Page 51

My mind drifts to Abby’s laugh—bright, real, like sunlight in winter. And Jake, that kid's smile could crack through the thickest defensive line. He’s got this energy that fills every room he walks into, dragging Spotty behind him like a spotted cyclone. The first time they walked into my life, I never saw them coming. Now I can’t picture it without them.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’ve spent years chasing a dream I thought I understood. But lately, it feels like the dream is shifting.

Back in the locker room, the sounds are familiar—sticks clattering, skates sharpening, laughter bouncing off the walls. Griffin tosses a towel at Wes, who retaliates by throwing his own wet towel into Griff’s locker. Same old chaos. Same old rhythm.

I glance at the wall of framed jerseys from former team legends. I always thought my future was up there—retire a hero, number raised to the rafters. But what’s a legacy if you don’t have someone to share it with?

I remember my rookie year. Nights on the road. The endless grind. The hunger … We were all chasing the same thing—victory, respect, a name that meant something. Back then, love felt like a distraction. I kept my distance. Stayed focused. And for a long time, that was enough.

But now?

Now, a quiet evening at home with Abby and Jake, with Spotty trying to sneak food off the counter, sounds like winning.

I need clarity. So, I go to the one person who won’t sugarcoat it.

Dexter Stone sits behind his desk like a general in a war room—grizzled, sharp-eyed, and absolutely unbothered by the chaos swirling around him. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Sit.”

I take the seat across from his desk, and he eyes me like I’m a puzzle he’s been trying to solve.

“Coffee?” he asks, gesturing to the pot in the corner.

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Dexter leans back, his eyes narrowing. “So. I’m guessing you’re not here to talk about the weather.”

I try for a smile, but it doesn’t come close. “No.”

“Right.” He steeples his fingers, his expression unreadable. “Let’s get to it then.”

I nod, my throat tightening.

“As you know, there are two offers on the table,” Dexter says, his voice calm but firm. “One keeps you here—with the Ice Hawks. One-year extension, with an option to transition into coaching or management after that.”

“You know what the Thunderhawks are offering. They want a superstar. You’ve got gas left in the tank. But I also know you’ve been talking to Abby Price a lot lately. And that kid of hers is practically your shadow.”

I didn’t respond, didn’t need to.

Dexter sighed. “Let’s break it down. If you stay, you become a foundation piece here. You retire in Irondale. You coach the next generation. Your roots dig deeper. Your life stabilizes.”

“And if I go?” I asked.

“You get a final ride. A big payday. You’ll have fame that lasts another few seasons. You may even have a chance at the Stanley again. But there’s no guarantee of that or what comes after.”

I looked at him. “You think I’ll regret it?”

He hesitated. “I think you’ll miss more than the game if you leave.”

That hits harder than I expected.

He added, “What matters most isn’t the name on your jersey. It’s the names you go home to, Beck.”

Leave Abby.

Leave Jake.

Leave them.