Page 3 of Take Two

“I should probably get some sleep,” I say, the words landing flat and automatic.

“Review your notes before you go to bed,” she insists, as if I haven’t just communicated that the conversation is ending.

“Mmmhmm.”

“Do not ‘mmmhmm’ me, boy.” The frustration in her voice is real. “I am being serious with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I say, that particular combination of words has always worked as a release valve between us, reliable as anything.

She sighs again. Softer this time. “I only want what is best for you.”

There it is. The guilt trip. A punch right in the sternum. Not a shout, not an accusation, just that quiet statement that carries all of it underneath without needing to name any of it. The years, the money, the sleepless nights she spent worrying. Every sacrifice compressed into eight words delivered gently enough to make you feel them twice.

“I know,” I say back, and I mean it. That’s the part that’s always made this so complicated.

“Call me after Columbia tomorrow.” She says it with the particular satisfaction of someone who considers a matter finished.

“I will.” The line disconnects.

I stand there for a moment longer, looking once more at myself through the glass. The perfect, immaculate, carefully assembled image of a young man walking confidently toward a prestigious future. Future medical student.

A complete fucking lie.

“Fuck it,” I murmur, quietly enough that no one near me catches it.

Then I push the door open and walk into the bar, the warmth of it meeting me at the threshold. I cross to the stool I’d been watching through the glass, drop my bag at my feet and sit with a heaviness that has nothing to do with physical tiredness. Exhaling slowly, something unknots across my shoulder and relief seeps into my bones.

“What can I get you?” The bartender materializes in front of me, setting a coaster printed with The Langham’s gold crest down on the polished wood with a quiet, practiced snap.

“Jack and Coke.”

Chapter 2

Jamie

My phone vibrates against the polished wood of the bar for what feels like the hundredth time in the last ten minutes, the buzzing insistent and rhythmic enough to feel almost taunting.

I stare at it for a second before I pick it up, even though I already know exactly what is waiting for me on the screen. The same headline. The same seventy-word summary of a decision that has fundamentally rearranged every corner of my life.

The headline has not changed since the last time I looked at it.

NEW YORK GUARDIANS FORWARD JAMIE MAXWELL TRADED TO SEATTLE VIPERS IN OFF-SEASON DEAL

The article has already been swallowed by commentary, speculation, and enough hockey analysis to make it sound like people who have never met me know more about my future than I do. Analysts who have never been in a locker room a day in their lives are breaking down what this means for my career trajectory and Seattle’s depth structure and some other things I stop caring about halfway through the first paragraph.

I skim it anyway.

Twenty-seven-year-old forward, Jamie Maxwell, has been traded to the Seattle Vipers after spending his entire professional career with the New York Guardians. Maxwell, who recorded twenty-two goals and thirty-one assists last season, is expected to strengthen Seattle’s forward depth heading into next year after the Vipers aggressively pursued him as part of a multi-player off-season deal.

I stop there. The rest doesn’t matter.

The trade happened. My agent confirmed it. The Guardians confirmed it. Seattle confirmed it. Now the internet has stamped it in bold letters and flashing graphics, which means the rest of the world is finally catching up to the thing I’ve been trying to sit with for three days. Three days of sitting with it, and I still feel like I am digesting something that’s not sitting well on my stomach.

I lock my phone and turn it face down on the bar because reading the same article another ten times will not make any of it feel less real. The wood is cool and smooth beneath my palm when I flatten my hand against the surface, and I leave it there for a moment like I can anchor myself to something solid.

The television mounted above the liquor shelves is already running highlights from today’s sports cycle. My face flashes across the screen for half a second, a still from some practice two seasons ago, before disappearing beneath statistics, trade breakdowns, and the kind of scrolling graphics people use when they want to turn someone else’s life into background entertainment. A graphic appears: MAXWELL TO SEATTLE — WHAT IT MEANS FOR BOTH TEAMS. I watch just long enough to confirm I don’t want to watch it.

I look away, completely done with the spectacle.