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Pete laughs and something in the room loosens slightly, the specific tension of a first-time formal call easing because two of the four people on it apparently go back years.

“Let’s get into it,” Pete says, folding his hands. “Theo, I’m not going to waste your time with a long preamble. We like you. We like you a lot. Our staff has had eyes on you since October, and Burlington in particular got a lot of attention internally — the gap control, the way you read attacking rushes, the fact that you don’t panic when the play breaks down. That’s rare at your level. That’s a pro trait.”

I keep my face doing what it does. Steady. I don’t let the words land visibly, even though internally, something in my chest has gone very loud.

“Where do I sit on your board?” I ask. Direct. No point dancing around it.

Pete doesn’t flinch at the directness. If anything, he looks like he appreciates it. “I can’t give you a number. Nobody can this far out. Anyone who tells you different is lying to you, or doesn’t know what they’re talking about.” He leans forward slightly. “What I can tell you is that our internal projections have you as a legitimate second-round consideration. Possibly higher, depending on how the rest of this season plays out and how the draft class shakes out around you. That’s not a promise. That’s where the conversation is right now, in March, with the draft in June.”

“Understood,” I say.

“What I can tell you with more certainty,” Pete continues, “is that our development staff has already started building out what a Mercer development plan looks like. And that plan — assuming the draft goes the way we currently think it might — has you finishing your degree at Whitmore.”

I look at Coach. Coach doesn’t look surprised, which means he already had some version of this conversation before I sat down.

“Can you say more about that?” I ask.

“Happy to.” Pete pulls up something on his end — I can see his eyes flick to a second screen. “You’re a two-way defenseman who’s still growing into his frame. You’re what, six-two now?”

“Six-three.”

“Six-three and still filling out. Guys like you — the development curve isn’t about scoring touch. It’s about strength, hockey IQ, reps against real competition. And I’ll be honest with you — the reps you’re getting under Coach O’Grady right now, in a program that plays a genuinely physical, structured game, that’s better development than most of what we could offer you in our system at twenty-one, twenty-two years old. You’d be buried in the AHL for two years learning what you’re already learning there for free.”

“For free,” Coach repeats, dry. “Tell that to his tuition bill.”

Pete laughs again. “Fair. Scholarship, then. Point stands.”

“So the plan,” I say, “is I finish out my senior year here.”

“That’s the plan we’re building toward, yes. Assuming — and I want to be very clear about this part, Theo, because I respect you too much to blow smoke — assuming you’re actually available when we’re on the clock in June. We don’t control the draft board above our own pick. If somebody takes you before we’re up, this conversation doesn’t matter. That’s the truth of it.”

“I appreciate you saying that instead of pretending otherwise.”

“That’s the only way I know how to do this job.” Pete looks at Dan, who nods once, some kind of agent-shorthand passing between them. “But I’ll tell you where my confidence sits. I’ve been doing this a long time. I think you’re a Bruin. I think our staff thinks you’re a Bruin. And if June goes the way I currently expect it to, you’re going to get drafted by an organization that already has a plan built around leaving you exactly where you are for one more year, because we think Coach O’Grady is going to make you a better asset than we could in that same year.”

The room is quiet for a second. I let it sit.

“That mean something to you?” Coach asks. Quiet. Just to me.

“Yeah,” I say. “It means a lot.”

The call runs another twenty minutes. Logistics. A rundown of what “unofficial” contact looks like between now and the draft. Dan explaining what he can and can’t do as my advisor under NCAA rules while I’m still enrolled. Pete asking Coach a few questions about the rest of the season — clearly professional curiosity, and clearly also just Pete wanting more tape to watch.

When it ends, Coach closes the laptop and looks at me for a long moment.

“You did good,” he says. “Didn’t oversell. Didn’t undersell. Just let it be what it was.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“That’s a real conversation, Mercer. Not every kid gets that conversation.” He stands, claps my shoulder once on his way past. “Go tell somebody. You look like you’re about to explode.”

I don’t tell Cash.

I don’t tell Wyatt, and I definitely don’t tell Beau, even though he’s the one who told me to remember I’d earned the conversation. I walk out of the athletic complex into the March morning, and I stand there for a second with my phone in my hand, and there’s exactly one person I want to say this to first. Well, two people, I guess.

I call my mom first. Quick. Three minutes. She’s crying a little on the other end of the line in a way that makes my own throat go tight, saying I always knew, baby, I always knew — a voice that means she’s saying it for both of us, because I never let myself fully believe it until twenty minutes ago.

Then I text Margo.