn’t mean that I won’t miss being a professional hockey player. I do have a retirement plan—one that definitely doesn’t involve anything to do with the media—but I haven’t told Woody about it. That plan won’t be bringing me millions of dollars a year, and call me a coward or soft or whatever, but I don’t want to disappoint the man who’s had my back since I was a teenager.

I don’t have any other people who could be calling me because I... have no one else. All my teammates understood why I was retiring. It was clear as day that the Atlanta Revenge were never going to trade me to a better team and there was also no way I was getting the Stanley Cup there. They don’t blame me, but that doesn’t mean they’re exactly happy with me.

I’ve been the oldest player in the team for a while now and it’s been hard for me to connect with the younger players, so I’m not close to any of them.

Granted, if I thought the Revenge had any shot at going to the Stanley Cup finals next year then I might not have retired, but that’s not really a comment on their ability or talent.

The Atlanta Revenge has, simply put, always been a badly run organization, and they kept me around—well paid too, so I don’t have a lot of room to complain—mainly because I was always the best player on the ice.

I hate myself whenever that fact flits through my thoughts, but it’s undeniable.

There are other amazing players on the team for sure, but none with my experience or tenure, so of course me retiring is shitty for them.

So clearly, there’s no reason for any of them to call me.

After thinking about it for another long moment while the damn thing is still going crazy on the table, I snatch it up and answer when I see it’s my agent.

“What’s up, Woody?” I answer, trying to sound pleasant.

“You’re never going to guess who just called me.” I roll my eyes at his excited tone.

“Look, Woody. I don’t care if Michael Jordan himself called so I can collab with him and Nike, I don’t even care if it’s Paul fucking Wayne calling. I already told you I’m not ready to commit to anything. And honestly?—”

“It was Gabrielle Darnell.” He interrupts me and leaves me fucking speechless. “Exactly,” he says triumphantly, interpreting my silence correctly. “She wants your number. I don’t know for what, I didn’t ask and I doubt she would’ve told me. But she called me herself. I damn near pissed myself when she told me who she was. So what do you say, can I give her your number?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say in a low tone. I’m so out of my depth here. What the hell else am I supposed to do? “Give her my number,” I murmur, dazed.

My mind is already running through all the possibilities of what this could be about when I hear Woody’s quick goodbye and then the dead dial tone of the call.

I stay frozen, with my phone in my hand and my gaze lost on the blank wall. Trying to figure out what the most successful woman in sports wants to talk to me about is probably a waste of time, but that doesn’t stop me.

It could be a number of things, but my bet is that she wants me as some kind of defensive coach. I don’t think that makes any sense, though. Not only does she have Tomir Lane as her head coach, a retired defenseman who beat me to the James Norris Memorial Trophy two times, but she also has some of the best d-men on her team. Nikolay Brotnik, Anders Haugen, Philip Von Bruun, are all veterans and still playing like they’re in their prime, not to mention there are some younger guys with real talent and potential if they don’t hit their heads too many times.

And sure, Brotnik is as old as I am, but I’d still be playing too if I were with the Pirates, and I’d be in just as good a shape as him. I am, actually. Or I was... whatever. I also know for a fact I have a better attitude than that sourpuss. He doesn’t even talk to fans. I get not wanting to talk to the press, there are a bunch of players who loathe press conferences with a passion, but the fans? I mean they’re the whole reason why we can do what we do. But he just straight-up ignores everyone in the arena except for the players.

I know for a fact everyone around the league is low-key scared of the dude, and though I don’t blame them, I’m only cautious of him when he’s gunning for me on the ice. Off of the ice... well, I barely even think about him there, and mostly ignore all the insinuations that we have some epic rivalry.

We don’t.

We’ve never even talked off the ice.

In any case, Gabrielle Darnell sure as hell doesn’t need me when she has all those very good defensive minds over there, so what the hell else could she need or want from me?

My phone rings with an unknown number, but it’s the Las Vegas area code, so it’s only then that it actually sinks in. I’m about to have a conversation with Gabrielle Darnell .

“Here we go,” I whisper to myself and hit answer. “Hello?” My voice sounds raspy and scratchy, so I clear my throat, hoping she doesn’t hear for some reason. Because she makes me nervous, that’s the reason.

“Mr. Heart?” she asks. Fuck, even just her voice sounds freaking smart. Also calm and collected, like she doesn’t have one single thing to worry about in this world .

“Y-yes,” I stammer and mentally curse myself for it. “Gabrielle Darnell?” I ask tentatively.

“Please, call me Gab, or ma’am if you must,” she tells me. She sounds prim but quickly changes her tone to friendly and familiar, conversational almost. “So, how’s retirement?” Yes, she’s talking to me as if we’re just two friends catching up, not like this is the first time we’ve ever spoken and have never met face to face. Weird.

“It’s going okay,” I say, trepidation coming through every word. “What can I do for you ma’am?” It feels... I don’t know, wrong to call her Gab.

“Well, I’m wondering if one season, one shot at a Stanley Cup, and a four-million-dollar payday is worth one favor?”

I choke on air.

“You certainly don’t beat around the bush, huh, ma’am?” God, talk about a way to startle someone.

“No. I don’t.” A no nonsense tone that time, and I can picture her sitting back, reclining a little on a chair, sitting in front of an impressive mahogany desk. “I’ve got about a million different jobs so time is of the essence. What do you say?”

Around a million different thoughts flit through my mind in what feels like a millisecond, and since the chance of calling my mom for help is out of the question, I go with my unsettled gut.

“Depends on the favor,” I tell her. I walk over to my couch, the one thing I still haven’t moved besides the table, and sit my ass down to try and get my bearings and my breath back.

“Since I can’t make you sign an NDA right here and now I’m going to need you to promise me on the life of someone you love very much that if you don’t take this deal you’ll never speak about any of this with anyone as long as you may live.” She says the last part almost mocking the common phrase and her mood shifts are giving me fucking whiplash. Still, I doubt she’s about to tell me about anything illegal, so I agree—of course I fucking agree.

“I swear on my father’s grave, ma’am.”

“Well, damn,” she says after a silent moment, clearly hearing the truth in my voice. “Sorry, didn’t mean to get that serious, but this is serious for me.”

“I figured it was.”

“Right, so here’s the thing.”

As I listen to her explain the “predicament” she’s in—her words, not mine—my eyes grow bigger and bigger. It gets to the point where I start to feel the dryness of the air hitting my eyeballs and have to force myself to blink.

In the end, there’s not a lot I can say, just...

“Are you sure you need me for that?” It all seems a bit excessive and...

“Dramatic, isn’t it?” she asks, lamenting, and sighs heavily. “We’re all a bit dramatic over here. I bet you could use some real drama in your life, get your blood pumping.” She’s clearly just messing with me, and her light chuckle confirms that. “Look, I know this is all unorthodox, but in my professional opinion you’re, at the very least, one of the top three defenders of the league. I get that you might want to stay retired, God knows you should have more than enough savings to get by for the rest of your life, but I can only give you one day to think it through.

“I have to start putting things into place in case you say yes and in case you say no. By the way, Laney wants you, I thought you’d want to know that. Fire got injured last week and we could really use you. And I concede that you might want to talk about it with whoever it is you talk about these kinds of things with, but I ask that if at all possible it’s not with someone who’s in the league or around it, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Not my agent for sure. I’ll talk it over with my mom.”

“Cool.” She’s all calm and breezy again. “Momma’s boys are my favorite boys. So call me tomorrow, you’ve got my number.”

“Okay,” I whisper, barely audible.

The line goes dead a second later and I can only stare at the black screen of my phone.

What the actual fuck just happened?