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A man once told Holden something very wise. He said “Be careful in your contract year, or you might end up costing more than your team can afford to pay.”
He followed that pearl of wisdom up with, “Can I have the last wing?”
Then, “Hey, fuck you, Chase, I’m paying.”
Holden would like to note that the reason he was paying was that he’d just signed an enormous deal with San Jose after playing the fuck out of his contract year, and, while he did price himself right out of Boston, he could comfort himself with the cool millions and the warm winters San Jose provided. Jonny could afford to let him have the last fucking wing.
He also has vague, drunken memories of Jonny loudly weeping in his kitchen later that night, something neither of them have spoken of since.
But Holden digresses.
He does that.
A man — not a wise man, no one would ever accuse Jonny of being wise — once said to be careful in his contract year, lest he be more expensive than his team could afford. And what did Holden do in his own contract year?
He tore shit up.
*
He hasn’t had contract talks with the Bruins, not really. It’s not that he hasn’t wanted to, but they kept saying ‘it’s still the season’, until it was the postseason, and any contract talks were put on hold indefinitely for obvious reasons, and then it’s locker clean out, the mood sour, and then it’s ‘we need to get all our ducks in a row’, which makes sense, because Holden isn’t going to come cheap, not after that performance, not right in his prime. And Holden doesn’t know what the fuck happens to the duck arranging, but he doesn’t hear shit after that.
Free agency keeps creeping closer and closer and Holden is not a patient person at the best of times, and he does not consider the offseason to be the best of times. It’s long — and the longer it is the worse you’re feeling about it — and involves all the hard work and effort of regular season hockey, with practically none of the fun shit. No proper games, which is hell. No change of scenery, no bright lights, no adrenaline rush, come from behind, get to be the hero moments. Just hard work.
And who’s he going to compete against, training buddies? Useless, they’re supposed to be on the same side, or at least pretend they are. Himself? Worthless, he’ll just get his ass beat by himself later, or never live up to it again. He can’t stand the offseason, and the contract situation is not helping. He’s tired of being one of the top names on the free-agent bait list. He doesn’t want to be the bait, he wants to be the anchor. Or some shit. He doesn’t know. He just knows he’s sick of this.
“Have we heard from the Bruins yet?” Holden asks his agent for the third time that week. The poor guy is probably sick to death of the question, but they’re technically the only team allowed to talk to his camp right now, not that Jason hasn’t been passing along vague ‘expressed interest’ messages, which apparently don’t count.
Most of the league seems to be interested in kicking his tires for the right price, which is flattering but not what he gives a shit about right now. Holden is already spoken for: nobody’s kicking his tires unless the Bruins no longer want to take him for a ride. Or maybe a different metaphor that makes him sound less like a used vehicle. He’s glad he workshopped that one in his head first instead of just blurting it out.
There’s silence on the other line. A long one, and Holden doesn’t think it’s Jason giving him time for his metaphorical adventure.
“Jason?” Holden says. “The extended silence is feeling kind of ominous, not going to lie.”
“The Bruins called,” Jason says. “Yeah.”
“And?” Holden says. “What are they offering?”
He wants to stay. He knows every player says that, but he knows most of them mean it too. Better the devil you know, for one. Also, moving’s a bitch and a half. New room, new system, new dynamic? Sounds fucking exhausting.
And Holden likes Boston. Genuinely he does. The fans will come down on you like a ton of bricks if you suck, but they’ll throw those bricks at other fans if they ever talk shit about you. Winters aren’t exactly warm, but they’re not upstate New York level either. Other than every single time he gets behind the wheel and takes his damn life into his hands — driving’s bad enough without throwing a bunch of Massholes into the equation — Holden feels like he fits here. The kind of fit that means he’s willing to leave a bit of money on the table. Not hometown boy level — not that you could pay him enough to play for Buffalo, and they’re the closest to a hometown team he’s got — but to play on a team with dudes he’s comfortable with, to stay in the first place he’s ever lived that feels like home, play house with Fiona until she leaves him for another man — okay, it’s probably hometown boy level, the discount he’d give them. Bad business to admit that though, even to his agent.
