“Whoa, hold up,” I say, tackling him back down. “What kind of inhuman stamina do you think I have?”
A lot, apparently, because I’m hardening by the second. Luke takes a quick glance down before bringing his greedy hands to my cock, and a soft burst of energy radiates through me when he fists around it?—
My phone rings yet again.
God-fucking-damnit
“I either need to answer this very important call, or block whatever scammer is blowing up my phone,” I mutter, slipping into sweatpants.
Waiting on my phone are three missed calls from my agent, Derek, and a text that says “call me when you see this.”
My breath catches. That doesnotinspire confidence. At all.
I run out of Luke’s bedroom and call Derek back. He picks up immediately.
“Hi, Derek, what’s going on?” I say, speaking quietly.
“Thanks for getting back to me. Are you sitting down?”
Oh god, this can’t be good.
My stomach clenches, sending a pang of nerves through my chest and into my throat, and I crumble onto Luke’s sofa.
“I am now.”
Derek sighs, hesitating for an excruciating second. “I’ll be straightforward with you. Charlie Cortez got bumped down from the Laurentians for development. Your team is facing a salary squeeze because of this, so they’re moving you back to your old team in Sweden.”
I almost drop my phone.
No.No no no. This can’t be happening. Not now.
“What?”
Clearing his throat, Derek repeats himself. “Cortez, from your team’s NHL affiliate, is being bumped down for recovery. There isn’t enough room in the budget to accommodate everyone, and you’re the only player on a dual contract with the Swedish Hockey League. Your team over there has agreed to exercise their rights over you for the rest of your contract and then re-sign you, contingent on good performance.”
“Do I have options?” I ask, desperation creeping into my voice. “What if I want to stay in Toronto?”
“You’re under contract. Either you accept the so-called loan to Alvik in Sweden, or you break your legally binding agreement and get boycotted by every professional league in North America and Europe.” There’s a pause. “Then you’d have your pick of beer leagues and nothing else.”
“Okay, I got it,” I mutter.
“Look, I’m sorry. Apparently, it was the only way to balance things without cutting three junior players, and I hate to be harsh, but trades and contract complications are part of the game.”
“I know. It fucking sucks and I don’t want to move, but what can I do?” My teeth are gritted, my words come out as growls, and I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
“Jeez, Erik. Are you okay?”
I grunt out my reply. “No, I’m not.”
“Wait. Did you meet someone? Is that why you're?—”
“Yes.”
“Is it serious?”
“It was about to be.” I catch myself—I shouldn’t take this out on Derek. It isn’t his fault. “Sorry. I’m being unreasonable. Just in a weird place right now.”
“You’re good, no harm done.” Derek clicks around on his computer. “The league will book you a flight that leaves in a week, and then Alvik will let you know when you’re starting with them.”
