"I need to think about it."
Tommy, who'd been quiet, finally spoke. "What's there to think about?"
"Everything." Jake sat down heavily on the bench. "If I take it, I leave Timber Falls. I leave the Wolves, youth hockey on Saturdays, Wednesday morning pork buns—"
"Lucy," Marcus said quietly.
"Lucy," Jake agreed. "And I know we barely know each other. I know it's crazy to turn down the NHL for someone I've had like three real conversations with. But—"
"But you're finally starting to build a life here," Tommy finished. "And the thought of leaving it makes you sick."
Jake nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
"Here's what I know," Tommy said. "You've spent three years in Timber Falls playing like someone with one foot out the door. Always waiting for the call, always thinking about what comes next. And you've been miserable."
"I haven't been—"
"You have. We all see it. But this week? Since you sat down at that bakery on Wednesday? You've been different. Present. Like you're finally here instead of somewhere else in your head."
"The NHL—"
"The NHL is a job, Jake. A good job, a prestigious job, but still just a job. And you have to decide—is it worth giving up the life you're starting to build here?"
Jake thought about tomorrow. About Lucy's apartment, butternut squash muffins, the way she'd looked at him at the farmers market like he was someone worth knowing.
"I don't know," Jake admitted.
"Then go home. Sleep. See Lucy tomorrow. And on Monday, make your choice." Tommy stood. "Just make sure it's your choice. Not your dad's. Not the dream you've been chasing since you were a kid. Yours."
After Tommy left, Marcus drove Jake home. They didn't talk, but Marcus's presence was comforting. When they pulled up outside Jake's building, Marcus finally spoke.
"For what it's worth? I think you already know what you want. You're just scared to admit it."
"What do I want?"
"You want to stay. You want to coach youth hockey and eat pork buns and see where things go with Lucy. You want a real life instead of chasing a dream that stopped fitting years ago."
"And that's okay? To want that?"
"It's more than okay. It's brave."
Jake got out of the truck, then leaned back in. "Thanks, man."
"Anytime. Now go home, don't watch old westerns until 3 AM, and get some actual sleep. You have a muffin date tomorrow."
Jake climbed the three flights to his studio apartment. Inside, his phone buzzed with messages—his mom, asking how the game went. Derek, his agent, wanting to know about the scout meeting. Owen, texting the group chat about how amazing the win was.
And Lucy:Saw your game tonight. You were amazing.
Jake read that message three times. Then he looked around his studio apartment—the IKEA furniture, the unmade bed, the succulent from the farmers market sitting on his windowsill.
It wasn't much. But it was starting to feel like home.
He texted his mom:Can we talk tomorrow afternoon? After lunch? I need your advice about something.
She responded immediately:Of course honey. Everything okay?
Yeah. I'm just trying to figure out what comes next.