Jason still isn’t talking. That’s worrying. Holden’s decided to worry.
“More silence is more ominous,” Holden says. “How bad were the terms?”
“That’s the thing,” Jason says. “They didn’t suggest any.”
“I mean, what, nothing?” Holden asks. “They didn’t even bother to put an offer in? ‘No thank you we think giving you up for nothing after a career season is the way to go’?”
“They said they didn’t want to insult you by offering you less than you deserve,” Jason says.
“Did you tell them not offering anything at all is considerably more insulting than lowballing us?” Holden asks.
“I did, actually,” Jason says.
“Okay, good,” Holden says.
“They said they can’t afford it,” Jason says. “That anything they would have to swing to free up the space for you would cost too much, long term.”
“Yeah, that’s bullshit, it’s not more than they can afford,” Holden says. “They just don’t want to.”
“I’m just repeating what they told me,” Jason says.
“And Brandon Simcoe’s in his fucking thirties, but sure, they give a shit about long term,” Holden says. “They can have each other, I don’t fucking care.”
“That’s the spirit!” Jason says.
“Fuck those guys,” Holden says.
“Better off without them,” Jason says.
“You know,” Holden says, “a man once told me to be careful in my contract year, lest I end up costing more than the Bruins could afford.”
“Did I say that?” Jason asks. “I don’t remember saying that.”
“Nah, Jon Ingersoll,” Holden says. “Right after a contract year.”
“Isn’t he with the Sharks now?” Jason asks.
“Yeah,” Holden says. “He is.”
“Did he really say ‘lest’?” Jason asks. “Because, you know, I’ve met Jonny, and that really doesn’t sound like something he’d say.”
“I’m paraphrasing, here,” Holden says.
Jason‘s quiet again. “Do you want to talk about our plans for July 1st?” he asks after a moment.
“Yeah, fuck,” Holden says. “Guess I’m going to the meat market after all, huh?”
“That’s where the money is, right?” Jason says. “You’re about to be very a rich man, Chase.”
*
The money doesn’t even matter.
Okay, it’s not that the money doesn’t matter. If Boston had come to him with an insultingly low offer, he would have turned it down, obviously, as much for the slight as anything else. But of course, they didn’t, did they? Nothing more insulting having nothing to turn down in the first place. Holden thinks league minimum would have been less of a slap in the face than that ‘we don’t want to insult you’ shit.
There’s a lot to consider now that Holden knows he’s going to market, a lot more than money, though money does come into it. The same salary doesn’t go as far, playing for, say, the Rangers, as it does for the Panthers. Holden has to consider cost of living, income taxes, property taxes, all those angles, has to make a responsible decision.
Okay, Holden didn’t consider any of those angles, but his agency did, and they present them all to him with a fancy spreadsheet of what he’d be taking home after taxes and housing and all that shit. Holden was frankly impressed. Didn’t do more than skim it, but: impressed.
But while his agency was mocking up one hell of a spreadsheet, Holden was picking apart rosters, watching highlight reels, putting together a picture of where it was he’d fit in, what kind of minutes he’d be playing, how he’d be deployed. He wants to play with dudes that make him better, wants to punch up to the first line, not drive the second. Not that Holden doesn’t have drive, nobody would ever accuse him of that, but you want to play with and against the best, and that means first line minutes, first line lineys. First line salary doesn’t hurt either.
So it’s a little bit about the money, but it’s also about the minutes, and the role, and the fit. It’s not even about winning. He isn’t considering the full on bottom feeders, but he isn’t only looking at contenders either, and not just because he probably wasn’t going to get the minutes he wants on those rosters, let alone the term or salary.
Sure, Holden had a contract year. One hell of a contract year. He wants to do it again, but better this time. Wants to make it look like they got him cheap, make him look like a fucking steal. Wants Bruins fans to bitch and moan about letting him walk for nothing, curse management for keeping Brandon fucking Simcoe over him, even though his best days are behind him and Holden’s in his goddamn prime.
