Page 113 of Puck You Both

There it is. Now is when I find out. No biggie.

How do I breathe, again?

I skate off while the drill keeps running behind me. At my stall, my gloves stage a mutiny, the first refusing to come off, the other coming free so suddenly I punch my own stall. I’m nothing if not coordinated and highly-functioning under pressure. Anaheim will be thrilled.

The hallway to Berg's office has never been this long, which makes sense—the clock has been drunk all day. With each step, my brain adds a new line to the goodbye speech. Thank the team. Thank the staff. Avoid saying you'll regret this unless the moment really asks for it. By the time I reach the door, I've also decided Ducks orange will make me look jaundiced and prepared a formal complaint to the state of California.

Inside, Berg acknowledges me with a nod and point at the chair on the other side of his desk.

I manage to stay relatively vertical as I haul my ass to him, before I stop behind the chair, and grip the back, because sitting down feels like agreeing to something.

"Before you say anything—“ I start before I even know what I’m going to say, because speaking first was the goal in on itself. “I've had a great time here, and I regret nothing, except calling your neutral-zone system 'jazz defense' to that reporter, which I still stand by artistically—"

"Sit down."

The rest of my verbal vomit dies down in my throat and I plop down.

Berg slides a document across the desk, and I brace for the shape of my new life. A flight time, maybe. The word Anaheim. A cartoon duck.

From the top of the paper, a Vipers logo stares back at me. I blink at it twice before my eyes skim the first page, although even that sounds generous, letters refusing to form into proper words.

Somewhere in the middle of the second page, bolded, sits a string of letters that forms into something that reads suspiciously like, TERM SHEET. My brain, which has spent all day protecting me from hope, and can't change systems without a meeting, isn’t willing to accept it. "What is this?"

Berg looks at me like I asked him what ice is. "What does it look like?"

It looks like the letters keep refusing to rearrange into a trap. I put one finger on the page, the tip brushing over a date two years from now carefully, as if the ink can still be erased with one wrong move. "An extension? But—"

"But what?"

I swallow. "Well, the guy said—"

"I told you not to listen to online gossip," Berg not so much says as barks.

"Coach!” I somehow resist the urge to jump to my feet. “The gossip has a blue checkmark and one-point-eight million followers—"

"The gossip doesn't run this team, does it?"

I open my mouth, then close it. I guess it doesn’t. It just ran me, for three weeks straight.

Berg leans back. "The GM is waiting. Sign it or don't, but stop reading bullshit. Your entire generation lives exclusively online, for god’s sake."

"But—" My voice goes for a note I can’t even produce. On the desk, two years continues to be two years. "Wait. Waaaait.” And now I’m on my feet. “How long have you known?"

"Three weeks. Why?"

Three—?

I clench my teeth to stop myself from barking right away. I’m not sure what either my current nor future contract says about punching the coach.

After three long breaths, I force myself to sit back down and point the pen at him. "And you let me walk around all this time thinking— I cleaned my oven, Coach! Do you understand what it takes to get me inside an oven? I found the light!"

"I considered telling you." He shrugs, entirely unrepentant. "Then you put together the best week of forechecking since I’ve known you, and your agent agreed to keep his mouth shut. Turns out scared suits you."

"You're a monster."

"Sure. Anything else?"

Well, duh. There's a whole speech shoving at the back of my teeth, with words in it like replaceable, and energy, and if I open my mouth even a fraction, all of it is coming out.