A low, sharp ache steals my breath.
Because I have thought about it. Of course I have.
I remember the contract negotiations like they were yesterday. They flew me right into Beachside, first class tickets all the way. I was chauffeured to the arena, given a private tour before I sat across that table from them, the suits laying out the numbers, the perks, the mansion. All of it shiny and so fucking tempting.
But then there was me, leaning back, arms crossed like I was some kind of superstar already.
I mean, it worked.
I was the only fucker with big enough balls to tell them flat out that none of it meant a damn thing without Beck and Mason on the roster.
I wanted those boys here. With me. Where I could see them, watch their backs, keep the three of us under one roof the way it'd always been.
It was a package deal, or there was no deal. Simple as that.
"I'm aware, Coach."
He narrows his eyes at me as he rubs a hand over his jaw, the gray stubble of a man who hasn't slept right in weeks.
Across the bar, Beck's balancing a beer bottle on his forehead while Finn counts loudly in a thick Irish accent. The bottle wobbles, tips, and finally crashes, soaking some poor girl who was cheering the whole thing on in her bikini.
Coach Pearson shakes his head, then nods toward the crowd.
"You wanna know why I made you captain?" he asks, not looking at me.
"Because Beck would've burned the building down by Christmas?"
He huffs a laugh, then sets his beer down on the bar. "No. I made you captain because the first practice I ever ran, I watched you read a play three seconds before it happened. You anticipated it like no one else did. Youownedit." He taps his temple. "That doesn't come from work, son. You can't coach that. You either got it or you don't. And you… You've got it."
I don't move, just listen.
Funny thing is, I've heard this before.
A coach in some freezing rink back in Seattle said the same thing when I was just showing signs of real promise. My dad even nodded along, told me I had a gift. Then he disappeared that same night to 'work late', rendering any praise he gave me useless.
Because I was old enough by then to know whatworking latereally meant.
And I fucking hated him for it.
"Problem is," Coach continues, gentler now, "you've been treating it like a fishing license. Something to frame on a wall." He picks his beer back up and sips the rim. "Tonight you actuallyusedit. You were leading those boys out there. And that… That's a rare quality."
I stare down into my glass, watching the foam slowly collapse against the liquid, the bubbles thinning out like they're trying to disappear before I can find an answer in them.
"So tell me, kid. What changed?" he asks.
I think for a second, not really knowing the answer.
But then, God help me, the answer ignites.
I know the reason.
But the last time I saw that reason, she had a phone held to her ear, and a look way too dark for such a pretty face.
I thought I was imagining it from down on the ice, like seeing her like that was some trick of the lights, or the adrenaline, or the haze of a whole fucking arena losing their goddamn minds.
Josie wasn't celebrating that goal.
When I looked up, expecting her smile and excitement, all I saw was her face crumpling like something had just broken inside her.
