Page 38 of Breakaway Goals

They finished up their eighteen holes, returning to the clubhouse, Jacob actually the one to pluck the keys from Barty’s fingers and drive them back, ignoring his whining.

“I need a drink,” Barty announced when Jacob pulled them up in the shaded roundabout in front of the clubhouse entrance.

“Do you really?” Hayes asked skeptically.

Barty nudged him. “You’re gonna need something more than that iced tea, for what we need to talk about.”

“Ugh,” Hayes said.

“And that’s my hint to duck out,” Jacob said. He turned to Hayes. “I’m not Morgan, but I’m happy to do what I can.”

“No, no need,” Hayes said, shaking his outstretched hand.

It meant something that Jacob, who was fairly private, would be willing to talk publicly about Hayes’ position on the Sentinels.

But Barty was—annoyingly—probably right.

If anyone was going to move the needle, it was probably Morgan, and Hayes would rather die than ask him.

“And if you need me to play interference with Morgan, you just say the word,” Jacob added, smirking. “He sort of listens to me now.”

“Kind of like having a rabid dog on a leash,” Barty observed.

Hayes laughed because he was supposed to. Not because he wanted to.

Ten minutes later, they were in the bar, ceiling fans swishing above them, a beer in front of Hayes and another one of those godawful espresso martinis in Barty’s hand.

“So, how bad is it?” Hayes asked. It had only been a few weeks since they’d talked last—surely Barty had been able to work some of his magic.

“They’re dragging their feet,” Barty said succinctly.

Hayes groaned under his breath.

“Doesn’t mean they won’t budge, just that they’re trying to prolong this whole thing, like they believe that’ll give them the upper hand. That you’ll just take what they give you.”

Hayes made a face. “Can’t I just do that?”

“No,” Barty scoffed.

“I don’t care if I get paid ten million a year or eleven. You know that. I’ll pick up another sponsorship, make up the difference.”

Barty leveled him with a serious look that scared Hayes more than he wanted to admit. “The number per year isn’t the issue. It’s the number of years.”

“What?” Hayes wasn’t proud but he straight up yelped it.

“You and I talked about potentially a five or six year deal, to finish out your career. They’re on three, and not budging.”

Hayes’ jaw dropped. “You’re serious. They think, what, I’m gonna be fucking washed-up in four years?”

“They didn’t say that, not in those exact words, but they had a bunch of data they trotted out, analysis of how production declines in the mid-to-late thirties.”

Hayes sank back in his chair. Disbelieving. It hadn’t felt like so long ago when he and Morgan had this same conversation. Morgan telling him that he’d understand someday, about the complicated nature of legacy when you kept getting older.

And yet it had been six years.

He’d deliberately avoided thinking about it. Some days—a lot of days, in fact—it felt like he had all the time in the world. But he didn’t feel like that now.

“We both know you’re not the average player,” Barty continued, “and they know that too, when I pressed them. But they’re trying to use it as leverage. I can break them down, but it’s going to take time.”

“So, don’t expect to have an actual contract on the table for awhile,” Hayes interpreted.

“Not any time soon. We can get there.” Barty paused. “We could get there faster if you used Reynolds, but you’ve made it clear you didn’t want to.”

“I don’t,” Hayes said firmly. “And don’t even suggest Braun. The situation’s different there, but that’s not his kind of thing, and we both know it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Barty held up his hands like he was being unjustly accused.

“So, he just happened to come golfing with us, total coincidence,” Hayes said wryly.

“He’s one of Mark’s clients, and you know Mark and I are partners. Felt right to invite him,” Barty defended.

“Cut the shit.”

Barty sighed. “Okay, fine. You caught me.”

Hayes picked up his beer, contemplated the light shining through the window as it caught the glass. “You know I don’t want to test free agency.”

“You’d get a lot more money. Probably any contract length you wanted,” Barty said.

“And I might end up having to play for a different team.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to do it at the end. Patrick Kane did it. Marleau. Marchand. There’s a long list.”

“It was never going to be me, though. I know I started out playing for the Mavericks, so it’s not even like I’ve only ever played for the Sentinels, but in some ways, that’s the way it feels. When I got traded, it was like, I don’t know . . .I grew up.”

Barty tilted his head, like he was considering this. “I’d actually say it started before that. Like . . .six months before?”

Ouch . It was annoying that someone as stupid emotionally as Bartholemew Smith III noticed how fucked up Hayes had been in the wake of the Four Nations tournament.

“Okay, but it was in process ,” Hayes argued. “I just . . .I don’t want to play for anyone else. That was my one requirement.”

“You had two actually. You wanted to play out your career for them, too. And unless you’re planning to retire early . . .”

“You know I’m not,” Hayes said with a huff.

“Okay, yes, I do know that. But we could take the three-year deal as a bridge. Hope they give us another one. That’ll take you to thirty-seven.”

“You actually think they’d give me another three-year deal then?” Hayes heard the skepticism in his voice. They didn’t want to give him one now, even after all the ways he’d proven himself. So what if he won another Cup. They’d just be looking for an excuse to claim he was too old. Washed-up.

Hayes didn’t often feel jealous of Morgan, but whenever he thought of how the Bandits had let him retire a Bandit on his terms, he felt an unpleasant jolt of it.

“No,” Barty admitted. “No. Probably not.”

“So then I’d be thirty-four, and the offers wouldn’t be as good as they’d be now.

” It was unusual that Hayes had to push Barty to be this honest. Usually he loved being brutally frank about a situation.

That told Hayes it was serious. That Barty was genuinely not convinced he could get the Sentinels to come around.

“No,” Barty said, shaking his head. Finally not offering any kind of qualifier.

It was shitty. There was no way around it. In some ways, they had him by the balls and they knew it, which was why they were acting this way.

Hayes took a long swig of his beer. Barty had been right. It sort of helped.

“What do you want me to do?” Barty asked.

“Give me the best-case scenario—not the one where they come to their senses and give me six years, eleven million a year,” Hayes said. “The other best-case scenario.”

Barty drummed his fingertips on the table.

“We push them the whole season and then see where we’re at.

You’ve got a locked down no-trade clause.

They can’t move you. They know that. So, we get them as far as we can, re-assess at that point, and if we have to move to the open market, come back with whatever juicy offers we get.

Which will be a lot.” Barty paused. Tipped his martini glass in Hayes’ direction.

“Especially if you keep on this tear you’re on.

Point and a half per game? Thirty goals so far?

You’re killing it. Then maybe the Sentinels want to match that, want to keep you, but maybe they don’t.

We cross that bridge when we come to it. ”

It was still shitty. There was no erasing that. Part of Hayes felt angry. Unwanted. Rejected. Even though he knew, better than most, how the NHL was a business.

He’d learned the hard way, being sent across the country practically in the middle of the night.

Traded for a whole bunch of draft picks, so the Mavericks could start another rebuild.

Hayes had ranted to Barty, to Zach, to literally anyone who would listen to him, that if the Mavericks had just done the rebuild right the first time and put the right pieces around him, they wouldn’t have had to start over.

Eventually Hayes had been forced to accept that this was just how things were. It was almost pointless to get angry about it, because there was nothing you could do to change it. Even your performance on the ice sometimes didn’t matter.

In the end, it had been fine. Good, even. And then great. The Sentinels had become his team. They’d won a Cup together.

But the lessons he’d learned hadn’t faded.

He’d only forgotten them for a little while.

“Okay,” Hayes finally said. “That’s the plan then. We push them as far and as hard as possible. I’ll give you all the ammunition I can. The rest is . . .” Hayes shrugged. He didn’t have to say it. Barty knew it.

“Not up to us,” Barty agreed.