She sits in the chair beside me and tucks her feet under her. We drink our coffee and don't talk. The fog continues to lift. A pair of seabirds appears, gliding low over the water, dipping and rising.
“This is the most peaceful place I've ever been,” she says after a while.
“That's why I come here.”
“How do you leave?”
“It gets harder every time.”
She leans her head against the back of the chair and closes her eyes. The cold has turned her cheeks pink. She looks small in my sweatshirt.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“Very.”
I go inside and cook breakfast. Eggs scrambled, thick-cut bacon, sourdough toast with butter. I slice avocado and arrange everything on two plates. Jasmine comes inside while I'mcooking and perches on the barstool at the island with her coffee, watching me.
I set the plates on the island and sit beside her.
“Last night you told me how it felt when I left.” I turn my coffee mug in my hands. “You deserve to hear my side.”
She nods.
“When I got drafted, my father sat me down at the kitchen table. He'd written out a five-year plan for my career. Every month was accounted for.
“He told me that the next five years would determine the rest of my career. That the guys who make it in the NHL are the ones who eliminate distractions. That there would be time for everything else after I'd established myself. It sounded so logical. He was presenting a business case for why I should walk away from you.”
“And you agreed.”
“I was eighteen, Jasmine. He was my father. He'd coached me since I was four years old. Every good thing I'd achieved in hockey came through his guidance. When he told me something, I believed it. I didn't have the tools to question him. I didn't even know questioning him was an option.”
“I get that,” she says.
I take a long breath. “My mother was worse because she was subtle. She never said anything directly negative about you. She just framed you as a category — girls, distractions, things that interfere with the plan.”
“And to my face, she said I wasn't built for the hockey life.”
“I didn't know she said that until you told me. My mother is careful about what she says in front of me versus what she says when I'm not in the room.”
“I know. I've experienced it.”
We're quiet for a minute.
“The night before I left for New York, I sat in my car outside your house for forty minutes,” I confess. “Your bedroom light was on. I picked up my phone at least a dozen times. I typed messages and deleted them. I almost got out of the car and knocked on your door.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I'd already told my father I would go. And in my family, once you commit to a course of action, you don't reverse it. You make a decision, and you live with it.”
“That's not strength, Logan. That's stubbornness.”
“I know that now. I didn't know it at eighteen.”
She sets her mug on the counter. “What was it like? After you left.”
“Bad. The guys on the team were older, and they didn't care about some rookie from Long Island.” I stare at the countertop. “I cried once. Then I channeled everything into hockey. Every feeling, every regret, every time I thought about you — I put it on the ice. I trained harder and stayed later at practice. My coaches thought I was the most dedicated rookie they'd ever seen. I wasn't dedicated.”
Jasmine nods.
