There’s that question again, always soft, always real.
And suddenly I’m dangerously close to saying:No. Because I think I’m falling in love with your daughter too.
Instead, I stand slowly and force my voice steady and answer “Yeah.”
Sadie’s eyes narrow slightly. She doesn’t believe me. Also, not new.
By noon that day I’m driving toward Frostholm through worsening snowfall while my chest feels heavier with every mile away from Briar Cove.
The highway stretches gray and cold beneath overcast skies. Pine trees blur past the windshield while sports radio drones quietly in the background about trade rumors and playoff projections.
Usually, hockey noise fades into the background automatically. Today every word sounds exhausting.
Trade value.
Media opportunities.
Legacy potential.
I shut the radio off entirely.
Silence fills the car instead, and immediately my mind drifts back to the bakery.
Jillie’s question.
Sadie’s tired eyes watching me over coffee mugs.
The smell of cinnamon and vanilla and warmth.
By the time Frostholm Arena rises ahead through falling snow, my stomach already feels tight with dread.
That’s new. The arena used to feel electric, now it mostly feels cold.
Inside, fluorescent lights glare harshly across concrete hallways while equipment carts rattle past. Staff members nod greetings. Reporters linger near the media entrance hoping for comments about trade speculation.
Everything feels loud.
Performative.
Artificial somehow.
I walk into the locker room and immediately get hit in the chest with a roll of hockey tape.
Toby points dramatically from across the room. “TRAITOR.”
I catch the tape automatically. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“You’re abandoning us for New York.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything.”
“You emotionally considered it.”
“That sentence means nothing.”
Liam lounges against his locker scrolling through social media. “Actually, it means everything. The internet already thinks you’re gone.”
“Fantastic.”
