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“Look. I get it,” she says. “No one likes contract talks. But what I don’t get is why you gave up your apartment.”

Honestly, at this point, I don’t know why I did either. I guess I had assumed she’d have figured this out by now. That I’d have some semblance of security to feel good about and a new contract to make purchasing a home worthwhile. I thought I’d earned that. Or at least, I used to. But that was before I lost us the cup. Now I’m not so sure. A new contract would help ease this doubt.

“See if you can get them to come to the table,” I say. “I would like to get this completed before the season begins.”

Hell, I’m not even picky about the number. It can be anything. What I want is term. A commitment. And most importantly, a no trade clause. I like it here. It’s my favorite team I’ve ever played for, and I’ve played for a lot. I’m tired of being bounced around.

Sofia sighs on the other end of the line, then says, “I’ll call them again.”

“Thank you,” I huff out, then hang up my phone.

Maybe it’s time for me to get a new agent. Sofia hasn’t been the same since we split a year and a half ago when I was traded from Toronto to St. Louis. She didn’t want to move with me, but also, I didn’t want her to come. The relationship had long run its course; the little bit of chemistry we’d had was virtually nonexistent by the time I was traded. If things hadn’t been going as poorly as they were with the Toronto Royals at the time, I’d be suspicious she traded me on purpose to move along our breakup.

It’s my fault anyway. That’s what I get for dating my agent. But she represents most of the Russian players in the league at this point. It’s hard to walk away from someone with that amount of sway. Not that I feel like she’s doing much to help me now.

Maybe she’s right though. Maybe I should just sign a lease on a new place. It was dumb of me to not re-sign on my apartment. But I didn’t love living there. The team set me up in it when I got traded. It was always supposed to be transitional, not permanent.

Sighing, I open my phone back up again and go to my text messages. Just seeing the red notification bubble in the top right corner of the app is giving me anxiety. Two hundred plus messages and every single one of them is from the damn goalie group chat Ander added me to. Other than saying hello when he first added me, I haven’t said anything in there since. The speed at which everything moves in the chat is overwhelming and it’s full of inside jokes that fly right over my head. I’d leave it if I thought it was possible for my departure to go unnoticed, but something tells me that Ander is the type of guy who notices literally everything. Plus, I suppose it was nice of him to add me. Even if it all still seems a little strange. I bet he wouldn’t have added me during the cup finals. After is probably more of a gesture of obligation.

Whatever. Now is not the time to fret about Ander’s group chat or the red notification bubble associated with it that makes my eyes twitch. Quickly, I open it up so the red dot will go away, then I scroll down to find the text thread I have going with Ryan.

This is a much more manageable conversation. Mostly because it pretty much only consists of us double checking team details with each other like meet-up times or him inviting me out to Mickey’s for a drink. Ryan’s a good guy like that. Brandon, too, for that matter. Which is surprising considering who his brother is. The two couldn’t be any more different.

Do you know if your building has any open rentals?

I ask him over text.

It’s early afternoon, so I put my phone down. He’s probably taking a nap. But hopefully when he wakes up, he’ll get back to me.

I like the building he lives in. It’s new and clean, and located not too far from the stadium. I could probably walk to games sometimes if I liked. That would be nice. An easy walk on a nice day to get my mind right.

My old place was located near the practice rink too. But there was no walking there. The neighborhood wasn’t great and it meant the walk wasn’t exactly relaxing. And now, living at Danton’s place in the suburbs, I have to drive everywhere.

My phone chimes beside me and I pick it up. I’m surprised to see it’s Ryan, already getting back to me. I’m less surprised to see that, even though I just cleared the notification dot, Ander’s goalie group chat has twenty-six new messages on it already. At least I have it on mute. What on earth do they all have to talk about all day?

Clearing the notification dot, then flipping to Ryan’s, I read:

Dude. Fuck yes. Come over here immediately.

It’s stuff like this that makes me want to stay with the Mules. And why I’m so frustrated with Sofia’s lack of getting my contract sorted out. Finally, after bouncing from city to city for the last ten years, I have teammates who respond promptly to my messages. Teammates who actually seem to enjoy having me around. Teammates that I can call my friends.

Looking at his text again before responding, I am slightly confused by his use of immediately. Are open apartments going fast? Is there a rush?

Is Baby annoying you already?

I ask, and smile at my little joke. It’s clear to anyone who knows them how not crazy Brandon drives him, but we do all still love to tease them. Mostly because Brandon gets huffy about it pretty quick. He’s forever living up to his nickname, Baby.

Regular Bouchard and his new puppy have decided to visit. I need you to rent an apartment here so I can escape.

Ander’s in town? Interesting. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since his cup party. Which is fine. I wasn’t expecting to. Clearly, he’s been busy with his new puppy. He probably got something huge, or a boisterous golden retriever to match his personality.

Rising off my bed, I go to the closet and grab a bottle of my favorite vodka off the shelf. It’s unopened. I’ve been holding on to it, waiting until I sign my new contract to crack it open and have a celebratory drink. But why wait when I can use it now to teach Ander Bouchard a thing or two about what constitutes a good vodka?

I am on my way. I text Ryan, then grab my car keys off the dresser and head out of my room.

“You leaving?” Danton asks as I walk past him and his kids who are playing with their mini sticks on their knees.

“Going to look at a place,” I say, discreetly placing the bottle into my shoulder bag, which also contains any documents I might need for signing a lease as a foreigner. I’m not hiding the vodka from Danton, but I don’t really know what the protocol here is with his kids. And while I like them, I’m still not all that comfortable around them. They’re too messy. Loud. Unpredictable.