Page 57 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
“They would if they’re worried about your knee long-term. Seattle’s rebuilding, looking for a veteran presence, and they’re willing to take the risk.” Tom sighed heavily. “Nothing’s official, but my sources are solid.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. “Timeline?”
“Nothing’s official, but it could happen before the deadline—three weeks, maybe sooner.” He paused. “I know this complicates things with your...situation.”
Kate. He meant Kate.
“I’ll call you back,” I said, ending the call before he could respond.
Trade rumors weren’t new in my career, but this felt different. The timing was fucking devastating. Just when my knee was improving, just when Kate and I were figuring things out, just when I’d started to imagine a future beyond this season—Seattle. Three thousand miles from Minneapolis. From Kate.
I drove home in a daze, gripping the steering wheel like it could hold me together. How the fuck was I supposed to tell her? We’d barely defined what we were to each other, and now I might be ripping us apart before we’d truly begun.
When I unlocked the door to my apartment, the scent of something burning hit me immediately.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Kate’s voice carried from the kitchen, followed by the clanging of pans and the high-pitched beep of the smoke detector.
I rounded the corner to find her frantically waving a dish towel beneath the alarm, a blackened pan smoking on the stove behind her. Her hair was escaping from its messy bun, cheeks flushed with exertion.
“Need some help?” I asked, unable to stop the small smile tugging at my lips despite the weight in my chest.
She whirled around, her eyes wide. “I was trying to make you dinner!” She gestured helplessly at the charred remains. “I wanted to surprise you since you’ve been cooking for me, but apparently chicken has a very narrow window between salmonella-inducing and carbon-dating material.”
I grabbed a chair, reached up to disable the smoke detector, then moved to open windows.
“It’s the thought that counts,” I said, watching her scrape the blackened remains into the trash.
“The thought was supposed to come with edible food.” She sighed dramatically. “This is why I stick to science. Bacterial cultures are much more predictable than cooking times.”
I walked up behind her, slipping my arms around her waist and burying my face in her neck. She smelled like vanilla and some kind of floral shampoo, layered with the distinct scent of burnt chicken. I breathed her in, suddenly terrified by how essential her presence had become in my life.
“Hey,” she said, turning in my arms to face me. Her smile faded as she studied my expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lied, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
She pulled back, eyes narrowing. “Austin Callahan, I research microorganisms for a living. I can spot something microscopic that’s off. You’re about as subtle as a bacterial bloom on agar.”
I should’ve known better than to try bullshitting a scientist.
“Tom called,” I said, dropping my arms and leaning against the counter. “There are trade rumors.”
Her brows furrowed. “Trade? Like, to another team?”
“Seattle,” I confirmed, watching her face carefully. “Nothing’s official, but my agent’s sources are solid.”
“Seattle,” she repeated, her voice flat. “As in, Washington state Seattle? Three time zones away Seattle?”
“That’s the one.”
Kate took a step back, her scientist brain visibly processing this new data. I could practically see the equations forming behind her eyes—calculating distance, time differences, flight durations.
“When would this happen?” she asked, her voice measured in a way that made my chest ache.
“Before the trade deadline. Three weeks, maybe less.”
“And what does that mean exactly? You’d just...go? Immediately?”
I nodded, throat tight. “Pretty much. I’d have a couple days to pack essentials. The team handles shipping the rest.”
