I step back first.
Scottie returns, gear slung over her shoulder. “Mom says we should go, but?—”
Gina sighs. “Scottie?—”
“Would you have dinner with us?” she says. “It’s just pizza, but it’s really good.”
I don’t answer right away. I look at Gina.
Her eyes widen slightly, like she hadn’t planned for this moment.
“I don’t want to impose,” I say. “Really.”
She studies me for a beat, then exhales. “I suppose pizza won’t hurt.”
Relief hits me harder than it should.
“Pizza it is,” I say.
As we walk out together, I catch myself imagining what it would be like to belong here again. To build something instead of chasing the next win. To matter in ways that don’t show up on a scoreboard.
It’s a worrisome thought.
But it’s also the first ounce of joy I’ve felt since my season took a turn for the worse.
FOUR
GINA
By the time we get to the little cottage next to the lodge, my nerves are frayed.
Not because anything has gone wrong—if anything, it’s because everything feels too right.
Too familiar.
Too easy.
Dane fits into my kitchen like he never left, sitting at the table with his sleeves pushed up, listening to Scottie ramble about practice as if it’s the most important briefing he’s had all day.
Pizza boxes clutter the counter. Scottie eventually migrates to the living room with one of her games, the repetitive beeping and chiming giving Dane and me just enough privacy to talk without feeling like we’re being overheard.
“So,” I say, mostly to fill the silence. “How long are you really in town?”
He leans back in his chair. “A few weeks. Maybe longer.”
“Because you’re coaching the team,” I ask.
“Because I agreed to coach the team,” he agrees. “And because I needed to step away for a minute.”
I nod slowly. I understand that feeling more than he knows.
I also know more about what’s at stake for him and his career. Much as I hate to admit it, I’ve kept tabs on him. Just out of curiosity. And, because in our town it’s hard to ignore any news about the homegrown hero.
“What happens next?” I ask. “If things don’t go your way.”
He doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke. He just exhales. “I’m not sure. I’ve spent so long defining myself by hockey that imagining anything else feels… unnatural.”
Scottie looks up from the floor. “You’re still a coach.”
