The time difference was brutal. When Lucy woke up in Paris, Jake was just going to bed in Vermont. When Jake had his morning, Lucy was in the middle of her afternoon classes. They kept missing each other, playing text tag across six time zones.
Culinary school started on Lucy's eighth day in Paris.
Le Cordon Bleu was intimidating in ways Lucy hadn't anticipated. The building was beautiful—classic Parisian architecture with modern kitchens inside. But the other students were intimidating. Half of them had been cooking professionally for years. Most spoke French fluently. Several had trained in Michelin-starred restaurants.
Lucy felt like a fraud.
Her first class was Basic French Patisserie with Chef Laurent, a stern man in his sixties who looked like he'd never smiled in his life.
"In France, we do not simply bake," Chef Laurent began in heavily accented English. "We create. We honor tradition while pushing boundaries. If you are here simply to learn recipes, you are in the wrong place. We teach art."
Lucy frantically took notes, trying to keep up.
The first assignment: perfect a basic croissant.
Lucy had made croissants a thousand times. She knew the lamination process, the butter ratio, the folding technique. She'd made them in her grandmother's kitchen since she was sixteen.
She made them at Le Cordon Bleu, and Chef Laurent took one bite and said: "Adequate. But pedestrian. You must learn to feel the dough, not just follow the recipe. Again."
Lucy wanted to cry.
Instead, she made them again. And again. And again.
By the end of her first week of classes, Lucy was exhausted, homesick, and questioning every decision that had led her to Paris.
She tried to video call Jake, but the time difference meant catching him was nearly impossible. When they did connect, the calls were rushed—Jake heading to practice, Lucy needing to prep for the next day's class.
Jake:How's it going?
Lucy:Hard. Really hard. Chef Laurent is terrifying and I feel like I'm failing.
Jake:You're not failing. You're learning.
Lucy:Tell that to my croissants. I've made them six times and they're still "pedestrian" apparently.
Jake:Your croissants are perfect. That chef doesn't know what he's talking about.
Lucy:He's a French pastry chef with 40 years of experience. I think he knows what he's talking about.
Jake:Fair. But you're still amazing.
Lucy:I miss you. I miss home. I miss pork buns and Wednesday mornings and your couch.
Jake:I miss you too. So much. But Lucy—you can do this. Give it time.
Lucy:I'm trying.
Life in Timber Falls without Lucy was strange.
Jake threw himself into coaching. Tommy was officially retiring at the end of the season, which meant Jake was learning everything—roster management, parent communication, budget planning, the endless paperwork that came with being a head coach.
"It's not as glamorous as playing," Tommy said one afternoon as they reviewed next season's practice schedule.
"I'm starting to realize that."
"But it's rewarding in different ways. You're building something. Creating a legacy beyond your own playing career."
Jake nodded, but his mind was on Lucy. It had been two weeks since she'd left, and he'd talked to her exactly four times. Actual conversations, not just texts. The time difference made it nearly impossible to connect.
