Page 147 of Traded

I take a deep breath. “Honestly? I think…”

Fuck.Fuck.“I think there might be an issue. With my meds.”

“What issue?” Dick looks me over and then looks at Martin. “Remind me what you’re on right now?”

My coach grunts. “He’s with Adams. Same place we used for Laine.”

“Oxy,” I croak out. “They put me on oxy, and I… I’m losing track of my doses a bit.”

Fuck.Why is this so fuckinghard? I swipe my palms against my trousers, trying to get rid of the sweat. “It’s not a big deal. Just making me a bit out of sorts. Might need to talk to medical. Get back on a solid plan with Mina, you know?”

Dick’s face creases. “Well, we certainly can’t have you out of sorts. We can absolutely arrange that, of course.”

“Yeah?” I look between them, shoulders sagging. “I’d appreciate it.”

“End of the regular season’s a few games away.” Martin coughs heavily, twenty years of cigars trying to escape at once. “Look, son. You tell me you can’t play, I’ll pull you right now. Is that what you need from me?”

“What?” My eyes grow wide, panic hammering my chest. “Fuck, Coach.No. Fuck no. I want to play. Course I do.”

“Course you do,” Martin repeats. “And we want you to go all the way. We’ve put a lot of faith in you, son. A lot on your shoulders, I know. Kept you through the trade deadline. You could be one of the greats, you know? Hell, you already are. It’s all there, waiting’ for you.”

He leans in. “And I know how much you want it. It’s why I picked you out of every single player in the draft. Because you were fucking hungry, son. I saw it. I know you’ll fight for what you want, and you and I want the same damn thing.”

“You know what the next step is.” Coach surveys me under grey, bushy brows. “So you tell me the truth, right here and now, and I’ll run with it. Do I need to pull you?”

I fight to draw in enough air to speak.

If I pack it in now—that’s it. My season is done, and so are the Titans.

It’s surgery, and months away from the ice. End of my contract and no guarantee of another one, not with a fucked-up shoulder.

And if Ro and I are splitting from the pack… what the fuck else am I good for?

Playoffs arenext week. Two months left. And if I lift an Everly Cup, I can set whatever direction I want, even if my shoulder never gets back to full strength and I have to retire.

But right now, I have nothing. And nothing’s what I’ll have to offer Rosie if I give up.

I can’t give up.

My words are a croak. “No, sir. I’ll handle it.”

And my coach smiles at me. “Good lad.”

Chapter forty-one

Wet Blankets, Sad Rosie

No longer mourn for me when I am dead.

My body floats on a blissful haze of emptiness, and I let myself sink into the sensation like a warm, fluffy blanket.

Give warning to the world that I am fled.

No air sits within my lungs. No phantom collar tightens around my throat. Nothing exists but this moment, and me, and the faint, dulled memory of what it feels like to hurt.

I would rather be here. Whereverhereis.

In the distance, a voice is shouting. It’s annoyingly persistent. I’m rather enjoying my peaceful, floaty exit.