Page 94 of Breakaway Goals
“I don’t care if I get paid ten million a year or eleven. You know that. I’ll pick up another sponsorship, make up the difference.”
Barty leveled him with a serious look that scared Hayes more than he wanted to admit. “The number per year isn’t the issue. It’s the number of years.”
“What?” Hayes wasn’t proud but he straight up yelped it.
“You and I talked about potentially a five or six year deal, to finish out your career. They’re on three, and not budging.”
Hayes’ jaw dropped. “You’re serious. They think, what, I’m gonna be fucking washed-up in four years?”
“They didn’t say that, not in those exact words, but they had a bunch of data they trotted out, analysis of how production declines in the mid-to-late thirties.”
Hayes sank back in his chair. Disbelieving. It hadn’t felt like so long ago when he and Morgan had this same conversation. Morgan telling him that he’d understand someday, about the complicated nature of legacy when you kept getting older.
And yet ithadbeen six years.
He’d deliberately avoided thinking about it. Some days—a lot of days, in fact—it felt like he had all the time in the world. But he didn’t feel like that now.
“We both know you’re not the average player,” Barty continued, “and they know that too, when I pressed them. But they’re trying to use it as leverage. I can break them down, but it’s going to take time.”
“So, don’t expect to have an actual contract on the table for awhile,” Hayes interpreted.
“Not any time soon. We can get there.” Barty paused. “We could get there faster if you used Reynolds, but you’ve made it clear you didn’t want to.”
“I don’t,” Hayes said firmly. “And don’t even suggest Braun. The situation’s different there, but that’s not his kind of thing, and we both know it.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Barty held up his hands like he was being unjustly accused.
“So, he just happened to come golfing with us, total coincidence,” Hayes said wryly.
“He’s one of Mark’s clients, and you know Mark and I are partners. Felt right to invite him,” Barty defended.
“Cut the shit.”
Barty sighed. “Okay, fine. You caught me.”
Hayes picked up his beer, contemplated the light shining through the window as it caught the glass. “You know I don’t want to test free agency.”
“You’d get a lot more money. Probably any contract length you wanted,” Barty said.
“And I might end up having to play for a different team.”
“You wouldn’t be the first to do it at the end. Patrick Kane did it. Marleau. Marchand. There’s a long list.”
“It was never going to be me, though. I know I started out playing for the Mavericks, so it’s not even like I’ve only ever played for the Sentinels, but in some ways, that’s the way it feels. When I got traded, it was like, I don’t know . . .I grew up.”
Barty tilted his head, like he was considering this. “I’d actually say it started before that. Like . . .six months before?”
Ouch. It was annoying that someone as stupid emotionally as Bartholemew Smith III noticed how fucked up Hayes had been in the wake of the Four Nations tournament.
“Okay, but it wasin process,” Hayes argued. “I just . . .I don’t want to play for anyone else. That was my one requirement.”
“You had two actually. You wanted to play out your career for them, too. And unless you’re planning to retire early . . .”
“You know I’m not,” Hayes said with a huff.
“Okay, yes, I do know that. But we could take the three-year deal as a bridge. Hope they give us another one. That’ll take you to thirty-seven.”
“You actually think they’d give me another three-year deal then?” Hayes heard the skepticism in his voice. They didn’t want to give him one now, even after all the ways he’d proven himself. So what if he won another Cup. They’d just be looking for an excuse to claim he was too old. Washed-up.
