Page 80 of Through the Water

Philly and Anaheim were both offering a three-year contract at two hundred seventy-five million. Boston and DC had come in with a seven-year contract at three hundred while Tampa and Chicago had gone with an underwhelming three years at one hundred fifty.

Frankly, I wasn’t surprised.

Under normal circumstances, the two clubs wouldn’t have approached me at all, but my injury had leveled the playing field. Now, they were all banking on me being desperate enough to agree to their bargain-basement pricing. If I came back better than before, then it was a steal. On the off chance I didn’t—well, the cost wouldn’t sink their franchise.

It seemed I’d been stripped of my crown, my achievements and records reduced to a mere byline in the history of the game.

I wasn’t baseball royalty anymore.

I was a liability.

“You know,” Theo began casually, scrolling through his phone. “If you’re unhappy with the offers—”

“It’s not that.” I fought to keep the bitterness out of my tone, even though I was basically restarting my career from scratch. “I’m grateful. Really. Just a lot to think about, you know?”

He nodded and slid his phone across the table. “I was actually going to say I’ve got one more I’d like you to take a look at—kind of a ‘best for last’ type thing.”

Houston Hurricanes-

13-year, $425m

I released a strangled breath, no longer able to feel my face. My eyes moved from the name down to the numbers, and then back again, convinced it was a typo.

“That’s—” I choked on the word. “But that’s more than their initial offer!”

He sat back with a grin. “You play to win, Killian. So do I. Now, it’s less than the sixty million you would have gotten per year with the first offer, but the longer contract means—”

“I can retire wearing cobalt blue and white,” I said, more to myself than him.

Sure—in the grand scheme of things—four hundred twenty-five million over the next thirteen years worked out to less money overall. It also meant I wouldn’t be competing against rookies for a contract at thirty-two-years-old either, though.

You couldn’t put a price tag on that.

Most major-league players peaked before the age of thirty while the all-stars and hall-of-famers typically didn’t hang up the cleats until their mid-thirties, or even early-forties.

In thirteen years, I’d be thirty-nine.

Barring future injuries, I’d get to go out on my own terms.

“I’ll let them know we accept—” Theo raised a brow. “That is unless you’ve suddenly grown fond of the idea of digging your goddamn car out every time there’s a blizzard.”

I shook my head, still in shock. “No, I’m a Hurricane.”

“Alright then.” He returned the papers to a leather messenger bag that was just pretentious enough to have his initials engraved in the middle. “Once their lawyers draft the contract, I’ll have yours look it over. If everything’s in order, I don’t see any reason that you wouldn’t be signed by the end of the week. Perfect timing, right?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Theo looked up with a frown. “You’re being discharged tomorrow, Killian. This gives you a chance to get home and get settled before doing the media circuit.”

“I thought I still had another week or two—”

His eyes narrowed. “Your physical therapist said you’d done remarkably well and recommended you for home therapy in his last report. I thought you’d be thrilled to be rid of this place.”

“I am,” I quickly added. True North, maybe. But not her. “I guess I was under the impression that I’d be the first to know.”

Rocky had said I was close but hadn’t given me an exact date. Then again, it wasn’t as if we’d ever really warmed up to each other.

Theo cracked another grin. “What do you expect? You’re a product, man. It’s not your job to know, it’s your job to perform.”

---