Page 285 of Cross Check

My future hinges on these men, and I’m terrified to find out where this is going.

“Effective immediately, you are suspended for eight games for unethical behavior,” Scott says, and my blood goes cold. “Furthermore, all communication with Mr. Everett must cease going forward. If the league finds you in violation of this ask, we will be forced to extend a contract termination, and you will no longer be employed by the Sea Crabs. Finding a position in the NHL in the future will also be close to impossible due to this preventable stain on your record.”

I let out a gasping breath.

They’re making an example out of me. They’re exerting their power to make sure they can control this narrative.

Look what happens when you’re bad. We’re going to threaten you until you agree.

But… if I do, that means no more Grant.

I’ll have to walk away from him and never look back.

Fuck.

What a horrible position to be in.

“Okay,” I whisper. Scott and Brian visibly relax, and I think they were expecting more of a fight. More emotion, more out of control. I refuse to give them the fight they’re looking for. “I understand.”

“Eight games would put your return to work back in March,” Lizette says, and I nod. “We’ll have the associate coach fill in for you during your absence.”

“Ms. Green,” Brian says, and I look up at him again. “This is all contingent on abiding by the rules. The suspension can be lengthened at any time if we determine there are extenuating circumstances that regard the league in a negative light.”

“Got it.” I smooth my hands over my slacks. “I guess this means I need to stay away from team facilities?”

“No practices, no games, and no access during this time,” Scott says.

“Right. Thank you for the clarification.” I survey the room. There’s so much more I want to say—about how the league is antiquated and backward and unforgiving to anyone who doesn’t fit the picture of what one of their poster boys looks like—but I plaster on a smile instead. I put my palms on the table and stand, nodding to them. “I appreciate you taking the time to let me know about next steps. I’ll see you in March.”

Without another glance out of fear I’ll crumble into a blubbering mess, I head for the door. I keep my composure all the way until I reach the parking garage, and when I climb into my car, I burst into tears.

Me

Are you free to talk?

GE

When and where?

Me

Our house.

GE

On my way.

If I’ve learned anything over the last two and a half weeks, it’s that time is a fickle bitch. When you’re looking forward to something, everything slows down. Hours pass like days. Weeks stretch out like months, and the universe tests you. It’s trying to figure out how badly you want the thing you’re chasing.

Are you willing to wait? If so, how long?

Patience is rewarded. The payoff is always greater than the journey it took to get there, but when faced with a roadblock or hurdle you don’t know how to leap over, the clock speeds up. Time is a blur of spotlights that change from red to green the second you pull up to them and a highway free from any traffic.

There’s no delay or room to process what you want to do. Before you realize it, you’re driving to the house you share with the man you love. You’re wiping the tears from your eyes because you know how this pain ends: In a plume of smoke where a relationship once was, the postmortem written from the very first moment your eyes met across the restaurant.

My drive from the arena told me this conversation can only go one way.

There’s no version of us that can exist past today, and I have to end things with Grant.