Page 108 of No Contest
Jake:Could be about Pickle's horrifying taste in music.
Pickle:MY MUSIC IS FINE
Evan:9 AM. Fort William. Everyone show up sober and on time.
Jake:Wow, Spreadsheet, way to suck the fun out of impending doom
Tomorrow, we'd find out if Thunder Bay was keeping us or scattering us across the continent. I'd have to decide whether Margaret's offer was a backup plan or a future.
It was impossible to think about when today had been long enough for three days.
I tilted my head back. "Rhett."
He woke. "Mm?"
"Team meeting tomorrow. Nine AM. About the franchise."
He opened one eye. "Good news or bad news?"
"Don't know yet."
"Mm." The eye closed again. "Tell me if it's bad news. Too tired to worry. You worry. I'll... listen later."
I smiled despite everything. Set my phone aside and picked up my needles again.
Rhett's hand appeared over the edge of the couch, dangling. I reached up without thinking and laced my fingers through his.
His grip tightened. Held on.
We stayed like that while I executed one-handed knitting, one needle tucked under my arm, needles clicking a soft counterpoint to his breathing, the scarf growing inch by inch in my lap.
I thought about his mother's assumption—Rhett will handle it—and how his shoulders had become rigid. I also thought about Sloane's careful questions and the house full of casseroles and obligations wrapped in sympathy.
I thought about Crawford's folders and Jake's manic energy in the group chat, and it'll be nine AM tomorrow when we'd find out if everything we'd built in Thunder Bay had an expiration date.
Then there was Margaret's offer—teaching classes and co-ownership. It was a future that didn't depend on my body's ability to take hits.
The scarf was six inches long now. Storm blue and white, edges neat, tension even. Something small and functional that would keep a kid warm.
I set down the needles and shifted carefully so I didn't wake Rhett. His hand slipped from mine as I moved, fingers trailing across my palm before falling back onto the couch cushion.
I stood, stretched the kinks out of my back. Turned off the lights except for the small lamp by the window and grabbed a pillow from my bed and a second blanket.
When I returned, Rhett had curled onto his side, knees drawn up, still in his funeral suit. Still holding onto sleep like it was the only safe place left.
I tucked the second blanket around him. Put the pillow within reach if he woke up and wanted it.
Then I settled back onto the floor with my knitting, my phone silent beside me, and the knowledge that tomorrow would bring what it brought.
Tonight, this was perfect.
***
The arena smelled like it always did—stale coffee, rubber, and industrial cleaner with a hint of ammonia. At eight forty-five, I pushed through the door, running on three hours of sleep and the dregs of optimism I'd scraped together during the drive over.
The locker room was already chaos.
Jake had commandeered the whiteboard and drawn what appeared to be a map of Florida, complete with palm trees and a stick figure labeled "Pickle" crying into the ocean.