It’s not about money, not really.
If Holden’s being completely honest, mostly it’s about spite.
*
There are a couple drawbacks to signing with the Hartford Whalers, even when they give you an unholy amount of money and promise you PP1 minutes. One: Holden’s sex life is probably going to suffer, but that’s why god invented grindr and roadies. Besides, he’s suffering for a noble cause. You don’t get PP1 minutes just anywhere; it was one of the first damn questions Holden asked his suitors, after who they expected him to play with and before the kind of term they were offering.
The other, much more serious drawback is that Boston has Fiona, and Hartford doesn’t, and this time Holden doesn’t think Fiona is going to follow him where he goes.
Holden signs the contract. He goes from millionaire to much more millionaire-y than before. And then he sits Fiona down. She’s been flitting around anxiously, asking him questions, knowing it’s coming, but he’s been a locked box — hardest damn thing in the world, keeping shit from Fiona, but she didn’t want to influence him, and he didn’t want that either, so he’s been spending most his nights away from their place just so he won’t crack.
Telling Fiona is genuinely harder than the whole ‘we probably need to break up; relatedly, I’m really fucking gay’ talk back in high school. Then, he was afraid she’d never speak to him again. Now he knows he couldn’t get rid of her if he wanted to, but he also knows he’d be an absolute wreck living without her. And let’s be real: no one is hyped to move to Connecticut. No one has grown up dreaming of that moment, except maybe the kids who think going to an Ivy League school makes them interesting. Holden’s fucked enough Harvard boys to know it really, really doesn’t.
He shouldn’t even ask. She’s going to say no, and he can’t blame her. He’d say no in her place. His rookie year in Boston they were two shit scared kids clinging tight to each other because they had no one else, but now she has a job she loves, a boyfriend who almost deserves her. He’s not going to ask. There’s no point in asking.
He’s going to tell her he signed with Hartford, and she’ll be really happy for him, but she won’t come with him this time. And he’ll buy her plane and train tickets whenever she wants, and not just to Hartford, but New York, Washington, wherever she wants meet him, and he’ll be unselfish and leave her to a city she loves. Because he is older, and wiser, and more mature now than when he was a rookie, and he does not need his high school girlfriend to be his roommate as well as his best friend and confidante and parachute/safety net. That’s too much to ask of one person. It isn’t fair.
“Look, I’m not asking,” Holden says, after Fiona has squealed about how happy she is for him, and how much money that is, and how that isn’t so far, really, and holy shit, babe. He is a deeply selfish person, and he has made peace with that fact.
“Except that you are,” Fiona says.
“I’m not asking,” Holden firmly repeats. “Because it is one thing to say ‘hey, want to come live with me in Boston so I don’t climb the walls, I’ll pay for everything, it’ll be chill’ when your other option is, well.”
“Syracuse,” Fiona says.
“Syracuse,” Holden agrees. “But it’s a whole other thing to ask you to give up a job you like in Boston to come to fucking Hartford with me.”
“But you’re asking,” Fiona says.
“I am not!” Holden says. “We have established that I am not.”
“But you are,” Fiona says.
“But I am,” Holden says.
“Babe,” Fiona says.
“Oh fuck,” Holden says.
He knew, but he didn’t know. This is terrible. A disaster. Holden is going to die.
“No, no!” Fiona says. “Babe.”
“You can’t say no if I don’t ask!” Holden says. “I’m not asking, I take back the question!”
“Babe, babe, babe,” Fiona says. "You know I love you, and I love living with you. But we were like, kids when we moved here. I can’t just drop my job and —“
“You’re in love with him,” Holden groans. “Whatshisface.”
“You know his name,” Fiona says.
Holden honestly keeps losing it. He knows she doesn’t believe him, but he does. They’ve met at least half a dozen times, and Holden genuinely thinks he’s a decent guy, and he acts like he thinks Fiona’s made out of gold and cotton candy or something, which is exactly how she should be treated, and he isn’t weirded out by Holden’s relationship with her, which is a first, but his name? Who knows. He’d be mortified about it if he could experience the feeling.
