I stare at the message for a long moment. I’m exhausted, but I know I can’t read the statement Brian drafted. I also can’t continue like this, seeing Lena at work, not kissing her, not pulling her into my arms. She is the one with the unique skills here, and she can’t afford to lose this job.
So, I pull up stats on teams within driving distance of Pittsburgh. Cleveland. Columbus. Hell, Detroit is only five hours away. I start to wonder how quickly Brian could get me traded. I’d have to live away from my twin, from my family. From Lena. But the weekend visits would be worth it.
I am considering texting Brian about setting up a trade. I envision the steps afterward … leaving the team. Leaving the city that’s always been my home. Can I bear it?
For Lena, yes. In a heartbeat.
But would she even want that sacrifice? Would she acceptit, knowing what the Fury means to me? I would make that trade if it meant keeping her in my life as a partner. Hockey is what I do, but Lena is becoming who I am.
I lie on the floor next to my dog and ask his opinion on moving. He stares at me like I’m nuts. “Well,” I tell him. “Something’s going to change tomorrow. Not sure what, but I’m at least going to tell the truth.”
My new suit fits perfectly, as expected. The Stag brothers have kept the same tailor for years—an older Serbian man specializing in fitting enormous athletes. Even Tucker, who hates dressing up, admits that Gregor's suits make us look "less like hulking monsters, more like James Bond on growth hormones."
I adjust the jacket, checking my bruised jaw in the mirror. The discoloration has faded to a yellowish purple, still visible but no longer the angry red it was days ago. My knuckles have healed faster—the joys of access to professional medical support.
My phone rings—Brian again as if sensing my wavering commitment to his sanitized statement.
"Morning, sunshine," I answer.
"Tell me you're going to stick to the script." No greeting, just straight to the point. Classic Brian.
"Good morning to you too, Brian. Yes, I slept well, thanks for asking."
"Cut the crap, A-Stag. This is about damage control. Say the words, look contrite, move on. Don’t you want a milk ad like your brother?”
I sink onto the edge of my bed, Gordie immediately jumping up to lay his head in my lap. "What if there's something more important than damage control?"
A long, exasperated sigh comes through the speaker. "There isn't. Not in professional sports."
"Maybe there should be."
"Save the philosophy for off-season charity galas—oh wait, you punched someone at the last one." Brian's tone sharpens. "Just stick to the script, Alder. Please."
I end the call without promising anything, which will drive him crazy. Good. Let him sweat a little.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tucker:
Don't let Brian neuter you. Say what you need to say. We've got your back.
I smile and type back:
Thanks, Fucker. See you there?
His response is immediate:
Front row. Gun too. Even called Dad and Odin to watch online.
The support of my family steadies me as I finish getting ready. Whatever I decide to say today, I won't be standing alone.
The Fury facility has more media presence than I expected for what should be a routine disciplinary press conference. News vans from all the local stations crowd the parking lot, and a cluster of reporters hover near the entrance like vultures waiting for something to die.
"Quite the turnout," I mutter as I navigate them, ignoring shouted questions.
Once inside, I'm immediately intercepted by Melissa Chen, the team's PR director. Her expression is a familiar mix of professionalism and barely concealed stress.
"There's been a change to the program," she says, walking briskly beside me toward the conference room. "Dr. Sinclair will be presenting a new player safety initiative after your statement."
My step falters. "Lena will be there?"
