Page 108 of Penalty Kiss
I look around the table—Webb with his calculating gleam, Clark nodding encouragingly, and Dr. Martinez watching me with that careful, neutral expression doctors wear when they’re hoping their patient makes the smart choice.
The old me would have signed before Webb finished talking. The money, the fame, the captaincy, the rush of twenty thousand fans chanting my name—it was the entire universe I'd built my life around.
But that was before I learned what home really feels like. Before home was cinnamon in the oven and Tara’s vanilla shampoo on my pillow. Before it was flour on her cheek and the wayshe laughed at my worst jokes. Before it was someone who saw every fractured piece of me and didn’t just stay—she helped me rebuild.
I clear my throat because this isn’t easy. I touch the Stanley Cup Ring from two years ago, twisting the band around my finger, testing the weight of everything it represents——the dream I already chased down, the one trophy no contract can outshine.
"I appreciate the offer," I say, and my voice is steadier than I have any right for it to be. "I really do. This organization gave me everything—a very lucrative career, a family, and more memories than most players even dream about.”
Webb's smile falters, the finely tailored lines around his eyes tightening. He senses the 'but' coming, a storm cloud on his perfect corporate horizon.
"But I'm not the same player I was three months ago. Hell, I'm not the same person."
"Cam, don't be hasty," Clark cuts in, his voice placating. "You’re fully recovered. We can work with any terms that’s a roadblock—a reduced game schedule, more time with the trainers?"
Webb holds up a hand, silencing him. He’s a shark who knows when to change bait. “Two years,” he says flatly. “Same money. We’ll eat the third year. Two years to lead this team to another Cup, and you walk away a legend.”
The number is staggering. It's 'buy your own island' money. It's 'never worry about anything again' money. And for a split second, the old me, the one who lived for the roar of the crowd, stirs.
But then I see Tara by the lake at dusk—hair tugged by the breeze, blue eyes daring me to race her back to town. That smile—the one that says I’ve already won—outweighs any contract they could ever slide across this table.
I rake a hand through my hair, the nervous tic Tara keeps swatting at, and square my shoulders. “The game gave meeverything,” I tell Webb, steady. “But someone else gave me a home. And I know which one I’m not risking.”
Silence hangs for a beat, heavy with the weight of millions unsaid. From the corner, Dr. Martinez exhales—barely audible, but there’s something in his eyes that looks a lot like relief.
“Who knows?” My grin feels lighter than it ever has, because the choice is already made. I stand, steady, no hesitation in my bones. “Maybe I’m not done with the game. But the NHL isn’t my finish line anymore. She is.”
The heavy oak door clicks shut behind me, final in the hushed hallway. I just stand there, letting the sterile quiet wash over me. It's the opposite of everything I've known for fifteen years—the roar, the scrape of skates, the thud of puck on boards. This silence is the sound of an ending.
Levi's down the hall, leaning against the wall like he's been carved from the same granite as the building. Arms crossed, patient—but I know better. I've seen that stillness a thousand times right before a penalty kill. It's not calm; it's focus.
He doesn't move as I approach, letting me cross the space between the life I just left and the friend who was there for all of it.
"So?" he asks.
The word lands with the weight of a ten-year contract. Not a question about negotiation—about identity. He's asking if his defenseman is officially a ghost.
"They made a tempting offer… didn’t change my mind. I hung up the skates," I say, the words tasting like rust and freedom.
“I guess I’m unemployed.’
Levi doesn't react at first. Just watches, jaw tight. Then a slow nod, the lines around his eyes softening with understanding.He saw the fog I was living in. He saw what Tara brought back.
Strange buoyancy fills my chest—like I've been carrying rocks for so long I forgot what standing straight felt like. But here, under fluorescent lights, that lightness feels thinner. Because for the first time in my adult life, I’m not Levi’s defenseman. I don’t have his back anymore.
“You’re going to be alright, Wilder.” A low chuckle finally escapes him. The sound isn't easy or triumphant; it's relieved—the sound of a man who was bracing for a brother’s breakdown and got a bad joke instead.
He pushes off the wall, claps a firm hand on my shoulder. The contact is grounding, familiar pressure that saysI'm still here. We're still us.
“Walk with me,” he says, and it’s not a suggestion. It’s the same tone he used when he’d tell me to clear the front of the net. An instruction from a guy I’d follow anywhere.
We head toward the parking garage, our footsteps echoing off the concrete. Levi's got that look he gets when he's about to propose something that'll either be brilliant or completely insane. Sometimes both.
“So, man, what do you think you’re gonna do now?”
I laugh at the absurdity and luxury of that question, feeling that weird mix of excitement and total freedom. “I don’t know, maybe I’ll finally figure it out.”
“You know, I could start a YouTube channel. Or TikTok. My fans won’t just disappear—they’ll want their Dane-gerous Seoul Crusher on their screens. Korean-Danish fusion cooking, maybe? Smørrebrød with bulgogi and kimchi topping?”
