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FIVE

CHARLIE

The locker room is deserted by the time I come out of the shower. It’s to be expected, I suppose, since I stayed an extra hour on the ice while everyone else went to hit the gym and get on the bikes.

When I felt exhausted enough from the ice, I went to get checked out by the PT. My shoulder got dislocated about a year ago and normally no one would give that injury a second thought, but since I’m basically a geriatric player, they need to take a good look at every single thing.

I know for sure I haven’t reaggravated that injury and that I’m fine, but I let Peyton, the head PT, do all the tests he wants. In the end I’m very happy when he tells me everything looks great.

By the time I got to the gym only Brotnik, Bates, and Bear were there. It wasn’t long before they left without giving me a backward glance .

I can’t say I mind having the gym to myself, or that the very clear gap between me and everyone else is something new, but shit was like that back in Atlanta too. That team was just never close the way I can see after only a few hours this one is.

So it’s nothing new really.

Now, sitting on the bench in front of my cubby with only a towel around my hips, I let my head hang low and sigh heavily.

This is a new kind of shitshow.

How the fuck will I justify my presence here if I can’t do the one thing Gab asked of me?

With one look it was crystal clear that Nikolay Brotnik wants absolutely nothing to do with me. It was the most chilling look anyone’s ever given me. Then, from his little show on the ice it was obvious he doesn’t give two shits about the consequences, he’s going to make it very clear what he thinks of me.

I saw the way his gaze immediately went to me after he scored that beautiful fucking goal on Bear.

He did that to send me a message. And it’s obvious that message is hostile, but to what extent? Does he want me off the team? Off the ice? In another line?

Probably all three. Hell, he’d more than likely take any of those options if given a choice. Whatever the case, the fuck you was very obvious in his eyes, and the feeling I got in the locker room comes back, like the rug has been pulled from under me .

I let out a big breath as I straighten and turn to grab my clothes. It’s time to make things right and give Gab an out. It wouldn’t be okay for me not to say anything. I need to tell her about today.

First, though, I need to find out where she is.

I send her a quick text, hoping she gets back to me by the time I’m ready to go, and I see she has a few minutes later. She tells me she’s at the Rogues’ stadium, so only a few blocks away.

I finish getting ready and take my duffel with everything I brought with me. I probably won’t be in the roster for even a full day. In the car, I give it some serious thought.

I’ve never been hated the way I’m pretty sure Brotnik hates me. At least I don’t think so. Is there even a way to make someone have a conversation with you when they hate you this much?

Is there any possibility that I might still be able to accomplish what Gab asked of me?

I just don’t think so.

And Gab deserves to know the truth.

The rest of the guys on the team—including Picard and Mater who were welcoming to me—clearly know that Brotnik has something against me. I could tell that much. But do they know the reason? Figuring that out would take some time because I don’t think I’ve ever talked to most of them. Not beyond the ice.

The way everyone reacted when I walked into the locker room spoke volumes, ironically. Dead silence isn’t something I’ve ever experienced in a happy locker room.

No. It only happens when shit has hit the fan. So if all the other players know Brotnik hates me, then why doesn’t Gab?

How come she asked me to come here and not someone else?

She can’t have known, right?

I’m going to have to believe that in order to talk to her. I can’t go in thinking she’s set me up for... something. God, that would make so little sense. She clearly loves the team. There’s no way she’d do something to jeopardize it.

So with a heavy heart and already mourning the loss of a future chance at a Stanley Cup, I arrive at the Rogues’ stadium and manage to get to the top floor of the office section. A cheery woman tells me I can go right in and points to the open doorway at the end of the hall. I tell myself to not overthink it, make like Nike and just do it .

“Hey, give me a sec, please,” she says without looking away from the monitor on the right side of her desk. “Take a seat.” She sounds calm, without a worry to be had.

Either she’s a really good actress or she really has no fucking clue. That would be a travesty. I’d kind of already gotten the impression that Gab knows absolutely everything that’s going on.

It’s only a minute longer before she turns away from the screen and smiles brightly at me while she leans back in her sleek chair .

Her desk is not mahogany the way I imagined it when she first called me. It’s a very simple but elegant glass structure. It looks sturdy but not extravagant. I realize then that it fits her perfectly.

“How was your first practice?” she asks excitedly. I allow myself one second of regret, because I do regret that I’m about to shatter whatever hopes she has.

As I tell her how the hours in the rink were for me, beat by beat, I see her smile dim. Through her narrowing eyes I see the calculation begin. The intelligence that lives behind them kicks in and by the time I finish with the treatment I got from Brotnik, Bear, and Bates when I arrived at the gym, fury has taken over.

“What?” she hisses through clamped teeth. There’s some confusion there too, and I take that to mean this isn’t normal behavior for her players.

“I don’t think any of the other players were surprised by it.” I tell her what I think is the worst bit. “Like I said, Picard and Mater were welcoming and nice.”

I shift in my seat because I suddenly feel very uncomfortable. Like I’m in the principal’s office tattling on my classmates—which I suppose is what I’m doing. I take one more deep breath to deliver the final blow.

“I understand if you want to back out.” I think that’s the simplest way to say it.

“What do you mean?” she asks in a way that tells me she’s thinking of too many things at the same time. I don’t blame her .

“I mean out of the deal we made. I can just as easily go back to being retired. You can find another player to come here and fill in for Fire. You can pay him what you’re paying me or less even. I mean, I’m pretty sure no player in their right mind would say no to coming to the Pirates, so it’s not like it’s going to be hard for you. I bet we can stop the deal from being final and?—”

“Stop,” she tells me, almost shouting, and holds up a palm from across the desk. “Just stop. Jesus.” She takes a deep breath, puts both forearms on the desk, then seems to give up. Her head hangs from her shoulders the way mine did in the locker room, and she covers it with both hands a second later.

“Gab,” I say low, murmuring. “There’s no way in hell I can do what you asked me to do. He hates me. Like actual hate. I didn’t even know what true hatred looked like before today. I’m not going to be able to do what we agreed on.”

“Nonsense.” Her head snaps up and she looks ready for a fight now. “You’re playing tomorrow. I’m going to have to figure out what the fuck is going on with Santa,” she mutters, basically talking to herself on that last sentence. “But I will figure it out. You’re the only person who can actually put themself in his shoes, Charlie.”

A bit of desperation comes through now and I feel really bad because I don’t have the same confidence she does. I open my mouth to say... something. I don’t know what, but I’m sure I would’ve figured it out if she hadn’t spoken the magic words .

Words that I understand deep in my soul.

“He thinks he’s never going to retire, Charlie. He thinks he should play until he’s sixty. I need him to be okay. I need you to convince him that retiring is the right thing to do.”