“Where?” I ask.
Calloway opens the folder. “A few options worth considering. There’s an AHL affiliate in the northeast - two way contract, means you’re up and down, no guarantees.” He turns a page. “There’s a club in Germany. Solid league, good development program, not glamorous.” He turns another page. “Belfast Giants. EIHL - Elite Ice Hockey League. Respected program, good coaching staff. Plenty of players have used it as a stepping stone. They’re a sister program to us - we have a strong relationship with them. They’d take care of you there, Russo. I’d make sure of it personally.”
“You’d recommend it?”
“I’d recommend any of them. But the Belfast Giants-” He pauses. “Yes. I’d recommend Belfast.”
He pauses.
“Lots of guys don’t go straight to the show, Russo. I want you to hear that not as a consolation but as a fact. Many players who build real careers do it the long way. AHL buses and Europeanleagues and grinding it out in rinks that nobody’s heard of until someone notices.” He closes the folder. “The question isn’t how glamorous it is. The question is whether you still want to play.”
“Yes. I still want to play. More than anything.”
He nods once.
“Then we have something to work with. Even if it isn’t the dream path.”
I think about the ice in the morning. The routine of it, the love of it, the thing that has never once felt like anything other than exactly right.
“But it’s playing,” I say. “It’s still playing.”
Calloway nods.
“Then go home. Think about it properly. And Russo-” He stops me at the door. “Whatever you decide. You’ve had a good season. A better one than you know.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
He waves it off and I let myself out.
I stand in the corridor and lean against the wall and think about seventeen-year-old Mateo with his NHL fantasy and his absolute certainty about what success was supposed to look like.
I’m not as disappointed as I thought I’d be.
I take out my phone and I almost text her and then I put it away. I’ll find her later.
But for now, it feels like a beginning.
ELIDA
The restaurant is small and cozy. Jake has chosen well, which doesn’t surprise me.
It’s our second date - a proper one this time, linen napkins and a decent wine list. I made a decision based on what’s healthy for me and I know that’s Jake.
He’s good company. He always is. We order, and the food is good. The wine is better. The conversation moves through his season and my programs and a funny story he tells about a team bus breaking down in the middle of nowhere in North Dakota which makes me laugh. I’m enjoying myself.
We’re on our second glass when he brings it up.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“About missing it. The skating.”
“I do think about it,” I say carefully. “More than I probably should.”
“Why probably should? You gave your whole life to it. It makes complete sense that you miss it.”
He’s said it so simply and so directly that I don’t quite know what to do with it. People usually either don’t mention my skating career at all - which just makes it obvious that they know exactly what happened. Or they mention it with a kind of careful sympathy that makes me feel like a patient. Jake says it like it’s obvious. Like missing it is the most natural thing in the world and requires no apology.
