Page 75 of Love Lessons
Nope. That idea is as terrible as my golf swing. It takes me two putts to get my ball into the hole, for the worst score of our foursome.
We head for the next hole. And Neil has the gall to ask, “So what’s this big date Vera has with her ex?”
My reaction to the question is immediate and angry. “How the fuck should I know? Ask her yourself if you’re so curious.”
Neil just chuckles, like he’s caught me out.
And maybe he has. I like her a little more than I ever anticipated.
That’s not a good thing.
* * *
A whilelater we’re seated at an outdoor table at the golf club, eating sandwiches, when all our phones start chiming with texts. All within a few seconds of each other.
The four of us exchange worried glances. Because that can’t be good.
Castro is the first to reach for his phone. He squints at the screen. “What the hell?Puck Daddy’ssays:Massive 3-team trade between Brooklyn, Boston and Vegas in the works.”
My stomach bottoms out. “Fuck a duck. If one of us got traded while we were golfing, I will not be responsible for my actions.”
Castro holds his phone out for all of us to see. There’s a text from Bess, his agent.IT’S NOT YOU. CALM DOWN.
“I got that same message from Eric,” Anton says. Then he wipes imaginary sweat from his brow.
Neil lifts his sandwich. “I have a no-trade clause.”
“You do?” I yelp. “How is that?”
“Took a twenty-five percent pay cut to get it,” he says with a shrug.
A beat after he says this, the rest of us each throw a potato chip at him. “Rich fucker,” Anton says. “It’s a good thing we like you.”
Neil just laughs, because he’s a great guy who doesn’t care how ridiculous it is for a bunch of millionaires to throw shade at him for being a billionaire. Especially while we’re staying at his Italian villa.
And I’m still the only person at this table who doesn’t have the all-clear on whatever trade is going down.
Pushing my plate away, I get up and carry my phone outside the dining area. I stand beside a wall that’s climbing with vines and bright, exotic flowers. The lake shimmers in the distance. But a pit of cold fear gathers in my stomach, nonetheless.
Until this year, I’d been living a charmed life. So few men get five or more years in the NHL. So few get the chances I’ve gotten.
But I’d always felt I’ddeservedthose opportunities. Hockey was my one thing—my only real skill. My purpose. Even if my family never quite understood me, it didn’t matter. I had hockey in my corner, and I thought it would never turn on me.
Suddenly, I’m not so sure. I’ve had sleepless nights wondering how I hurt that Boston rookie so badly. And now my team thinks I have an image problem. They see me as a liability, not an asset.
If I get traded, it could mean the beginning of the end. Some guys have a downward spiral at the end of their careers. I’m not ready for that to be me.
I’m not ready.
With cold dread washing over me, I pull out my phone and scan my notifications. Several friends have sent me that same gossipy post about a three-way “multiple player” trade. But there aren’t any messages from my agent or from management.
The closest thing I’ve got is a day-old message from the PR guy, asking about the date of my return from Italy.So we can get you started on charity work.
I’m dying here. I tap O’Doul’s number and wait for the ring.
“I don’t think it’s you,” is how he answers.
That’s not quite the reassurance I need, but I let out a sigh of relief anyway. “Why? You know who it is?”
