I almost smiled.
We reset again, settling into formation. Bobby’s pass hit my palms with the kind of certainty I trusted, and as I turned it across the line, something inside me steadied, even if only for a moment.
This was where I belonged. On this pitch with these players.
Building something I wasn’t ready to walk away from.
But the thought of saying that out loud—to my agent, to Ireland, to my family—tightened under my ribs like a stitch.
“Let’s run it again,” I said, more sharply.
Jake nodded, reading everything I didn’t say.
We ran it again.
And again.
And again, until my lungs burned and my legs shook and the noise in my head dulled enough that I could pretend that the decision waiting for me wasn’t the reason my chest felt so tight.
***
Some of the guys were already in physical therapy after the extended session on the pitch. My therapy had been the thirty-minute shower with scalding water beating over my shoulders,letting it burn through the knots and the noise while I ran through every possible scenario in my head. None of them settled right.
By the time I pulled on a hoodie and stepped out into the hallway, my muscles ached in that satisfying, heavy way, but the tightness in my chest hadn’t budged. Coach’s office door was cracked open, and even though a sane person would’ve walked straight past it and pretended everything was fine, my feet took me there before my brain could veto the decision.
He looked up as I knocked lightly and leaned into the doorway.
“You got a minute?” I asked.
“For you? Always,” he said, motioning me in.
I sank into the chair opposite his desk. He watched me for a moment, elbows propped, hands clasped, waiting me out like he always did. Only today, I didn’t want to start the conversation. Despite me walking in here, I needed him to take the lead.
“What was going on with you in training this morning?” he asked eventually. “Your handling was solid, but you weren’t settled.”
I exhaled slowly. “My agent called yesterday.”
He nodded once. “About Ireland.”
“Yeah.” The word felt heavy leaving my mouth. “They’re moving forward with roster discussions. Apparently, there’s serious interest.”
Nothing was off limits here, and as much as I appreciated that from my coach, I was ready to start thinking for myself and making my own decisions when it came to my life and my career. I knew he understood that. His dad was a big shot in ice hockey, and Coach Knox took a different route to him and managed to be successful.
“And how do you feel about that?” he asked.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “I feel… conflicted,” I admitted. “Everyone assumes it’s the dream. Family, the union, my agent—they all think it’s the thing I’ve been waiting for. But I don’t know if it is anymore.”
He nodded but didn’t say anything.
“Conflicted usually means something’s changed,” he said finally. “So tell me what’s changed.”
Leaning back in the chair, my eyes tracked the slow turn of the ceiling fan. “Timing, for one. If I go over there, it’s not a short stint. They’re talking about committing to a full season, maybe more. That takes me away from this team. Different league, different expectations.” I paused, jaw tightening. “It means I’m not here.”
He nodded slowly. “You’re thinking about continuity.”
“I’m thinking about everything,” I said as frustration crept in. “Everyone talks about Europe like it’s the final stamp of legitimacy. Like if you don’t go, you’re leaving something unfinished. But I’ve built something here.” My hands flexed on the armrests. “And I don’t know if chasing the next rung is worth stepping away from all of that.”
Knox leaned back, considering me the way he always did when he was deciding whether to coach or just listen. “You know going over there has to be your choice, and you should be sure,” he said with certainty. “I watched my dad do it,” he added, not unkindly. “Every opportunity was the opportunity. Bigger league, bigger spotlight. He kept moving the finish line and wondering why nothing ever felt settled.”
