The words landed like lead in my gut. I'd known this was coming—had been bracing for it since my last birthday—but hearing it spoken aloud made it real in a way I wasn't prepared for.
"What are my options?"
Weston leaned back, crossing his arms. "You could test free agency. There are teams that would grab a veteran goaltender with your numbers. But..." He hesitated.
"But?"
"But I don't think that's what you want." His eyes met mine, sharp and knowing. "You've found something here, Taz. With this team. These players." A pause. "This organization understands things other teams don't."
The way he said it made my dragon stir—not in alarm, but in recognition. Like he was speaking a language I'd forgotten I knew. I gazed at him. He wasn’t a dragon, I knew that. Or one that could shift, certainly. But maybe he knew more than I thought. Trusted humans weren't detectable in the same way a dragon recognized another dragon.
"What exactly are you saying?"
Weston smiled. "I'm saying that Coach Kinkaid has been your biggest advocate in every meeting I've had with management. He's the reason you haven't been traded already. He sees something in you that goes beyond stats and age."
Kinkaid. Another dragon, watching out for his own.
"He fights for you," Weston continued. "Every single time. And in my experience, when someone like Theron Kinkaid decides you're worth protecting, there's usually a reason."
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning I wasn't sure I was ready to unpack.
"You know," I said carefully, "most agents would just tell me to take whatever deal I could get."
"Most agents don't represent the players I represent." Weston's expression shifted—something almost wistful crossing his features before it disappeared. "I've learned that some things matter more than contracts and endorsement deals. Connection. Belonging. Finding the place where you fit."
My dragon pressed against my ribs, curious now. There was something about Weston—something familiar that I couldn't quite place. Not the hum of another dragon, definitely, but something adjacent. Something that recognized what I was, even if I couldn't sense the same in him. The real problem was thatdragons lived a hell of a long time looking like they were fifty. But we had the hockey player life expectancy of a regular human.
"What do you recommend?" I asked.
"I recommend patience." He set aside his tablet, giving me his full attention. "Let me work on the front office. Kinkaid has influence, and he's using it. In the meantime, focus on what you're doing here—on the ice and off it."
I thought about Cinder. About last night. About the way he'd looked at me when he saidI'm not most people.
"And if they don't offer an extension?"
Weston's smile turned warmer. "Then we figure out the next chapter together. But Taz?" He leaned forward slightly. "I have a feeling this story isn't over yet. Not by a long shot."
I couldn’t help texting Cinder as soon as I got out of the meeting. The team was meeting for dinner tonight, and that meant the whole team, support staff included. I desperately wanted him to go.
The restaurant Seph had chosen was tucked into a side street in Gastown, candlelight, the kind of place that felt like a secret. He'd booked the entire back room, which meant a long table that seated all of us: players, staff, Nancy, the equipment guys, even Phoenix, who'd wedged himself between Cole and Max like he'd been part of this team forever.
Cinder sat beside me.
Not across from me. Not at the other end of the table. Right there, close enough that our elbows bumped when we reached for the breadbasket, close enough that I could smell whatever soap he used—something clean and sharp, like eucalyptus.
"You're staring again," he murmured, not looking up from his menu.
"You're worth staring at. I thought we established this."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Repetition doesn't make it less embarrassing."
"For you, maybe. I'm having a great time."
He kicked me lightly under the table, and something warm bloomed in my chest that had nothing to do with temperature regulation.
The dinner was loud in the best way. Max was telling an increasingly embellished story about the time he'd accidentally locked himself in a storage closet during a road game in Nashville, complete with dramatic hand gestures that nearly knocked over Keegan's wine glass. Keegan caught it without looking—reflexes that had nothing to do with hockey or his dragon and everything to do with months of practice sitting next to Max.
"—and the equipment manager just left me there," Max was saying, his accent thickening with indignation. "For forty minutes. I missed warmups."