"Mm?"
"Proud of you."
I settle against his chest, his arm coming around me like it's always belonged there. "I know," I whisper, smiling into the dark. "Proud of both of us."
His hand finds mine under the blanket, fingers threading together, and he presses a kiss to my temple—steady, sure, unhurried.
For the first time in months, I'm not measuring what I lost.
I'm counting what's next.
Chapter 40
Silas
The locker room sounds like it always does—gear clattering, skate blades scraping tile, guys chirping back and forth. Rooks is trying to open a protein shake one-handed while giving a rookie hell for tying his skates wrong. Somewhere in the corner, someone's Bluetooth speaker is fighting a losing battle against Thorn's whistle.
I sit down at my stall and start lacing up my skates. The familiar motion helps—cross, pull, tighten; cross, pull, tighten. My hands stay steady, which is more than I could say a few weeks ago.
Thorn knocks on the back of my stall with his knuckles. "With me."
It's not a question. I follow him past the laundry carts and through the dented door that always sticks in cold weather, into his office. Two chairs, one desk, a framed photo of a team from before my time.
He doesn't sit down. Just leans against the edge of the desk and looks at me. "Offer came through."
I nod. I've been expecting this since he first brought it up a few weeks ago.
"Two years," he says. "Fair money. No-movement clause unless you request it. They want you as you are, not as some project to flip."
There's a familiar restlessness in the back of my mind—the one that used to have me checking maps and wondering which city might be better. It's still there, but quieter now.
"What do you want?" Thorn asks, and his tone makes it clear he's not going to push me either way.
I think about the porch light at home. The felt star Aubrey made for the tree. A nine-year-old who takes line leader as seriously as a royal title. Oakley waiting for me with cocoa already made.
"I want to stay," I say, and it doesn't feel like a hard decision. It feels obvious.
Thorn nods like that's exactly what he expected. "Tell your agent. We'll get the paperwork done."
He claps my shoulder once and heads back out, leaving me alone in the office for a minute. I want to stay. Two years ago, I would've been terrified to say that out loud. Now it just feels right.
Out on the ice, we run tempo drills. Retrievals, zone entries, the usual. Thorn keeps practice moving at a steady pace, and I fall into the rhythm. The younger guys on line three are feeling themselves today—too much confidence and zero hustle—so I'm a little harder on them in the corners than I need to be. Not out of frustration. Just making a point. There's a difference, and I'm finally learning to tell them apart.
Between reps, Rooks glides up next to me. "You hear?" he asks, which means he already knows the answer.
"Yeah."
He bumps me with his elbow. "Good. I was looking at retirement homes for you in Tampa, and it was depressing."
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Exactly.” He peels away before I can flick him with my blade, which is a shame because my accuracy has been excellent this week.
Here's a more grounded, realistic version:
After practice, the ice clears out in waves. I don't head in right away. I take one more lap alone, edges carving clean lines, nothing but the low hum of the compressors and the sound of my own blades. I stop at center ice, look up at the championship banners hanging from the rafters, and let out a slow breath.
We're staying in Steele Valley. I don't have to upend Aubrey's life again. I don't have to beg Oakley Kate to move across the country with us. We get to stay home.
