Tommy's expression didn't change. "Your agent."
"Yeah."
"What'd he want?"
"There's a scout. Been watching me. Nashville, he thinks. Derek says they might make an offer."
"And?"
"And... I don't know." Jake watched Emma nail a pass to another kid, both of them cheering. "I'm twenty-eight. This is probably my last shot at the NHL. If I turn it down—"
"You've already turned it down," Tommy said.
Jake looked at him, startled. "What?"
"In your head. You've already decided. You're just scared to admit it."
"I haven't—"
"Jake." Tommy's voice was firm but not unkind. "I've known you since you were eight years old. I know when you're lying. You come out here every Saturday, you coach these kids, you light up like a damn Christmas tree. You don't do that during team practices anymore. You don't do that during games. The only time I see that kid I used to coach—the one who loved hockey more than breathing—is when you're out here with Emma and her friends."
Jake wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat.
"You know what the difference is between settling and choosing?" Tommy asked. "Settling is what you do when you've given up. Choosing is what you do when you've figured out what matters. You decided which one you're doing yet, Reaper?"
The nickname—the one his teammates used, the one that had started when someone noticed he never smiled during games—sounded strange coming from Tommy. Reaper wasn't the eight-year-old who'd skated until his feet bled. Reaper was the shell Jake wore to get through each season, the armor that protected him from admitting he might not have made it.
"I don't want people to think I gave up," Jake said.
"You care that much what people think?"
"I care what I think. And right now I think... I think I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore."
Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Then figure it out. But don't let some idea of who you were at eighteen decide who you get to be at twenty-eight. Your dad wouldn't have wanted that."
He skated off to help a kid who'd fallen, leaving Jake standing alone at the boards.
Emma skated over, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.
"Coach Jake, do you ever get nervous during games?"
"All the time," Jake admitted.
"Really? But you're so good."
"Being good and being nervous aren't mutually exclusive."
Emma frowned, clearly working through the vocabulary. Then: "My mom says if something makes you nervous, it means you care about it. Is that true?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "That's true."
"Do you care about hockey?"
The question was so simple, so direct, that for a moment Jake couldn't answer. Did he care about hockey? Or did he care about the idea of hockey—the dream he'd been chasing since he was Emma's age, the promise he'd made to his father, the version of himself that existed only in his imagination?
"I care about teaching you hockey," Jake said finally. "Does that count?"
Emma considered this seriously. "I think so. My mom also says that doing what makes you happy is more important than doing what other people think you should do."
