The Contract Clause

Don’t hang up.”

My agent’s voice cracked through the phone before I could say hello.

I was halfway out of my gear, sweat still cooling on my back after practice. The locker room was loud, but not loud enough to block the edge in his tone.

“What now?” I asked.

Silence.

Then, “We need to talk about your contract.”

My stomach tightened.

I stepped away from the noise, pushing through the locker room doors and into the empty hallway that led to the private offices. My skates clicked against the floor with each step.

“I already know about the trade clause,” I said. “You missed that one.”

“This isn’t about trade approval.”

I stopped walking.

“Then what is it about?”

Another pause. Papers shuffled on his end.

“It’s about the penalty clause attached to it.”

Cold slid into my chest.

“What penalty clause?”

“You really don’t remember signing it?”

My grip on the phone tightened. “Just say it.”

He exhaled. “If you refuse to play for the Frost Giants, or if you request a release within two years of the trade, you owe the organization the full remaining value of your contract.”

I leaned back against the wall.

“That’s not new,” I said. “Coach already told me that.”

“No,” my agent replied quietly. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just a standard breach f*e. It includes a personal damages add-on.”

My heart skipped.

“Personal damages?”

“Yes. For reputational harm to ownership.”

Ownership.

Nolan Pierce.

“How much?” I asked.

The silence this time felt heavy.

“Seventy-five million.”

The words didn’t make sense at first.

“That’s more than the contract itself.”

“I know.”

I stared at the blank wall in front of me.

“That’s not legal.”

“It is. You signed it.”

I laughed once. Short. Sharp. “I would remember signing away my life.”

“You were twenty-one,” he said softly. “It was your second year in the league. You were in a hurry. We were celebrating your extension.”

Memory flickered.

A small office.

A stack of papers.

Jaxon sitting beside me, knee touching mine under the table.

He squeezed my hand and whispered, “Just sign it so we can get out of here.”

I swallowed.

“Send me the copy,” I said.

“It’s already in your email.”

I hung up without another word.

My hands shook as I opened the file.

There it was.

My signature.

Sharp. Clear.

And beneath it, a clause I didn’t remember reading.

In the event of transfer to the Frost Giants organization, player agrees to fulfill full term without dispute. Breach results in financial penalty inclusive of reputational damages to ownership.

Transfer to the Frost Giants.

It was specific.

Too specific.

Why would that even be written into a contract when I played for a different team at the time?

Unless

My chest tightened.

Unless someone already planned it.

A door opened at the end of the hall.

I looked up.

Jaxon stepped out of the training room, sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from the shower.

He stopped when he saw me.

Something in my face must have given me away.

“What happened?” he asked.

I walked toward him slowly.

“When I signed my extension three years ago,” I said, “did you read it?”

His brows pulled together. “Why?”

“Just answer.”

He hesitated. “I skimmed parts of it.”

My pulse roared in my ears.

“Did you see a clause about the Frost Giants?”

His expression changed.

Not a shock.

Recognition.

And that was worse.

“There was a lot of paperwork,” he said carefully.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Why are you digging into this now?”

“Because if I walk away from this team, I owe seventy-five million dollars.”

His eyes widened slightly.

“That’s insane.”

“Yeah. It is.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Let me see it.”

I turned the phone toward him.

He read silently.

The longer he looked, the tighter his jaw became.

“You knew,” I said.

It came out quiet. Dangerous.

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You knew this was there.”

“No.”

“But you’re not surprised.”

“I’m surprised at the amount,” he shot back. “Not that there were conditions.”

“Conditions about your team?” I demanded. “Before I was ever traded?”

His silence stretched too long.

Something inside me cracked.

“Were you involved?” I asked.

The question hung between us.

His face went pale. “You think I would do that to you?”

“I don’t know what you would do,” I said, my voice rising. “Because one day we were fine, and the next you shut me out. Then somehow I’m locked into a clause that only benefits your owner.”

His eyes flashed. “You think I planned this trade three years ago?”

“I think someone did.”

“And you think it was me?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I hated that part of me even wondered.

He stepped closer, so close our chests almost touched.

“You really believe I would trap you?” he asked, voice rough.

“I believe I signed something I don’t remember agreeing to,” I said. “And you were sitting right next to me when I did.”

Flash.

That night came back sharp.

We had celebrated the extension at his apartment.

Cheap champagne.

Music is too loud.

He had lifted me onto the kitchen counter and kissed me like we had all the time in the world.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured against my mouth.

At the time, it felt like love.

Now it felt like a warning.

“I trusted you,” I said.

His face twisted. Hurt. Real and raw.

“And I trusted you,” he shot back. “You think I didn’t feel blindsided when you signed without telling me about the relocation talks?”

I froze.

“What relocation talks?”

His anger faltered. “What?”

“I never had relocation talks.”

He stared at me like I had just spoken another language.

“Yes, you did,” he said slowly. “You told me your team was considering a long-term deal with the Giants’ arena. That you might end up here anyway.”

“No,” I said. “That never happened.”

The hallway felt too small.

“You’re lying,” he whispered.

“I’m not.”

We stood there, breathing hard, years of hurt rising to the surface.

“Pierce,” I said suddenly.

Jaxon went still.

“What about him?” he asked.

“He owns this team. He’s the one enforcing the clause. Did he ever talk to you about me back then?”

His silence answered before his mouth did.

“Jax.”

“He asked questions,” he admitted quietly.

Ice slid through my veins.

“What kind of questions?”

“About you. Your goals. Your loyalty to your team. If you were happy.”

“And you answered?”

“I told him you were ambitious,” he said. “That you wanted to win.”

“Did you tell him about us?”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

The word felt like a punch.

“You had no right.”

“He was my owner,” he snapped. “He already knew something was going on. I thought if I was honest, it would protect us.”

“Protect us?” I laughed bitterly. “By giving him leverage?”

“I didn’t know about any clause!” he shouted.

The sound echoed down the hallway.

Footsteps approached at the far end.

We both looked up.

Nolan Pierce stood there, hands in his coat pockets, calm as ever.

“How nice,” he said smoothly. “You’re finally asking the right questions.”

My blood ran cold.

“You inserted it,” I said.

He smiled faintly. “You signed it.”

“Who told you to?” I demanded.

His gaze flicked briefly to Jaxon. Then back to me.

“Careful,” he said. “Accusations can be expensive.”

“Why was it so specific?” I asked. “Why the Giants?”

Pierce stepped closer, unbothered by the tension rolling off us.

“Because,” he said lightly, “some players perform best when they’re exactly where they don’t want to be.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting tonight.”

Jaxon moved slightly in front of me, a small protective shift he probably didn’t even realize he made.

Pierce noticed.

His smile widened just a little.

“The past has a way of catching up,” he continued. “Especially when contracts are involved.”

“You manipulated this,” I said.

He tilted his head. “Or perhaps I simply planned ahead.”

“For what?” I demanded.

His eyes held mine.

“For this.”

Then he turned and walked away.

The hallway fell silent again.

I stared after him, heart pounding.

Jaxon’s voice came softer now.

“I swear to you,” he said, “I didn’t know.”

I wanted to believe him.

God, I wanted to.

But the clause had been signed while I was in love with him.

While I trusted him with everything.

Now that same paper chained me to his team.

To him.

And as the weight of it settled in, one question burned hotter than the rest.

If Jaxon didn’t insert the clause

Who made sure it was there before I ever picked up the pen?