Silence on the line.
"That's what his choices got him. A career full of accolades and a funeral with twelve people."
"Ryder—"
"I need to think about this." I'm already standing, pacing the small room. "Can you stall them?"
"For how long?"
"I don't know. A few days."
Greg sighs. "I'll try. But they're not going to wait forever. And if you turn this down, there might not be another offer like it."
"I know."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're about to make the biggest mistake of your career."
Maybe. Or maybe I already made it three days ago when I walked away from the only person who's ever made me want something more than hockey.
I end the call. Throw the phone onto the bed.
The room is too quiet. I can hear my own breathing, ragged and uneven. Can hear the couple arguing in the room next door, the ice machine humming down the hall, the sound of my own cowardice echoing off beige walls.
Five years in Boston. Guaranteed money. First-line minutes.
Everything I thought I wanted.
But when I close my eyes, all I see is Lucy's face when I told her I needed space. The way her expression went blank. Empty. Like I'd confirmed every fear she'd ever had about being chosen last.
The album sits on the bed where I left it. I pick it up again. Look through the pages one more time.
There I am. Caught in moments I didn't know mattered. Looking at her off-camera in half the shots, my expression giving away everything I was trying to hide.
She saw it before I did. Saw us before I was ready to admit we were an “us.”
And I walked away four days later.
I close the album. My hands shake.
My father died alone. That's the truth I've been avoiding for years. He pushed everyone away—my mother, my sister, me. Chose his pride over connection. Chose being right over being loved.
I've been following his pattern exactly. Keeping distance. Running when things get hard because staying requires courage I've never had to show on the ice.
Lucy asked what I was running from. I said my career. But that's a lie I've told so long I almost believed it.
I'm running from the same terror my father ran from: letting someone matter more than the game. Building something that isn't measured in points and wins.
I open my phone. Pull up Lucy's contact. Her profile picture is from the food bank—laughing at something off-camera, flour on her cheek, eyes bright.
Her two texts sit there, unanswered. Waiting.
Hope you're okay.
We need to have a real conversation about this.
I should respond. Should tell her something. Anything. But every word I type feels inadequate.
I try:I'm sorry. I need to talk to you.
