I stood there on the sidewalk and something clicked into place in my head.
Oh.
Fuck.
I walked back to my car in a daze and tossed the urban farming book onto the passenger seat, then sat there gripping the steering wheel with both hands.
I'd spent the afternoon trying to figure out who I was outside of hockey. Trying to find something that felt real.
And then I'd run into Coach and felt more real in five minutes than I had in months.
That should've terrified me. It did terrify me. But it also made me feel alive in a way I hadn't felt since before the playoff miss, since before the panic attacks and the pills and the constant grinding fear that I was one mistake away from being exposed as a fraud.
Coach didn't treat me like I was fragile. He treated me like I was fixable. And somehow that was worse—because fixable meant there was hope, and hope was the most dangerous thing I could hold onto.
CHAPTER 6
NEW ROUTE
GRANT
Iwoke up at five-thirty with my heart already racing, that low-grade anxiety that had become my baseline over the past three years.
I lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling of my mostly empty bedroom, and tried to remember the last time I'd woken up calm. The answer came back the same way it always did—a blank wall where a memory should've been.
The apartment was quiet except for the distant sound of traffic and the hum of the heating system struggling to keep up with October in Toronto. My bedroom had a bed, a nightstand, and nothing else. No pictures on the walls. No personal touches. Just the bare minimum required to sleep.
I rolled out of bed and pulled on running clothes because movement was better than sitting with my own thoughts. The apartment was cold, air seeping through windows I hadn't bothered to weatherproof yet. Toronto in the fall was brutal—damp cold that got into your bones and stayed there.
I laced up my shoes and told myself this was about fitness. Cardio. Keeping my body functional so I could stand on my feetfor three-hour practices and not feel like I was dying. It was actually about burning off the anxiety before it ate me alive, but I'd been lying to myself about that particular distinction for long enough that it barely registered anymore.
I stepped outside and immediately regretted not checking the temperature first. But I started running anyway, heading north out of habit, then realizing two blocks in that I had no idea where I was going.
I'd moved into this neighborhood and still hadn't figured out the geography. Streets that looked identical. Intersections that looped back on themselves. I'd been too busy learning the arena, studying the roster, building practice plans to actually learn where I lived.
I should've pulled out my phone and used a map. But that felt like admitting defeat, and I was too stubborn for that. So I kept running, turning at random, telling myself I'd figure it out eventually.
The neighborhood was quiet at this hour. A few other runners. Dog walkers. The occasional car heading to an early shift. No one cared who I was or what I did for a living. No one recognized me. I was just another guy in worn-out running shoes trying to outrun his own head.
It felt good. Better than good.
My lungs burned after the first mile, my legs finding their rhythm, and I focused on the physical sensation instead of the mental noise. One foot in front of the other. Breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth. The simple mechanics of forward motion.
I ran past coffee shops just opening, their windows glowing warm in the pre-dawn light. Past a park with empty swings swaying in the wind. Past houses where families were probably still asleep, warm and safe and unburdened by the constant worry that they'd fuck up so badly they'd lose everything.
Must be nice.
I ran for maybe twenty minutes before I smelled it—baking bread, that specific, unmistakable scent that meant a bakery was nearby and already working.
I followed my nose like a bloodhound and found the place tucked between a laundromat and a bike shop. The sign said “Paulo's” in faded letters, and through the window I could see racks of pastries cooling on wire shelves.
I stopped.
I shouldn't. I had meal prep at home. Protein and vegetables portioned out in containers, the disciplined approach to nutrition I'd maintained since my playing days. But I was standing outside a bakery at six in the morning, sweaty and tired and alone, and the world wasn't ending, so I went inside.
The warmth hit me first—air thick with the smell of sugar and butter and yeast. A woman behind the counter looked up and smiled, unbothered by the sweaty guy who'd just walked in.
“Morning,” she said, Portuguese accent, warm and genuine. “What can I get you?”
