I won’t let him build around a maybe.
Road trip first. See the place. Be certain.
It was supposed to be a weekend.
It’s now ten days.
If we’re driving across the country for this possible next chapter for Grace, we’re not skimming the surface. We’re walking it. Sitting in it. Testing it.
And for once, I have the funds to do that without twisting my life into knots.
Grace’s brochure is spread across the coffee table. Thanks to Natalie, we have the means to get there. The car keys hang by the door. My bag is packed.
Ten days.
Grace and me. The open road. A town neither of us has seen.
A future that doesn’t have a shape yet — just a direction.
I take the keys off the hook. Turn them over in my palm.
The Carriage Awaits.
In an hour, we drive.
Once Grace’s decided.
Then I'll tell West.
Chapter 20
Room to Exhale
February 19 – 20 | New York
West
I'm early for my flight.
The departure board at JFK cycles through cities like a dealer shuffling cards at six-thirty this blistery morning.
New York → Milwaukee → San Diego → Cedar Falls.
Checked in my hockey equipment. My carry-on is at my feet. The itinerary is clear: Milwaukee Thursday afternoon, San Diego Friday morning, Cedar Falls Friday evening.
Three conversations. Three coaching positions. One decision I've already half-made but refuse to announce before I've given each stop its due respect.
You don't close doors before you walk through them. Professional courtesy demands that. Respect demands that.
But you also don't pretend you don't know which one feels right.
I buy a black coffee from the terminal kiosk. Pause at a window overlooking the tarmac where ground crews are loading a regional jet. Watch the choreography of it—precise, mechanical, everyone knowing their role.
That's the shape of the last twelve years. Know your role. Execute. Don't hesitate.
I take a sip. The coffee is terrible. Airport coffee always is—over-extracted, sitting too long, served in a cup thinenough to burn your fingers, even at this early hour. I drink it anyway because discipline is a series of small, unglamorous choices, and terrible coffee at six a.m. is one of them.
The terminal walkway stretches ahead. Long, bright, full of people moving with purpose or pretending to. And somewhere between the kiosk and the gate, something in me goes quiet.
