I also know that right doesn’t always mean painless.
As I walk back inside—back to the life I chose—I can’t shake the fear that I’ve just let go of something that would have been worth the risk.
NINE
DANE
The town’s rink is louder than I’ve ever heard it be.
Even when I was in high school, and we were one game away from going to the state championship.
It’s not because the stakes are higher—this isn’t the Stanley Cup, or even close—but because everyone knows this is the last game. The end of spring league. The final chance for these kids to prove to themselves how far they’ve come.
I stand at the boards, arms crossed, watching Scottie skate warm-up laps. She looks focused. Calm. Ready.
I wish I could say the same for myself.
I haven’t seen Gina properly in days. Not since the conversation outside the rink that left something fractured between us. We’ve passed each other, nodded, exchanged polite words for Scottie’s sake. Nothing more.
It’s been hell.
I keep replaying her words in my head.I don’t want a vacation romance.
As if what I feel for her could ever be that small.
But she’s right about one thing. I didn’t choose clearly. I let things sit in the gray because that’s where I’ve lived most of my adult life. Between seasons. Between contracts. Between decisions.
That stops today.
The game starts fast. The kids are energized, sloppy in places, brilliant in others. Scottie plays like she has something to prove, pushing herself harder than usual, trusting her instincts.
Halfway through the second period, she scores.
The crowd erupts. Parents cheer. Teammates swarm her.
I grin so hard my face hurts.
During the break, I pull the team together.
“Whatever happens out there,” I tell them, “I’m proud of how you’ve played this season. You showed up. You learned. You treated each other like teammates.”
I look directly at Scottie when I add, “That’s what matters.”
She nods, jaw set.
The third period is chaos in the best way. Fast shifts. Missed shots. A save that makes the goalie’s dad lose his mind in the stands.
With less than a minute left, Scottie intercepts a pass and breaks away. She fakes left—exactly like we practiced—and snaps the puck past the goalie.
The horn blares.
Game over.
They win.
The rink explodes into noise, kids piling onto the ice, parents spilling down from the bleachers. I scan the crowd automatically.
And then I see her.
