Page 84 of No Contest
I stood next to the folding table someone had shoved against the lockers, watching steam curl up from the ancient machine. Usually, Jake would be holding court by now, dissecting last night's game or roasting whoever'd shown up in yesterday's practice gear. Usually, Pickle would be humming something off-key while he retaped his stick for the third time.
Today, silence.
The muffins looked like they'd been sitting there for a decade—stale, deflated, and slightly gray around the edges. I grabbed one anyway because standing there empty-handed felt worse.
"Anyone else think this feels like a fucking funeral?" Jake muttered from his stall.
Evan glanced up from his tablet. "Meetings don't usually happen at nine AM unless someone's getting fired."
"Or traded," Desrosiers added, not looking at anyone.
"Or the whole damn franchise is getting sold," MacLaren said.
The room was quiet again.
I bit into the muffin. It tasted like cardboard with chocolate chips.
The locker room door banged open, hard enough to rattle the frame.
Coach Rusk walked in first, ball cap backward, jaw working his gum. Behind him came two guys in suits—one I recognized as the GM, the other was new.
He wore a crisp tie and a thousand-dollar watch that he checked twice in the first ten seconds. He flashed the dead-shark smile of a man who'd delivered this speech in a dozen other cities. I smelled the leather of his briefcase and his expensive cologne.
"Gentlemen." The stranger set his briefcase on the folding table with a deliberate thunk. Metal clasps clicked open. "I'm David Crawford, representing the ownership group. It's great to be back in Fort Williams—uh, Fort William Gardens."
He smiled as if he'd nailed it. The silence that followed said otherwise.
Crawford pulled out a stack of folders—maybe eight, maybe ten—and arranged them on the table in a neat row. Player contracts. Had to be. The folders were color-coded: blue, red, yellow. I couldn't see the names from where I stood, but his eyes swept the room as he touched each folder like he was taking attendance.
His gaze lingered on Pickle for a half-second too long. Then Desrosiers. Then me.
"I'll keep this brief." He left the folders visible on the table—a deliberate choice. "As you're aware, the franchise has been exploring options to ensure long-term viability. We're in preliminary discussions regarding potential sale and possible relocation."
His hand rested on the blue folders. Four of them. He drummed his fingers against the top one once before continuing. "All player contracts are under review as part of the evaluation process."
I swallowed hard, a lump suddenly forming in my throat.
Evan tapped his tablet screen. Jake's leg started jiggling, and Pickle dropped his roll of tape, which bounced across the floor.
"What does that mean for us?" Jake asked.
Crawford checked his watch. "All player contracts are under review as part of the evaluation process. No decisions have been made, but we want to be transparent about the restructuring possibilities."
Restructuring. Transparent. Corporate speak for "you're fucked, but we're going to use big words to hide the truth."
"Can they... move us?" Pickle's voice cracked slightly. "Like, pack us up and ship us to Labrador or something?"
Coach finally spoke, his voice flat as week-old beer. "They can do whatever the hell they want, kid. That's how business works."
I watched the room. Pickle looked like someone had told him Santa wasn't real. Evan was already calculating something, and Jake's jaw was tight enough to crack teeth.
My ribs chose that moment to remind me they existed—the old dull ache flared up. How many hits were left in my body? How many seasons?
Maybe now none of them mattered.
I reached out for the jersey hanging in my stall. I traced the stitched numbers—14. Hawkins. The name that meant something here, in this city, and to these people. Scatter us across the continent, and then what? Just Connor, thirty years old with bad knees and no idea how to introduce himself at parties.
"Questions?" Crawford asked.
