still stunned, staring at his phone and the unanswered texts, trying to process just what had happened, when his agent called. Maybe she had good news. Maybe this was all some kind of bizarre press-office fuckup. He hit the screen so hard it hurt his thumb. “Tell me I’m dreaming,” he said instead of hello. To her credit, Diane didn’t sigh. “I’m sorry, Ryan.” Fuck. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the skin between his brows. “The Fuel?” They played in the Western Conference, so Ryan had only played them twice a year. Three years ago they’d drafted Nico Kirschbaum, a first-round pick who
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