"Fine." Tommy leaned back in his chair. "You know what your problem is, Reaper?"
"I have a feeling you're going to tell me."
"You're so busy trying to figure out what everyone else wants that you've forgotten to ask yourself what you want."
Jake shifted his weight. "I want to play well. Help the team win."
"That's what you're supposed to want. I'm asking what you actually want."
The question hung in the air between them. Through the thin walls, Jake could hear the sounds of the arena—the Zamboni making its rounds, the maintenance crew setting up for tonight's public skate session, the hum of the industrial refrigeration units.
"I don't know," Jake admitted finally.
"Then figure it out. Before Saturday. Because if that scout makes an offer and you take it just because you think you're supposed to—because you think your dad would have wanted it, or because it's the dream you've been chasing since you were eight—you're going to end up somewhere you don't want to be."
"How do you know I don't want to be in the NHL?"
Tommy smiled, but it was sad. "Because I've been watching you for three years, and the only time I see you happy is when you're coaching those kids on Saturday mornings. Or—" he paused, "—when you walk out of that bakery on Wednesday mornings."
Jake's chest tightened. "I don't—"
"I'm not blind, Reaper. And neither is the rest of the team. You've got a routine. Wednesday mornings, 8:17 AM, six pork buns and black coffee. You've never missed it in three years until yesterday. And yesterday, you were nervous. I've seen you face down NHL enforcers without blinking, but the thought of being twelve minutes late to the bakery had you practically jogging to your truck."
"It's just—"
"It's not just anything. It's something. And maybe it's time you let it be something instead of pretending it's nothing."
Tommy stood, signaling the conversation was over. But as Jake turned to leave, the coach added: "That Scout on Saturday? He's going to watch you play. But more important, he's going to watch how you play. And right now, you play like someone who's going through the motions. Like you're already somewhere else in your head."
"I'm focused."
"You're efficient. There's a difference." Tommy pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, then turned the screen to show Jake a video. "This is you. Saturday morning. Teaching Emma Rodriguez that spin move."
On the screen, Jake watched himself demonstrating a skating technique to a seven-year-old. And Tommy was right—Jake was smiling. Really smiling, not the tight professional smile he gave reporters or the neutral expression he wore during games. He looked... happy.
"That's who you are," Tommy said quietly. "Not Reaper. Not the guy who's going through the motions. That guy. Find him again before Saturday. Because that's the player the NHL wants. Not the shell you've been wearing for three years."
Jake walked out of the arena in a daze. The cold November air hit him like a slap, sharp and clarifying.
He sat in his truck and pulled out his phone. No new messages. No emergency. No reason he couldn't just drive home, heat up leftovers, watch a movie on mute, continue the routine.
Instead, he found himself typing a text to his mom.
Can I come for dinner Sunday? I want to talk to you about something.
Her response came immediately:Of course honey. I'll make your favorite. Everything okay?
Jake stared at the phone for a long moment before typing:Yeah. I think I'm just figuring some things out.
His mom sent back a heart emoji, then:I'm proud of you.
Jake put the phone away and sat in the parking lot, watching the sun set over Timber Falls. The mountains in the distance were turning purple-blue with twilight, the kind of view his dad used to call "God showing off."
His dad would be fifty-seven now if he'd lived. Would have opinions about Jake's career, about the Nashville scout, about whether Jake should chase the NHL dream or let it go.
But his dad wasn't here. And Jake was twenty-eight years old, living in a studio apartment above a hardware store, coaching youth hockey on Saturday mornings, and eating pork buns from a bakery run by a woman with flour permanently on her cheek.
And maybe—maybe—that was okay.
