"Flight's in twenty."
"Milwaukee first?"
"Then San Diego. Colorado last."
A silence. Not hostile. Recalibrating.
"And Boston?"
I almost smile. "Interviews first."
"Coaching?" My father's voice now—he's been listening from the start, which means they're in the car together or sitting at the kitchen island, which means this conversation was anticipated. "The firm—"
"Deserves someone fully committed. That's not me right now."
I don't frame it as rejection. I don't frame it as anything. It's sequencing—and they're sharp enough to hear the difference.
"You don't see that changing?" My father asks.
"I don’t want to string you along. Just not right now."
A pause—which means they're looking at each other.
My mother, softer than expected: "You've always preferred the ice."
That lands without needing a response.
"And neither of you are retiring anytime soon," I add, lighter now. "I've got time."
Another pause.
Then, casually—the way you mention weather: "I’ve got Boston's booked after the last stop."
My father: "Jane knows?"
"Not yet."
I can hear my mother's intake of breath. Controlled. Pleased. And I can already imagine her call or text to Jane.
"Let me have this one."
She doesn't push. Neither does he.
That's the version of my parents I'm learning to trust—the one that steps back when it counts.
"Call us after Colorado," my mother says.
"I will."
I hang up. Board. Watch JFK shrink to a grid of lights through the window.
Milwaukee is the sensible choice.
Strong organization. Midwestern stability. Real hockey culture rooted in decades of development. The people I meet are genuine, the facility is solid, the pitch is honest. Everything a career advisor would put at the top of the list, and mark with a red star.
It feels like wearing someone else's coat—fits in the shoulders, wrong through the chest.
I give them full attention—three hours of meetings, a facility tour, genuine questions. They deserve that.
