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I managed a professional-sounding goodbye and ended the call, but my brain didn’t stop buzzing.

Now, by the time the sun cuts through my blinds, I’m already up, lacing my boots and grabbing coffee from the corner café. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Maybe clarity. Maybe Quinn. Maybe a sign from the universe that I’m not about to screw everything up again.

The girl behind the counter recognizes me. “You’re Jake’s coach, right?” she says, sliding a cinnamon muffin into a paper bag. “He’s in here all the time. Talks about you like you’re a superhero.”

I blink, surprised. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

She grins. “Don’t screw it up.”

Message received. What IS it in this town? Did everyone get the memo I’m a screw up?

On the walk back, I pause outside the bakery, phone in hand. I hesitate, then tap out a text to Quinn:I turned it down. Can I see you at lunch? I want to explain.

No dramatic fanfare. Just the truth.

The three dots appear. Disappear. Then reappear.

Yes. My place? Noon.

I tuck the phone in my pocket and let out a long breath.

I head to the rink early. The quiet, empty space calms me. There’s something sacred about an empty sheet of ice. No fans. No pressure. Just possibility. Just me and the ghosts I’m still learning to forgive.

A young player named Caleb, maybe ten or eleven, arrives early too. “Coach Wes?”

I nod. “What’s up, buddy?”

“My slapshot’s weak. Can you help?”

I toss him a puck. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

For twenty minutes, I help him line up, adjust his stance, and time his swing. Every time he connects better, he lights up. That smile—pure, proud, unfiltered joy—it reminds me why I came back.

Griff shows up not long after, eyebrows raised when he sees me sharpening skates. “You’re early. Everything okay?”

I shrug. “Define 'okay.'”

He snorts, leans against the workbench. “That bad, huh?”

I tell him about the call. The offer. The money. The prestige. I even throw in the line they used—We want you to be the face of the next generation.

Griff lets out a low whistle. “That’s not nothing.”

“It’s a lot. But...” I glance toward the far door, half-expecting Quinn to walk through it. “So is everything here.”

He gives a short nod. “You love her.”

It’s not a question.

“Yeah,” I say. “I really do.”

Griff doesn’t give advice unless it matters. “Then tell her. But make sure you’re not deciding for her—or for you—based on fear. Don’t bail because it’s easier. And don’t stay just because you’re scared of messing up.”

Later that morning, I find Beckett and Abby at the diner, seated in their usual booth with Jake halfway through a stack ofpancakes. The window beside them glows golden with morning light, and for a minute, it hits me how perfectly normal—and beautiful—this life could be.

Abby waves me over immediately. “Wes! Join us.”

Jake grins. “Coach Wes, guess what? I get to play wing next week!”