But instinct isn't ego.
It’s just information your body processes before your brain finishes the sentence.
San Diego is the flashy one.
Big market energy. West Coast light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished pitch deck. They want a face for the rebuild—a coaching hire that gets a profile inThe Athleticand generates overwhelming attention that sells season tickets before the first puck drops.
Standing in their rink, I understand what's wrong with perfect clarity: this job would require me to perform. Every day.
Not coaching. Performance.
And I've spent enough years performing.
San Diego is also about as far from Boston as you can get without leaving the country.
I notice this.
I don't dwell on it.
Both stops were generous. Both sincere.
Neither felt right.
My phone buzzes in the San Diego airport.
JANE:How's it going?
ME:I haven't embarrassed myself.
JANE:Yet.
ME:Give me time.
The rhythm is fast. Comfortable. The register we've found over three weeks of distance—easy enough to be real, sharp enough to be us.
JANE:Last stop tomorrow?
ME:Yeah.
I start to type:You'd like this town.
I stare at the words. Delete them letter by letter.
Not yet. Not like this. I'm not going to nudge her toward a life she hasn't chosen on her own. I want to pick cleanly first—then show up. Not the other way around.
JANE:Grace and I are on a little trip. Girls' road adventure.
I picture Grace behind the wheel, Jane in the passenger seat with her feet on the dash, hair in a messy bun, stealing fries from a roadside bag. The image hits me low and immediate.
ME:Don't let Grace have too much fun.
Something happens on her end—a beat, a half-second delay that I've learned to read as a laugh she doesn't want to explain. Then:
JANE:No promises ;)
Damn that winky face. I can hear her voice in it—teasing, breathless, the same tone she used when she told me to make her come on that Zoom call. My jaw tightens. Three weeks since Anguilla. Feels like three years.
I put the phone away.
