Chapter 3- The offer

Norman stepped out of the rental car in front of the five-star hotel he always chose when scouting. He leaned against the hood, dialing a number he knew would take a few rings before being answered. Typical James Carter, always making people wait.

“Norman, my guy,” James’s smooth drawl finally came through. “How’s it going? Found our hidden talent yet?”

“Mr. Carter, the plan worked,” Norman said, adjusting his tie. “Looks like Wolfe isn’t as valuable to the Flyers as everyone thought.”

James laughed. “Norman, what have I always told you? We see the long term benefits and one of them is getting him to win us the Stanley cup. If the Flyers do not value him, he Blackhawks are ready to take him in.”

“Yeah,” Norman said slowly. “But I have to warn you, Wolfe’s not in good shape. He’s going through a rough patch. It could jeopardize his career.”

“We’ve monitored him for almost a year,” James replied. “We’re not letting him slip through our fingers. Whatever ‘rough patch’ he’s in, a paycheck will fix it.”

Norman shook his head. Always money with Carter.

“Mr. Carter…”

“Norman,” James cut him off, “if that’s all, I’d like to get back to the hot stripper in my bed.” And just like that, the line went dead.

Norman pocketed his phone with a sigh. Wolfe and Carter were destined to clash, one refused to take orders, the other expected absolute obedience. But it wasn’t Norman’s problem. His job was simple: follow orders. Phase one was complete. Time to finish the job and close this deal.

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The address Wolfe had texted led him to a low-lit building blaring bass loud enough to rattle the street. This wasn’t a bar, it was a strip club. The neon sign confirmed it: The Slutty Pumpkin.

Norman frowned. He hadn’t pegged Wolfe as the type. But maybe he didn’t know the player as well as he thought.

Inside, heat and perfume hit him like a wall. Bare-chested dancers spun on poles, bills raining over them as men and women hollered from plush booths. The air shimmered with sweat, alcohol, and lust.

A text lit up his phone: VIP section.

He made his way past the bar, asked the bartender for directions, and followed a neon arrow down a short corridor. The VIP lounge was a world apart, softer lighting, expensive couches, champagne towers glinting under crystal fixtures. Strippers here were naked but for the masks to protect their privacy, pouring wine straight into patrons’ mouths, bodies pressed close like living luxuries.

And there he was. Atlan Wolfe, hood pulled low, bruises shadowing his face, half-hidden in a corner booth with a drink in hand and another waiting.

Norman slid into the seat across from him. “Didn’t peg you for a strip club regular. Don’t get me wrong, you’re gay, sure, but…”

Atlan’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “How did you know?”

“Relax, cowboy.” Norman raised his palms. “Your secret’s safe. We make it our business to know everything about the people we invest in.”

Atlan studied him warily. “You said you had something to offer. Make it quick.”

“Straight to business. I like that.” Norman swirled his whiskey. “Tell me, Wolfe, how does it feel to be the best player in the league without a team?”

“Go to hell.”

“Hell’s where you’re headed if you keep this up,” Norman said evenly. “But lucky for you, I’ve been authorized to throw you a lifeline. Carter Enterprises wants you.”

“Yeah, I gathered that much.”

“You don’t get it.” Norman leaned in, voice low. “George Carter doesn’t just sign players. He builds empires. Sponsorships, media deals, influence. You wouldn’t just play, you’d dominate. Money, power, fame. Men, women, the whole world at your feet.”

Atlan let out a bitter laugh. “Sounds like a sales pitch. What’s the catch?”

“Control,” Norman said simply. “Carter won’t bankroll chaos. You’ll keep your fists to yourself, temper locked down, image spotless. No brawls. No scandals. He’s buying a brand, not a wrecking ball.”

The word scorched Atlan’s chest. Control. Always control. His team wanted it. His grief demanded it. Now Carter, too. He wanted to walk away, spit in Norman’s smug face. But the truth pressed down harder than pride: without a team, without a future, he had nothing.

“I’m not a puppet,” he growled. “If your boss wants me, he gets all of me. The goals, the fire, the fight. But I don’t sell out. Not for anyone.”

Norman smirked, unfazed. “Good. Carter likes fighters. He wants to meet you himself. On Monday, midnight, his penthouse.”

Atlan hesitated. Midnight. Something about it felt wrong. And Carter Enterprises, he knew the name, knew George Carter, the owner who was one of the richest moguls in the country, but not why he wanted him.

“And if I say no?”

Norman’s smile sharpened. “Then you go back to nothing. And nothing doesn’t suit you, Wolfe.”

Atlan stood abruptly. “Then I’ll take my chances. No deal.” He shoved past him toward the exit.

The moment he opened the door, chaos erupted.

Flashbulbs exploded. Reporters shouted over each other.

“Mr. Wolfe, is it true you were kicked off the Flyers?”

“Why was your contract terminated?”

“Are you signing with another team?”

Blinded, Atlan froze. Cameras shoved in his face, mics rattled against his chest. His pulse thundered, someone had tipped them off.

Then, a hand slid around his shoulder. Norman’s voice rang smooth and steady:

“Mr. Wolfe was not terminated. He resigned and will be joining the Chicago Blackhawks. Let’s make sure we report facts before harassing people.”

The crowd roared louder.

“The season starts in three months, will he play qualifiers?”

“No further questions tonight. Respect his privacy,” Norman said, steering Atlan firmly through the crush and into his car.

The doors slammed shut, muffling the frenzy outside. Atlan turned, fury cutting through his shock.

“That was you,” he snarled. “You set me up.”

Norman’s smirk widened just slightly. “Welcome to the Blackhawks, Wolfe. I'm sure Mr Carter will be delighted to know you've changed your mind.”