“Only if you’re the one running it,” I shoot back, shaking my head.
Charlotte sighs, amused. “Please don’t start reliving high school hockey. I’ll never survive it twice.”
We sit—Charlotte and I together, her dad and David opposite. The place is a small family steakhouse, the smell of wood smoke and steak feels comfortable and familiar.
Conversation starts easy. He asks about the Final schedule, how my knee’s holding up, what the locker-room feels like this deep in a series. His tone isn’t nosy—more like he’s cataloging details out of habit, the way a coach reads a stat sheet.
“It’s solid,” I tell him. “Feels good to lead again. The group’s focused, hungry.”
He nods. “That’s what you want to hear. You were always the steady one out there—glad to see that didn’t change.”
I smile. “Tried to hold on to a few good habits.”
David leans in, grinning. “He’s underselling it, Dad. The room’s night and day with him back in. Guys feed off it. You can feel it.”
“That right?” her dad says, smiling at him.
“Yeah,” David says. “And he still chirps the refs the same way you used to.”
“That’s called leadership,” I deadpan, which makes both of them laugh.
Halfway through dinner, Tom leans back, studying me. “You know, when I heard you and Charlotte were seeing each other, I thought, ‘Well, that’s a surprise.’ But watching you two tonight, it doesn’t seem like one anymore.”
Charlotte squeezes my knee under the table, half embarrassed, half touched.
“I appreciate that,” I say quietly. “She’s changed everything for me.”
He nods once, slow. “I can tell. She’s happy. That matters more than anything else.”
“And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way,” I say, meeting his eyes.
The air between us steadies after that. We drift to lighter stories: David’s coaching gig, his dad’s half-finished boat project, a few old high-school memories that make us all laugh.
David shakes his head mid-laugh. “And for the record, I still say you were offside on that championship goal senior year.”
“You’re out of your mind,” I tell him. “That puck was clean.”
“Sure it was,” Charlotte says, amused. “Funny how hockey players remember every goal from high school like it was the Cup Final.”
David laughs. “Especially the ones that weren’t goals.”
“You’re both delusional,” I tell them, grinning.
But beneath the laughter, something keeps pulsing under my ribs.
It’s not nerves, not even anticipation. Just certainty. The kind that builds when the last missing piece settles into place.
When the check’s paid, Tom shakes my hand again, firmer this time. “Good luck in New York,” he says. “Finish what you started.”
“Yes, sir,” I answer.
Then he looks at Charlotte, softening. “You take care of each other, alright?”
“We will,” she says, giving him a hug.
In the truck, Charlotte turns to me, that tired, soft smile still on her face. “You handled that perfectly,” she says.
“It went better than I hoped,” I say, arm wrapping around her.
