Page 49 of In Too Deep

Ring.

He probably won’t answer anyway, because I didn’t give him my number. No one answers random calls from numbers they don’t have saved these days.

Rin–

“Hello, Miss Strauss.”

I jump as the deep voice practically purrs through the phone speaker, my heart plummeting to somewhere around my knees.

“H-how did you know it was me calling?” I ask, cursing myself for stumbling over my words.

“I have my ways,” Gideon replies, and I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.

I roll my eyes at that. Gideon might be intimidating, and maybe another omega or woman would swoon, but that sort of arrogance only grinds my gears. Though, in the pause I take to stop myself from scoffing, I hear some sort of shouting in the background. The words are muffled, but the voice is angry.

“I assume you didn’t call just to chat. Is there a question about my team you need answered?” he asks into the silence.

Straining my ears, I try to pick up any other hints of what he might be up to. But he must have walked away from whatever ruckus I’d interrupted, as there’s only silence.

“The NHL Network emailed us for comment on trade rumors,” I drone in my attempt to hide my nerves behind a wall of feigned boredom.

Gideon hums in thought. “Who are they wondering about?”

I swallow, taking another breath before I list the names from the email. Thankfully, I manage to get them all out without any noticeable catches in my voice. I pull the microphone away from my mouth for a moment, letting out a harsh exhale as I try to get it together. I can only blame my crazy hormones for why I’m so fucking nervous. Gideon has never had this effect on me before, and I can’t let him see how he’s getting under my skin.

“I’ve heard a few offers for Hughes, but I’m hesitant to trade him right now just for short-term success. He’s young, but you wouldn’t know it from the way he plays. I’m hoping McQueen bumps him up a line next season,” Gideon says, and I blink at the bald honesty in his voice.

Scrambling for my laptop, I open a blank document and start typing out notes, balancing my phone on my shoulder as I listen intently.

“LeBlanc is here until his contract is up. He’s a solid anchor on the fourth line and is incredible on the penalty kill. Ozolins, however, is someone I might package with prospects and picks for the chance at scorer rather than a fighter. No takers yet, but there’s still six weeks till the deadline, so you never know who’ll bite.”

My heart pounds as I do my best to keep my breathing even and my responses neutral. This is all valuable information, and it’ll help me with future inquiries as well as the one at hand. Butit’s like he knows what I really want to hear and is purposefully dancing around it. Especially as he starts going through the roster player by player and telling me about his plans or offers that have been floated. A few names are safe. Dallas. Spencer. Elijah. The Pair of Ovs. But everyone else is on Gideon’s list of potential trade fodder.

“Bouchier is a good backup, but I have faith Kala can carry us through. Could be worth putting Gabe out as an option, but the only teams who could need a new goalie are so far out of contention and, with a few exceptions, don’t have anything we could use.” Gideon continues, almost like he’s talking to himself now.

“What about Ace?” I blurt, not able to stand it for a moment longer.

Gideon stops and goes silent. My skin breaks out in goosebumps, as if I can sense his stern glare across the telephone. But I don’t take it back, not willing to show weakness.

“The Avs asked about him, and so did St. Louis. But they aren’t offering enough for me to consider giving one of our best skaters to a division rival. But if someone like the Rangers or even Tampa steps up to the table...”

The words fall like lead weights into my gut. Some irrational part of me had been holding out hope that he would consider my opinion, but I should have known better.

“Do their agents know?” I ask, a rasp at the edge of my voice I don’t like.

Gideon releases an annoyed sigh. “They don’t have to tell their clients anything until a deal is on the table.”

Fuck. Oli has been working so hard to get back out on the ice, not knowing about the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. And Logan doesn’t know that half the starting roster is up for trade. Things have finally clicked for Leroy, and he’s actuallycreating scoring opportunities, rather than giving them up to the opponents.

“Does that answer your questions, Miss Strauss?”

Gideon’s question is a low, dangerous purr. Like he’s trying to bait me into giving away the secret. Maybe if we were in the same room, he might have gotten his wish. But I have the benefit of being safely locked in my executive box, with a locker room full of hockey players who will punch first and ask questions later if I so much as mentioned feeling uncomfortable.

“It does, Mr. St. Clair. Thank you for your time.”

I don’t wait for his approval before pulling the phone away from my ear and ending the call. I might hear about my “lack of professionalism” and “improper client communication” later. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it felt really good to get some control back in this situation. And I use that righteous indigence to craft what might be the most unhelpfully vague email I might have ever written.

Hello Paul—

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