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Ryder

“ K ingsy, my man, I have news for you. It’s good and bad, so I’ll rip the Band-Aid off. Boston traded you to Atlanta. You’re going to that new team those billionaires bought.”

My head swims at the worst news my agent could have given me. I grip the phone tightly and pace across my living room, passing the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Boston Harbor. How the fuck could this happen? They named me one of the league's best goalies, and we just finished a seven-game playoff run for the Stanley Cup. I was supposed to be signed for another four years in Boston. I spent this season showing the team why they needed to keep me. I’ve given ten years of my life to Boston. How could they do me dirty like this after everything?

“Tell me this is a fucking joke, Mark,” I growl, my mind still spinning down a dark tunnel to my personal hell.

“I’m shooting straight with you like I always do. They’re negotiating with Upton to keep him instead. They couldn’t have two number-one goalies forever, and unfortunately, you had the bigger target on your back with this series run and that devastating loss,” Mark says.

His words burn like acid and remind me of failures that are never far from my mind. We were so close to the cup, in the conference finals, game seven against Dallas, and the deciding factor if we would advance to the Stanley Cup finals. We lost, three-to-two, and those three goals were my fault. I let them past my glove, and we lost our shot, again. The enormous weight hanging on my shoulders, and one of the biggest black marks against me in contract negotiations last year, was not being trustworthy during playoffs. I let the team down again by not performing when it counted, and look where it got me, traded to a brand-new team in fucking Atlanta.

“I’m going to the hellhole of the South? Hot-fucking-lanta? This is a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s a thirty-three-million-dollar, three-year nightmare. That’s the upside. We got you far more than Boston would’ve given you if they’d kept you. You’re now the highest-paid goalie in the NHL. That should help make up for the trade at least a bit, and you get to help shape a brand-new team with an unlimited budget. These billionaires aren’t sparing a single penny and are pulling in the best talent in the league for this team. I’ve heard rumors of their moves, and it’ll be good. They even got Lyle Kennedy to coach. That man’s a fucking legend. You’ll be skating for someone with more cup runs and wins than any current coaching team can boast. This isn't what you had in mind, but it’s not the worst that could have happened.”

No shit. The worst is I could be done with hockey forever, injured and unable to play, or so shitty no team wanted to pick me up. I see what Mark’s doing, and I’m rational enough to understand this is a good fucking deal. But fuck, I don’t want to be rational. I want to wallow and stick with my routine and the things I wanted for a change.

Hockey isn’t a sport you get your say in all that often. I’ve been damn lucky to stick with the same team that drafted me right out of college. Ten years is a lifetime to spend with one team, and I guess I was pushing my luck, hoping they’d keep me longer. Knowing that doesn't make this loss easier to swallow.

“So, what now?” There’s a note of despair in my tone I hate to hear. I need to know what’s expected of me to establish my routine immediately. It’s stupid to some people, but I need everything to be the same and to know what to expect. Knowing the rules and how to play by them—when to show up and where to be, what to eat, what my training plan is, all that fucking bullshit that’s said makes hockey players superstitious sheep—is my touchstone. And I know what they say about goalies being the worst. I just don’t fucking care.

“You enjoy as much of your summer as possible, settle up in Boston, and get your ass to Atlanta for training camp in September. And hey, I’ll finally have my two best clients in the same city where I can watch both you and Knox play.”

That’s not the silver lining Mark’s trying to make it out to be. I hate Knox Contraire. We have a complicated history that began as best friends and devolved into hating each other's guts. He was so clingy and obsessed with me when we got into high school, and my teammates made fun of me, so I did whatever I could to keep the attention away. But the school called it bullying , and the administration put me on a correction plan because, apparently, there was a zero-tolerance policy. Even a city as big as Atlanta is still too small a space to share with him now. The only saving grace is playing in completely different sports. The NHL and the NFL don’t cross all that often, so as long as we’re not intentionally thrown together, I might be able to avoid him.

“But Kingsy, you’re going to have to keep your shit together. This big of a contract puts a target on your back that will have the owners, GM, and coaches watching to see if you’re worth that much of the team’s salary cap. One step out of line and they’ll trade your ass so fast. You’ll be on thin ice, so keep your nose clean and don’t be reckless. Make them pat themselves on the back for this deal.”

I hate his ominous words and the threat in them, but he’s right. Now I just have to show another team I’m worth keeping.

Great .