Page 113 of Defensive Desire

"Oh, it's not." She laughs, squeezing my hands. "It's terrifying. But staying safe? Never risking your heart? That's the real tragedy."

I swallow hard, nodding.

"Now," she says, releasing my hands and picking up her suitcase. "I have a plane to catch. And you have some prime business real estate to expand into."

"Clara," I call as she starts to walk away. "I'm going to miss you. Iron Ridge will miss you."

She turns back, her smile bright.

"London's lucky to have me. But Iron Ridge? It's got you." She winks. "And that's more than enough."

I watch her walk away, her words settling around me like the first sip of a perfect latte she served me all those years ago. Warm, comforting, and exactly what I needed to push on.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Logan

Big Mike’s office feels like it always has.

Like power wrapped in pine, steel, and cold air-conditioning that runs too hard no matter the season. The massive floor-to-ceiling window behind his desk frames the practice rink below, currently empty, but the ghost of a thousand drills and bruises still lives in that ice.

Framed jerseys line the right-hand wall. Green and gray shirts of captains of past decades, a legacy stitched in sweat and blood.

On the left trophies gleam behind glass. The Stanley Cup we won in Vegas last season dead-center, flanked by years of hard-earned banners from rivalries across the country.

Beneath it all, a sleek conference table stretches like a runway of broken dreams and quiet retirements. I’ve sat at this table before. A few contract renewals. Some strategy sessions and leadership talks as I rose through the ranks of the team.

But this time, I already know how this meeting ends.

Coach Brody is leaned back in one of the leather chairs, arms crossed, jaw clenched like he's trying not to grind it into dust. Our captain, Blake Maddox, sits beside him, elbows on the table, tension radiating off him in waves.

Despite lining up next to me on the ice for nearly a decade, Blake won’t look at me this morning. Not yet, anyway.

Big Mike stands when I enter, all business in a suit that's too sharp for a hockey-obsessed town.

“Logan Kane,” he says. “Appreciate you coming in early.”

I nod and sit without a word.

The walls feel closer than usual. The Icehawks crest behind Big Mike’s chair stares at me like it knows it’s the last time we’ll meet like this.

“I've got a flight to catch, so we better get right to it,” Big Mike says, folding his hands on the table. “Listen, Logan… You’ve been the backbone of this franchise for almost a decade. You’ve led this team through some of its hardest—and proudest—years.”

He gestures to the Stanley Cup trophy behind us. The memory of lifting that is something that will stay with me forever, no matter what happens next.

I nod again, staying silent.

“Look, there’s no easy way to say this,” Coach Brody says, finally meeting my eyes. His voice is rough. “After the success of last season, we’ve been fielding trade offers to keep the momentum we've built through our current roster strength."

Big Mike chimes in over the top. "As you would know by now, we've had plenty of interest. And Seattle’s offer…"

He glances to Blake, then to Coach Brody who shifts awkwardly in his chair.

"The trade with Seattle makes sense for the long-term vision of the Icehawks,” Coach Brody says with finality, the look in his eyes different to the one I saw in the locker room two days ago.

Big Mike adds, “You’ve been a pillar, Logan. But the time has come.”

There it is. The break. The shift. The goodbye behind velvet words and measured tones.

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