“Tell me it’s not because of whatshisface,” Holden says.
“It’s not because of—“
“Liar!” Holden says, pointing at her.
“Okay, yes, I may have feelings for Sean,” Fiona says. “But that’s not the only reason.”
That’s it! Sean. The name of a quarter of the men in Boston, so it’s not Holden’s fault he keeps forgetting it.
“I can’t believe you’re ditching me for a guy,” Holden says. “A guy, Fee!”
“You’re also moving to Hartford,” Fiona says. “Maybe if you were going to New York or LA…”
“That’s fair, honestly,” Holden says. “I’m going to an extremely boring place.”
“Babe,” Fiona says. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m breaking up with you again,” Holden says.
“That’s fair,” Fiona says.
“You have to visit all the time, I’m going to die up there,” Holden says. “I’m going to fuck the two halfway decent looking dudes in town and then what?”
“Drive into New York?” Fiona asks. “Or come to Boston? Providence isn’t far, if you’re really desperate.”
“I’m not doing a 200 mile round trip for some dick,” Holden says. That, he did do the math on. That, he practically made a damn spreadsheet of his own. The results are in and they are not promising.
“Look on the bright side,” Fiona says. “It’s way less likely you’ll accidentally fuck a Bruins fan again.”
“Yeah, the locals quit cheering for the Bruins after they got their own team,” Holden says. “But what about accidentally fucking a Whalers fan? There have to be dozens of them, and that's half the population of Hartford right there.”
Fiona rolls her eyes.
“You have to laugh at my jokes, I’m sad,” Holden says.
“Oh babe,” Fiona says, pulling him in. “You’ll be fine without me.”
“Won’t,” Holden says into her chest.
“You will,” Fiona says. “This had to happen eventually, you know that.”
“Kind of figured we’d beat the odds,” Holden says. “Be one of those high school couples that actually lasts.”
Fiona snort-laughs. It sounds like she’s crying, which means Holden is just going to have to stay here with his face pressed into Fee’s boobs so he can pretend he doesn’t notice.
“I’m hiding in your boobs until you stop crying,” Holden says, muffled.
Or he could announce his plan. Apparently he’s announcing his plan.
Fiona snort-laughs again, this time more laugh than sniffle. "Hide as long as you'd like," she says.
Holden does.
“Why Hartford?” Fiona says, and she sounds composed enough that Holden thinks it’s safe to come up for air, even though the way she was petting his hair was extremely soothing.
“I don’t know,” Holden says. “Close to home?”
Fiona snorts. “Yeah right,” she says. “Try something believable.”
“Money?” Holden says, and gets a skeptical look. “Okay, fine, whim.”
“No!” Fiona says. “It was, wasn’t it!”
“Joke,” Holden lies. He did all the research, sure, but when Jason came to him with the serious suitors, all he could could think about what would piss them off the most, and divisional rival sounded good to him. Maybe it wasn’t a whim, but it wasn’t not a whim.
“Babe!” Fiona says. “You can’t decide where to spend six years of your life on a whim!”
“They offered me power play minutes!” Holden says. “I’m going to have good linemates!”
“Is this stuff you’re saying after the fact to make it seem less whimmy?” Fiona asks.
“No,” Holden lies again — well, half lies, the power play minutes really did seem important at the time, plus he can’t spite shit without good lineys, and James Erickson is a really good player — and this time he’s being hauled into Fee’s boobs against his will.
“What are you going to do in Hartford,” Fiona says. Holden hears ‘what are you going to do without me?’ instead, and the answer is, he doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know the answer to her actual question either. Holden doesn’t remember much about Hartford from roadies. Usually they’d hold off on going anywhere until New York, or it was a quick jaunt, all of them back in their own beds before the night was through. The impression he did get was quiet, restrained, and maybe that’s something Holden needs. Maybe he’ll grow to like it.
Beats the hell out of somewhere he isn’t wanted.
“Babe,” Fiona says, and when she squeezes him he squeezes back harder.