"She doesn’t know about the job details yet," I say, matter-of-fact.
I can already hear her response:You want me to road-trip to a mountain town I've never heard of to meet your hockey friends and tour an arena that doesn't have a name yet? Did you hit your head?
And I'd say:Yes. All of the above. Pack a bag.
And she'd laugh. And roll her eyes. And probably show up anyway.
Because that's who she is. Stubborn. Curious. Relentless.
I’m crossing my fingers on that.
Off ice. Showered. Sitting in a conference room with windows that look out over the rink.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jane:
JANE:Grace is singing Broadway in the car. Send help.
I grin.
ME:I miss your voice. Even when you're not singing.
Three dots.
JANE:I miss your hands.
My breath catches. I stare at the screen.
ME:Be more specific.
JANE:You know exactly what I mean.
ME:I’m in a meeting, about to meet staff. Also, half-hard in my jeans.
JANE:Mmm. When I see you again. I’m not letting you out of bed for three days.
I set the phone face-down on the table.
Look out at the rink.
Take a breath.
Get it together, Prescott.
A knock at the door.
Levi introduces me to the front office team—the GM, the head of hockey ops, the operations lead. Handshakes are firm andgenuine.
We're five minutes in when the door opens and a woman leans in, headset around her neck, visibly pleased with herself.
"Both auxiliary screens are live and the Jumbotron feed is locked. Two hours ahead of schedule." She addresses the room. "Thought you'd want to know."
Then at me. "Sorry—hi. Welcome. Go Mustangs." She's gone before anyone responds.
"She always like that?"
"Only when something goes right."
The rest of the meeting is professional, warm, and mercifully free of pitch decks.
