Dinner this Sunday? I'm making your favorite. Would be nice to see you.
His mom lived in Manchester now, about two hours away. She'd moved after his dad died, needed a fresh start somewhere without David Morrison's ghost in every corner. Jake tried to visit once a month, though lately it had been more like once every six weeks. He always meant to go more often.
He typed back:I'll be there. Love you.
The second text was from Derek, his agent:
Nashville scout will be at your game this Saturday. Make it count.
Jake stared at that one for a long time. Saturday's game. The scout would be there, watching, evaluating whether Jake Morrison at twenty-eight was worth an NHL roster spot.
This was what he'd been waiting for. Another shot. Maybe the last shot.
So why did the thought of leaving Timber Falls make him feel like he was drowning?
Jake deleted the text without responding and grabbed his gear bag.
The drive home took seven minutes, same as always. Jake parked behind the building, nodded to Tom from the hardware store (who was unloading boxes), and climbed the three flights to his studio.
Inside, he dropped his gear bag by the door and went straight to his desk—really just a card table he'd picked up from the Salvation Army three years ago. His laptop was already open to his online banking.
Every month, on the first Monday, Jake sent his mom $800. It was automatic now, barely even a conscious decision. Just something he did, the same way he taped his stick before practice.
His mom had protested at first.You don't need to do this, honey. I'm fine. Save your money.
But Jake knew the truth. His dad's life insurance had covered the funeral and a few months of expenses, but not much else. His mom was working part-time at a bookstore, living in a small apartment, trying to convince Jake she was happy.
The least he could do was help.
He initiated the transfer, watched the confirmation screen pop up, then closed his laptop.
The studio apartment looked exactly like it had when he'd moved in three years ago: IKEA furniture that came in flat boxes, walls he'd never bothered to paint, curtains he'd never bothered to hang. The only personal touches were his skates by the door, the stack of movies next to the TV, and a single framed photo on his nightstand—him and his dad at the Bruins game, Jake's eighteenth birthday, three months before he got drafted.
Jake picked up the photo. His dad was grinning, arm around Jake's shoulders, both of them wearing matching Bruins jerseys. Jake remembered that day with painful clarity: the excitement, the certainty that he was headed for greatness, the way his dad had saidI'm proud of you, sonat least fifteen times.
Would his dad be proud now? Of Jake playing in the ECHL, living in a studio apartment, sending money to his widow because the NHL dream hadn't quite panned out?
Your dad wanted you to be happy,Tommy had said.
But Jake didn't know if he knew how to be happy anymore. He only knew how to be disciplined, focused, efficient. How to show up and do the work and not think too hard about whether the work mattered.
His phone buzzed. Marcus, in the team group chat:
MANDATORY TEAM DINNER. FRIDAY. 7PM. MACS TAVERN. BE THERE OR FACE THE WRATH OF STONE.
Owen immediately responded:I'll be there!!!
Dmitri sent a thumbs up emoji.
Ryan sent:Can we make it 7:30? I have class until 7.
The chat devolved into scheduling chaos. Jake watched it scroll past, not participating, just observing. This was his team. These were his people. For three years, they'd been the closest thing he had to family in Timber Falls.
And if he took the Nashville offer—if the scout liked what he saw—Jake would leave all of this behind. Again.
Jake set down his phone and lay back on his bed. Through the wall, he heard his mysterious neighbor moving around. It was 2PM on a Monday, which meant either his neighbor had the day off or they worked some kind of night shift. Jake had been living here for three years and still had no idea which.
Three years. That was longer than he'd spent anywhere since leaving for the NHL at eighteen. Longer than his college commitment would have been. Longer than some people's marriages.
