Page 6 of The Final Faceoff
The thing is that the numbers don’t line up.
They should. They always do. But no matter how many times I run through the deals, how many ways I twist the logistics, something feels off.
Not in a bad way—just . . . notright.
Like stepping onto the ice and realizing your pads are off by a fraction of an inch. Like knowing—just knowing—that your glove hand isn’t as fast as it was yesterday. Which hasn’t happened, but what if it does one day? It’s one of my fears.
It’s not something you can explain, but it sits at the back of your head, gnaws at your focus. And right now, it’s making my fucking skin itch.
Jacob McCallister, my agent, clears his throat on the other end of the call.
“The Vipers are offering you seven years, one-hundred and ten million.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “You’ll become the highest-paid goalie in the league.”
I know I should care about that.
I should care that I just beat out the last biggest contract by a solid margin, that no other netminder is making what I am.
But all I can think about is how the numbers don’t feel right.
It’s not the money—it’s the structure. The front-loading of the contract, the bonuses, the way the signing incentives are staggered.
Jacob knows me well enough to know I’m already running through the math in my head.
“Leif,” he sighs, and I can hear him shifting papers. “We’ve been negotiating this for a long time. The Vipers are giving you everything you wanted. They’re making you their franchise name. We can revisit the other offers but this is the one that fits with what you’ve been looking for. They have a great team—they just need a goalie to take them to the top.”
Franchise guy.
That’s what I wanted, right?
That’s why I spent the last weeks listening to offers, weighing my options, deciding which team actually valued me as the long-term investment I am.
Because that’s how I work.
I don’t do temporary, or short-term. I need to know where I stand, need to have my routine locked in, unshakable. Because if my world isn’t in order, I don’t function.
I stretch my fingers, rolling my shoulders back as I pace my kitchen, my socked feet sliding over the polished hardwood floor.
I can already feel the tension in my jaw building, the change settling into my bones. It’s not the contract. It’s the move. The idea of having to uproot my life again, to start over in a new city, a new home, a new locker room, a new goddamn pre-game routine. I hate it. I hate everything about it. However, I also need this change or I’ll regret not doing it for the rest of my life.
Hockey is a whirlwind, fast and unpredictable. But goaltending? Goaltending is precision. It’s reading the ice like a chessboard, tracking every possible move before it happens. It’s not about reacting—it’s about controlling the uncontrollable.
And right now, I feel like I’m losing control of my own fucking career.
“I need to see it in writing,” I say finally, my voice even, controlled. “No, actually, break down the structure with bonuses and all again.”
Jacob exhales, but I hear the click of his keyboard. He’s already pulling it up.
“Year one . . .” He goes through the breakdown again which now that he’s giving me the structure it sounds a lot better than what Boston was offering us.
As he’s talking, I run through the numbers in my head, breaking them down into segments, percentages, comparable. I know the stats. I know what other goalies are making, what the highest-paid skaters are pulling in, where my contract ranks against the league.
But again, that’s not what’s bothering me. It’s the change. It’s the adjustments I’ll have to make.
It’s knowing that the locker room I’ve built my entire routine around for years is about to disappear. I’ll have to find a new corner, a new . . . fuck, everything will be different.
Jacob must hear the silence, because his tone softens. “Leif, I know this is a lot. I know you don’t like change. But this? This is the right move. We’re getting the Cup next year.”
Fuck, I don’t know if I’m okay with this. My whole career has been about not starting over. My routines are everything. I wake up at the same time every morning. I eat the same meals on game days. My pads have to be strapped in a specific order, my gloves placed just right, my sticks lined up perfectly, blade-to-blade, angles matching.
