Gina stands near the glass, hands clasped together, eyes bright with pride. When Scottie skates over, Gina pulls her into a fierce hug, laughing and crying at the same time.
My chest tightens.
This is what I almost walked away from.
When the crowd thins and the kids start packing up, I wait. I don’t rush her. I don’t ambush her. I learned something from our last conversation.
She finds me instead.
“Congratulations coach,” she says, still a little breathless. “That was an incredible game.”
“They earned it,” I reply.
She hesitates. “Scottie’s never been prouder.”
Something in her tone softens me. “She should be.”
We stand there, awkward again, but this time I don’t let it linger.
“Can we talk?” I ask. “After?”
She studies my face. “About?”
“Everything.”
A long pause. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Please,” I say, more urgently than I’ve ever said any other word.
“Okay,” she says finally.
I don’t take her back to the rink benches or the lodge. I take her to the small park overlooking the water, the one with the weathered picnic tables and the uneven dock that locals use more than tourists ever will.
The envelope is heavy in my jacket pocket.
I take a breath. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
She folds her arms loosely. Not defensive. Guarded.
“You were right,” I say. “About the risks of me leaving. About things being temporary.”
Her eyes flicker.
“I don’t want that either,” I continue. “And I don’t want you—or Scottie—waiting around for a man who hasn’t made up his mind.”
She exhales. “Dane?—”
“I’m not done.” I pull the envelope out. “I didn’t come here to offer apologies. I came with a plan.”
Her gaze drops to the envelope, then back to my face. “I don’t want?—”
“Just listen,” I say gently. “Please.”
She nods once.
I hand it to her.
Inside are the sketches. The notes. The rough timelines. Ideas for summer youth clinics. Partnerships. Small, intentional growth. Nothing flashy. Nothing overwhelming.
