My brain lagged three seconds behind my mouth, which was already forming words. "Guess they've finally forgiven me for that rap about their mascot."
Coach Monroe's laugh was sharp and brief. "Kid, if I held grudges about mascot disrespect, I'd never find players. You interested or not?"
"Interested in what, exactly?"
"Two-week injury replacement. Emergency recall. You'd need to be in Rockford tomorrow afternoon for practice the next morning." He paused, and I heard papers rustling in the background. "No guarantees beyond that. You play well, maybe we can talk long-term. You don't, you go back to Thunder Bay."
The kitchen tilted slightly. Not metaphorically—actually tilted, like someone had bumped the foundation of the building and everything was sliding just enough to notice.
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow. I need an answer now, Riley. Got two other guys I can call if you're not interested."
Two other guys. Right. Because this wasn't fate or destiny or the universe finally paying attention to my highlight reel. This was just early morning roster management, and I was option number one on a very short list.
Still.
The AHL. One step from the show. Real money, real recognition, and everything I'd been chasing since I was twelveyears old and decided hockey was the only thing that made sense in my life.
"Yeah." The word fell out of my mouth before my brain could catch up and start listing all the reasons to think twice. "Yeah, I'm interested."
"Good. I'll text you the details. Don't fuck this up, Riley."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, trying to process what had just happened. My thumb was still hovering over the screen when I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Evan appeared, hair damp from the shower and wearing the gray hoodie I loved. He moved with his typical morning efficiency—straight to the electric kettle, filling it with water and plugging it in.
He said nothing about me standing frozen in place, phone in hand, with a face as white as a sheet.
"Everything okay?" he asked, not looking at me.
"That was Coach Monroe. From Rockford."
"And?"
"Two-week emergency. Injury replacement." I tried to inject some enthusiasm into my voice, making it sound like the good news it was supposed to be. "I leave tomorrow."
"Tomorrow."
It wasn't a question. Only repeating the word back to me in that flat tone that meant Evan was processing information at lightning speed and coming to conclusions I couldn't see yet.
"Yeah. Tomorrow afternoon. Practice the day after that." I shoved my hands into my hoodie pocket to stop them from shaking. "It's only temporary. Two weeks, maybe less if their guy heals up faster than expected."
Evan nodded once, sharp and decisive. "Congrats."
His voice was quiet and sincere and heavier than the news from Rockford.
I'd been waiting for that call my entire adult life. I'd dreamed about it, planned for it, visualized it happening in a dozen different ways. I'd never imagined it would feel like this—standing on the edge, trying to decide whether I wanted to jump.
"Thanks." I immediately tried to figure out why the word sounded like an apology.
When I arrived for practice at the Barn, I walked in with what I hoped was conquering hero energy. I'd slung my gear bag over one shoulder, trying to channel the version of myself that belonged in highlight reels instead of blooper compilations.
"Guess who's going big league, boys?"
The words bounced off the concrete walls and died somewhere near the equipment bins. Twenty guys in various states of undress turned to look at me, but nobody rushed over for the congratulatory pile-on I'd been half-expecting.
