Page 74 of Boards & Betrayal

The locker room door creaked open, and I shifted my eyes toward the entrance. Dean John Walker stood there, looking like he just walked off a movie set—a fucking cowboy in his prime. He had that same rugged, no-nonsense demeanor, and his eyes carried a weight of wisdom and experience that was hard to ignore.

"I thought you were here," Walker said, his voice carrying across the empty room. "You look miserable for someone who just won an award."

I scoffed, the sound echoing off the metal lockers. "I don't give a shit about that award."

Walker gave me a long look, his gaze penetrating. "I know you don't," he said, stepping further into the locker room. He paused, taking in the scattered pucks and the lingering tension in the air. "Have you been thinking about your plans for the future?"

Ally's face flashed in my mind, but I pushed it away. I wasn't ready to deal with that right now. Not here.

"You really want to talk business in a locker room?" I drawled, raising an eyebrow at him.

Walker chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Always the smartass," he said. "But yes, Morgan, I do want to talk business. This award may not mean much to you, but it's a reminder of your potential—of what you can still achieve."

I leaned back against the lockers, feeling their cold surface against my skin. The future? It felt like a foreign concept right now, something distant and intangible.

Walker waited patiently, his presence steady and unyielding. He wasn't going to let this go easily.

I sighed again, running a hand through my hair. The anger had dulled to a simmer, but the uncertainty remained.

"All right," I said finally. "Let's talk."

Walker took a step closer, his boots echoing on the cold floor. "Morgan, we want to re-sign you. The Titans need you. You've built something incredible here, and there's no denying the impact you've had on this program."

I began unlacing my skates, each tug feeling like an anchor being pulled from the depths. "Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming in?"

Walker sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Because there is," he said, pausing for effect. "Newport is looking at you."

I stopped mid-lace, my eyes narrowing. "The fucking Seagulls? I thought Cherney was coaching the team."

"He's ready to retire," he replied, his voice calm but firm. "But he doesn't want to leave Seraphina Hanson without an adequate replacement."

"Adequate?" I echoed, the word tasting bitter on my tongue.

Walker chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Don't get your skates in a twist, Morgan. Adequate is a hell of an understatement, and we both know it."

I sighed deeply, finishing with my skates and setting them aside. "Why are you telling me this?" I asked, looking up at him. "I thought you wanted to sign me."

"I do," Walker insisted, his gaze steady. "But you need to know your options."

"It sounds like you want to get rid of me," I said, my voice low.

He pushed off the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest. "It's not about getting rid of you. It's about giving you the chance to think about what's best for you—for your career and your future."

"How long do I have?" I asked, trying to mask the frustration in my voice.

"The sooner the better," Walker replied. "I hear Newport'll approach after their post-season finishes. They might go all the way, you know. Your brother, isn't he a?—"

"Yeah," I cut him off, not wanting to delve into the complexities of my relationship with Dean. Dean, who was always the second best between us, now living the dream I always saw as mine. Like Nick.

Walker studied me for a moment before asking, "Could you coach your brother?"

"How the fuck should I know?" I grunted, pulling on my boots. "Look, I'm not going to worry about fucking Newport until they fucking reach out. And that's if they do."

"And if they do?" Walker pressed. "Hell, maybe you can ask for your kid?—"

"Fuck no." I stood up abruptly.

"Ah," Walker said, his tone softening. "So, it's like that between you and the kid."

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