Trade Deadline - Avon Gale Page 0,100

Scott.”

“Emmitt. How’s Cabo treating you?” Scott’s smooth voice came across the line. Emmitt doubted his agent was wincing in the sunlight, fighting off a tequila hangover and sticky from salt-and-lime-encrusted body shots. He was probably in an office somewhere, in the air conditioning, wearing a tie.

Emmitt grinned and collapsed in the deck lounge chair. Hangover and stickiness aside, he was in a goddamn great mood and, if this call went the way he hoped it would, that mood was only going to get better. “Can’t complain. What’s up?” He knew his agent hated small talk.

“I have some news.”

Emmitt’s smile faded a bit, and his stomach churned gently with nerves. He told himself to ignore it, that it was just the remnants of tequila, beer and a long night, but he couldn’t help it. His instincts were the one thing he trusted, and they were telling him to beware some incoming bullshit. Scott never said “some news” if it was good.

“Oh, yeah?” Emmitt bent one knee, running a hand over his head. He kept his hair short during the season, but it’d grown out a bit since the Final. He’d shaved the playoff beard the morning after the epic party following their win and didn’t miss it for a second.

“This might come as a bit of a shock,” Scott said.

Goddamn it. That was the last thing you wanted to hear from your agent. Emmitt wished he’d grabbed a bottle of water from the hotel fridge before coming outside. It was so humid that a light sheen of moisture was beading on his skin. “What is it?”

“You’ve been traded.”

“What the fuck.” Emmitt swung his feet over the lounger and braced them on the tile of the balcony. The sharp tang of sea air and the roar of the waves faded into the background as he tried to wrap his brain around what he was hearing. “The Raiders fucking traded me? I won them a goddamn Calder Cup!”

Emmitt wasn’t exaggerating either. His team had played well, but he’d led the AHL the previous season in shutouts. His stellar season in net had been the primary factor in the Raiders winning the championship.

“Yes, and you proved yourself a valuable asset. Sometimes teams need to trade their valuable assets.”

Scott kept talking, but Emmitt was barely listening. Instead, he braced his elbows on his knees and stared down at the patterned tile. He’d been so sure that after the season he’d had—the shutouts, the Cup win—the Marauders would want him up on their roster full-time. He’d worked his ass off to impress them, and apparently he’d done it. He’d impressed them so much, they’d traded his ass somewhere else.

Here he thought the worst thing that could happen would be spending another season with the Raiders, the Marauders’ AHL team. It had never occurred to him the Marauders would think he was more valuable on the trade market than between the pipes.

“...good deal from Atlanta, it really is.”

Blinking, Emmitt snapped his head up. Which was a mistake, thanks to his hangover and the heat, but...what? “What? Atlanta?”

“The Venom,” Scott repeated. He sounded amused. “In the National Hockey League. That’s your new team.”

“Are you fucking with me?” Emmitt didn’t even know how to process this, because he’d been dreaming about this moment since he’d first given serious thought to playing hockey professionally. He was dizzy and the sun was too bright, and the headache throbbed and he didn’t even care. “If you’re fucking with me, dude—”

“I’m totally not,” Scott said, chuckling. “And, I’m allowed to tell you that you’ll most likely have a spot on the Venom’s roster.”

“What happened to Norell?” Emmitt asked, referring to the Venom’s starting goalie.

“Traded,” said Scott. “To the Admirals, for a couple of draft picks. It was an interesting deal.”

“So they’re going with Mori?” Emmitt stood up, staring off at the bright, turquoise gleam of the sea beyond the glittering pale blue of the infinity pool. The swim-up bar was deserted, a far cry from the raucous party it had been the night before. Everyone was probably sleeping it off like sensible vacationers.

Was it too early for a celebratory cocktail? No, his enthusiasm assured him.

Yes, his dehydrated and tequila-soaked veins protested.

“It seems like it,” Scott agreed. “But you’re both young enough, you know, if you put up a good showing in camp...”

Emmitt knew Scott was trying to imply—without promising—he might have a shot at the starting spot on the Venom if he brought his A-game to practice. Which, of course he would. Emmitt