Page 118 of Left-Hand Larceny

“Flatter me later. What’s up?”

I sit across from her and pull out my phone. Turn it so she can see the email.

Her expression shifts.

“Edge Line?”

I nod.

“Full offer?”

“Full r-reinstatement. P-plus more. My agent w-w-wants to s-set a call.”

She leans back. “Damn. Congrats… I think?”

I shrug. That’s the problem. I’m not sure if it is one. Tristan studies me, then closes her laptop and gives me her full attention.

“Talk to me.”

So I do.

I tell her how it started—why I asked Sadie for help. What it felt like to be dropped. The pressure to be something shinier. Louder. Easier to sell.

And how different it feels now.

“It’s not j-just about m-m-money,” I say. “It’s about b-being w-wanted. But I don’t know i-if I want t-t-to go back to s-someone who m-m-made it clear I wasn’t w-worth holding onto.”

She nods. “Because now you’ve got people who see you. Actually see you.”

“Sadie d-d-does,” I admit.

“She’s not the only one,” Tristan says gently. “Have you read your post comments lately?”

I shrug. I’m not comfortable with that kind of thing, so I avoid it.

“You should. They’re not asking for perfect. They’re asking for you. The guy who geeks out over crossword puzzles and goalie gear and teaches his dog Icelandic commands.”

I blink. “I c-can’t h-h-hide the stutter.”

Sadie doesn’t seem to notice, neither to Amma, or Kat, or any of my teammates, really, but the rest of the world has never given grace to those with speech disorders. A certain former president comes to mind.

“They love the stutter. Because it’s real. And it’s you.”

I exhale. “So, w-what are y-y-you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe you don’t need Edge Line. Maybe we build something from scratch. A real campaign. You, on your terms. We pitch it to smaller brands that care about people, not just polish. Or we go grassroots. Soft launch. Fan-first.”

She pauses. “I’ll help if you want, or you can set up the call and take the deal. There is no right or wrong answer here.”

I stare at her.

It’s tempting. Terrifying. But also… right. I didn’t come back from an injury to pretend to be someone else. I came back to play. To love. To live. And maybe this version of me doesn’t need permission to be valuable.

I go home, walk Howl, make tea the way Sadie likes it, and sit down at my desk with the window cracked open to let the cold air keep me honest.

I open the Edge Line email again.

It still reads like a win. The kind of second chance I was supposed to crave. But I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I don’t need them to tell me I’m worth something when I already know it. Not when Sadie looks at me like I hung the damn stars. Not when Tristan believes in my voice. When my teammates celebrate me without needing to perform for the cameras.

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