I FINISH TEACHING SHORTLY after nine that evening, but instead of walking home to my apartment, I head to Rory’s.
Maybe I’ll take some photos for him, I think with a coy grin. Ward has a no-phones policy in the dressing room, but Rory will see them after the game.
The night is chilly as I walk, and I’m overcome with the urge to text him. When I pull my phone out, though, a slew of messages and missed calls light up the screen.
Three from Pippa. A few from my dad. Texts from Hayden and a handful of other players and staff.
Call me, Pippa says.
“Finally,” she answers when I call. “Tell me what the fuck is happening.” She hesitates.
“Tell me.” People on the sidewalk flinch away from my sharp tone. “Rory might get traded.”
I stop walking, and every muscle in my body tenses. “What?” I ask softly.
No. I heard wrong.
“Rory might get traded,” she repeats, quieter. “I’m sorry.”
But—no. He loves playing for Ward, and he’s worked so hard to earn his spot on the team. Rory’s finally playing in a way that makes him happy. His teammates are like his brothers, and he’s developed into an incredible captain. He’s talking to his mom again.
I love him. He can’t leave Vancouver.
A weird noise comes out of my throat, but no words form. “Rumors started online this afternoon,” Pippa adds.
I’ve been teaching all afternoon, and my phone has been in my bag on silent.
“His dad confirmed the Storm have offers from other teams.”
I’ve seen this happen before. The trade rumors start and teams throw in their offers for a player in case there’s any legitimacy to them.
We love each other. I finally gathered the courage to say it to him, and now this? Our relationship is so new and fragile, and now that I’ve signed a studio lease, my dream is happening here. I can’t move. I can’t go with him unless I back out of the lease.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
We say a tense goodbye, and I open Google. The top search result is a video, and I open it right there on the sidewalk.
It’s Rory being interviewed in pregame press, wearing the same stricken look he wore during yoga that time, like he’s been blindsided. My eyes sting. He doesn’t want to leave the Storm, and my heart’s breaking for him.
“And your father and agent, Rick Miller,” the reporter says, “confirmed the presence of these offers.”
His jaw ticks. “I’m not leaving.” My eyes go wide. What is he doing?
“I love this team,” he continues, staring daggers at the reporter like it’s her fault he might get traded. “I love playing for Tate Ward, and I love my girlfriend. Her job and life are here and I’m not moving away from her.”
“Oh my god,” I murmur, heart pounding. “What did he just do?”
My eyes go to the time—the second period just ended. If I hurry, I can get to the arena and talk to Rory before the third period starts.
My unhinged, impulsive, heart-on-his-sleeve hockey player needs me.
