Page 79 of Pucking Forbidden

“Yes, sir,” I say, my throat dry.

“I see,” Sullivan murmurs, his tone softening into a warm, reassuring rhythm. He lets out a low, understanding chuckle that takes the edge out of the conversation. “Listen, Julian, I know how overwhelming it is when a team drops a massive offer on your desk out of nowhere. It’s easy to get dizzy looking at those numbers.”

He pauses, the sound of a pen tapping lightly against his desk transmitting over the line.

“Do me a favor and send the full document over to my personal email. Let me take a look at the fine print for you. I’ll dig into their recent cap history and see how they’ve treated guys in your position during past trades, just to make sure they’re actually going to look after you. A mid-season move is a hell of a hurdle, son. You’ve got time on your side here, so don't feel pressured to rush into anything just because they're flashing a big paycheck at you. We're going to make sure you get exactly what you've earned.”

I feel weirdly relieved at his words. “I won’t. Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of days,” he says, and hangs up.

I lower the phone, the weight of the secret settling into my bones, heavy and suffocating.

Jensen, Carson, Jayce, Zander, Owen...they’re my family, and here I am, secretly flying to Chicago, secretly talking to an elite attorney, secretly planning to possibly leave them.

The guilt creeps in like a cold poison in my veins. It doesn’t care that I’m doing it for Mrs. Clay. It doesn’t care that I’m trying to survive. Like when I was a kid, working my ass off to support me and Dad whenever he gambled away his paycheck. This still feels like a betrayal. No amount of logic can make that guilt go away.

When the plane lands back in Denver, the air is crisp and thin, smelling of the Rocky Mountains. I grab an Uber, but I don’t go to my apartment. I need to move right now. I need the ice.

I head straight to the arena. It’s an off-day, so the building should be pretty empty. Dropping my gear bag on the bench, I look out at the ice.

I’m surprised to see the silhouette of a player already out there. The lights are half-dimmed, casting long, dramatic shadows across the pristine white surface. The sound of edges digging violently into the ice echoes through the cavernous rafters.

I frown and the next second, realize it’s Theo.

He’s doing suicide drills, pushing himself from the goal line to the blue line, stopping hard, spraying ice, and sprinting back. His chest is heaving, his face flushed red under the dim lights. He looks exhausted, but there’s a stubborn, desperate focus in his eyes that I recognize instantly. It’s the look of a guy who feels like he’s falling behind and is willing to destroy his own body to catch up.

I don’t say anything at first, just lace up my skates, pull on a practice jersey, and grab my stick.

When I glide out onto the ice, the smooth slide of the steel against the surface calms the chaos in my brain. Theo stops at the blue line, bending over and resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily as he looks up at me.

“Wilder,” he breathes out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. “Didn’t think anyone else would be here today.”

“Needed to clear my head,” I reply, skating a slow circle around him. I look at his posture and the way his weight is distributed on his skates. “Your timing is off on your transitions, kid.”

Theo sighs, straightening. “Yeah. I know. I’ve been trying to keep up with the pace during regular practices, but everything moves so damn fast. I feel like by the time I process the defensive shift, the puck is already past me.”

I look at him for a second. Theo is young, raw, and talented, but he didn’t grow up fighting for his life on the ice as I did. He relies on instinct, and right now, his instinct is panicking.

“Watch my feet,” I tell him.

I dig my edges in, driving forward. “When you’re tracking the play from the wing, you’re keeping your hips square to the puck. That locks your ankles. If the play shifts, you have to completely reset your center of gravity.” I demonstrate, cutting hard, fluidly switching from forward to backward skating without losing a fraction of my momentum. “Open your hips up early. Read the defenseman’s shoulders, not the puck. The puck lies. The shoulders don’t.”

Theo watches me with hyper-focus. He nods, tries it, and stumbles slightly on the transition.

“Again,” I snap. “Keep your weight on the balls of your feet. Don’t lean back into your heels when you drop your hips.”

We spend the next forty-five minutes breaking it down. I walk him through the small details. The micro-adjustments in the ankles, the way to use the stick to force a defenseman to commit to a side, and the precise timing of a blind drop-pass among other things. The types of things that don’t always get explained in the middle of a chaotic team practice when Coach is screaming at twenty guys at once.

Explaining the mechanics of the game comes a lot easier to me than I expected, and watching the lightbulb go off in Theo’s head as he finally nails a clean, fluid transition fills me with a satisfaction I’m not sure I’ve ever really felt.

Theo stops, breathing hard, a massive grin on his face. “Damn, Wilder. Thanks. That actually makes sense now. Nobody ever broke it down like that before.” He leans on his stick, looking at me with genuine respect. “You know...you’re a great coach. Seriously. You ever think about doing this when your playing days are done?”

The comment hits me like an unexpected body check. I take a pause, staring out at the red line.

A coach.

I’ve never thought about it. I’ve spent my entire life in survival mode, focusing entirely on the next game and the next paycheck to make sure I never end up broke and desperate again. I’ve been terrified of what will happen to me once I retire, but standing here, seeing the progress a kid made in less than an hour with my help touches something deep inside me.