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The email comes in while I’m unlacing my skates.

Subject line: Updated Sponsorship Terms - Edge Line Full Reinstatement Offer.

I stare at it for a minute before I open it.

It’s professional. Crisp. Polished. Probably filtered through two marketing assistants and three PR execs before it hit my inbox. They would be happy to welcome me back. And the numbers they’re offering are astronomical. I could probably buy Kat a pony farm with that kind of capital.

My agent texts right after.

Angelo:

Take your time, but this is a good sign. They want you back and are willing to offer buttloads for it. Full reinstatement. I bet we could push them higher. Let me know your questions, I never heard from you before, and I’ll schedule a call.

I close the phone. Let it rest on the bench beside me like it might burn a hole through the wood.

I pull my foot out of the second skate and sit there in my compression top, sweat drying under my collar, chest tight in a way that’s not from cardio. This is what I wanted.

Isn’t it?

I asked Sadie to help me be more… marketable. That was the word. She hated it. So did I. But it felt like survival at the time. Now I don’t know what it feels like. Because the version of me that got dropped wasn’t broken. He was simply not performing because he was in recovery.

The version they want now—the one they’re ready to bring back?

This isn’t the original Ragnar. Sadie helped mold me from the ground up.

From long nights laughing over crossword clues.

Letting her loop her scarf around my neck and lead me to a bar booth and a part of myself I didn’t know could exist off the ice.

I thought I needed to learn to fake it, but it’s not fake. It’s me. It’s me with her.

It’s me because of her.

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and rest my head in my hands.

It would be easy to say yes. The numbers are good.

The money’s solid. It’s a recognition of everything I’ve fought to get back.

A fokk you to the people who wrote me off because, let’s be real, I talk funny.

But there’s this voice in my chest—quiet, steady—that keeps asking: Is this really what you want?

Or are you just afraid of saying no?

Tristan’s in the media room when I find her. Headphones around her neck, two phones on the table, laptop open to a spreadsheet that makes my eyes hurt. She looks up when I knock.

“Please tell me you’re here to rescue me,” she says. “Vic bailed, and I’ve been trying to schedule five interviews, two campaigns, and one podcast appearance. For Spags.”

By bailed, she means Vic had a meeting with management, but I feel her pain.

I lift a brow. “He a-agreed to a p-p-podcast?”

“He doesn’t know yet.”

I grin.

“You’re t-t-terrifying.”

“Flatter me later. What’s up?”

I sit across from her and pull out my phone. Turn it so she can see the email.

Her expression shifts.

“Edge Line?”

I nod.

“Full offer?”

“Full r-reinstatement. P-plus more. My agent w-w-wants to s-set a call.”

She leans back. “Damn. Congrats… I think?”

I shrug. That’s the problem. I’m not sure if it is one. Tristan studies me, then closes her laptop and gives me her full attention.

“Talk to me.”

So I do.

I tell her how it started—why I asked Sadie for help. What it felt like to be dropped. The pressure to be something shinier. Louder. Easier to sell.

And how different it feels now.

“It’s not j-just about m-m-money,” I say. “It’s about b-being w-wanted. But I don’t know i-if I want t-t-to go back to s-someone who m-m-made it clear I wasn’t w-worth holding onto.”

She nods. “Because now you’ve got people who see you. Actually see you.”

“Sadie d-d-does,” I admit.

“She’s not the only one,” Tristan says gently. “Have you read your post comments lately?”

I shrug. I’m not comfortable with that kind of thing, so I avoid it.

“You should. They’re not asking for perfect. They’re asking for you. The guy who geeks out over crossword puzzles and goalie gear and teaches his dog Icelandic commands.”

I blink. “I c-can’t h-h-hide the stutter.”

Sadie doesn’t seem to notice, neither to Amma, or Kat, or any of my teammates, really, but the rest of the world has never given grace to those with speech disorders. A certain former president comes to mind.

“They love the stutter. Because it’s real. And it’s you.”

I exhale. “So, w-what are y-y-you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe you don’t need Edge Line. Maybe we build something from scratch. A real campaign. You, on your terms. We pitch it to smaller brands that care about people, not just polish. Or we go grassroots. Soft launch. Fan-first.”

She pauses. “I’ll help if you want, or you can set up the call and take the deal. There is no right or wrong answer here.”

I stare at her.

It’s tempting. Terrifying. But also… right. I didn’t come back from an injury to pretend to be someone else. I came back to play. To love. To live. And maybe this version of me doesn’t need permission to be valuable.

I go home, walk Howl, make tea the way Sadie likes it, and sit down at my desk with the window cracked open to let the cold air keep me honest.

I open the Edge Line email again.

It still reads like a win. The kind of second chance I was supposed to crave.

But I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I don’t need them to tell me I’m worth something when I already know it.

Not when Sadie looks at me like I hung the damn stars.

Not when Tristan believes in my voice. When my teammates celebrate me without needing to perform for the cameras.

Not when I feel like me for the first time in a long, long while.

I’m not broke. Not even close. I’ve saved well.

Invested smart. Even with the rehab and the support I send to Amma and Kat, I’m okay.

The fear was never about one contract. It was about what it represented—how quickly everything could fall apart.

How fragile success is in this world, especially when it hinges on things beyond my control. Like my health.

People look at me and see a goalie. But I’m also a grandson. A big brother. A safety net. If I fall, they fall too. That’s why losing Edge Line shook me. Not the money. The message. That I could be discarded the moment I wasn’t useful.

But now I know better.

I open a reply window.

I keep it simple.

Hello,

Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate the offer and the kind words. At this time, I’ve decided not to pursue a renewed partnership with Edge Line.

Wishing you the best,

Ragnar ólaffson

I read it twice. Breathe in. Copy my agent. Click send.

It’s done, and just like that—I’m free.

Later that night, I set up a tripod on the coffee table and film a short video. Just me, sitting cross-legged on the rug in a hoodie, Howl curled behind me like my own personal Yeti.

“H-h-hey,” I say to the camera. “Ragnar ólaffson here. G-goalie. Nerd. Dog d-d-dad. And apparently, i-internet person n-now.”

I smile.

“I w-wanted to answer s-s-some of the questions you’ve b-been sending i-i-in. So here w-we go.”

I talk about my helmet. My favorite foods. My pre-game rituals. I throw in a couple of phrases in Icelandic—people like that stuff. I pan the camera to introduce Howl, who immediately leaves the room. One of the last questions is, “are you single?” I’ve received it hundreds of times.

I pause.

Then smile into the lens.

“I-I am not. I a-am one-hundred and e-e-eleven percent attached to m-my saet stelpa. Sá sem heyrir mig.”

The one who hears me.

I close the video feeling good. Not because I won. Not because Edge Line ate their words, but because I chose myself.