“I hear you.”
I lean against the railing, letting their words settle.
“No. I hear you.”
I glance out at the water, letting the sun hit my shoulders.
“I’ve had a few other conversations already. Development, assistant roles.”
I shift my weight, jaw tightening.
“Head coach,?” I repeat, quieter now.
“That’s a serious offer.”
The tide is going out.
“Yeah. I understand the timing by July first…”
I stop myself.
Law was my fallback. The safety net my parents insisted on. But hockey? Hockey's the thing I chose. The thing I'm good at. The thing that makes sense.
And coaching means I don't have to leave the game. Don't have to sit in a conference room talking contracts and arbitration while my body falls apart from missing the ice.
“Send me the details,” I say. “I’ll give it real consideration.”
We end the call.
I stand there, phone still warm in my hand, staring at the ocean.
Hump day on the island suddenly feels less like a midpoint and more like a fork in the road.
My pulse thrums with something I haven't felt in years. Not since my first call-up. Maybe not even then.
This feels bigger. Truer.
Hope.
A future I choose. Not inherit. Not perform. Choose.
Coaching. Building. Hockey on my terms.
I could do this.
The thought settles in my chest, warm and solid.
The terrace door slides open and Jane shuffles out.
“West Prescott, your face is doing things since you hung up."
“What things?”
“Happy things." She takes a step closer, her bare feet silent on the warm tile.
“Hopeful things. It's very unsettling. I thought your face only had three settings: broody, judgmental, and horny."
I choke on nothing. “Horny, huh?”
