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Gavin found the card a few minutes after Zach drove away.

He stared at it, sitting so innocently on his kitchen counter, and mentally debated about what to do with it for way longer than he should’ve.

“Just throw it out,” he said to himself.

He knew why Zach had left it. He’d hoped, no matter what Gavin said, that he’d consider—or reconsider—taking the job.

Or maybe , that deep down uncooperative voice said, he’s thinking about you offering something else.

But that was crazy. He wasn’t interested. He wasn’t .

That had just been the beer he’d drunk, plus him being alone for a long time, plus the shock of realizing that Zach had grown up.

But he didn’t crumple up the card, even though he thought probably he should. He didn’t even slide it over to the far end of the counter. He left it where it sat, right there in the middle of the goddamn space, no way to distract from it or ignore it entirely.

It was stupid. But apparently Gavin was being very stupid these days .

After he cleaned up from breakfast—taking extra care to scrub the pans and set them on the drying rack and wipe every single crumb from the almost-empty counter—Gavin only hesitated briefly before grabbing his hiking boots and shoving his feet into them.

He gave himself a quick once over with sunscreen and bug spray, filled up his water bottle, shoved on his hat, and was out the door in under five minutes.

He took one of his favorite trails, winding his way through the forest, enjoying the silence.

Or trying to enjoy the silence.

When Gavin got to the lake, he was surprised to find it fairly empty, only a few people to be seen on the far shore and a handful of canoes dotting the placid water.

Normally, he’d make it all the way out here, sweat slicking his skin from the humidity and the exertion, and be glad there wasn’t anyone out here to ruin the perfect silence.

But today, he wanted more than the chirping of the birds and the slow swish of the water against the shore.

He wanted something to distract him. That would make him stop running Zach’s visit over and over and goddamn over in his mind.

The way he’d grown into his body and his height.

The confidence in his stance. His earnestness as he’d relayed the job offer.

How his eyes had lit with excitement as he’d talked about Jones and McCoy.

Then there was the warmth of his big thigh pressed to Gavin’s. The heat that had streaked through him. The wonder and awe in Zach’s face as they’d leaned in closer . . .

“Shit,” Gavin said out loud, annoyed with himself. A little annoyed with Zach, too .

He hadn’t needed to look so eager. Or so disappointed when Gavin had pulled away.

Nineteen-year-old Zach hadn’t possessed any kind of poker face. Twenty-seven-year-old Zach was better. Years of NHL media training would do that.

Of course, all the media training in the world wasn’t going to be enough to hide that Zach had been on board with whatever was happening between them on Gavin’s couch.

Maybe a switch had been flipped, and not just for Gavin.

“This is not helping,” Gavin announced, and somehow, shockingly, that did not help either.

He stayed out for another hour, hiking partway around the lake.

By the time he got back to the cabin, his head felt marginally clearer.

At least until he let himself back inside and there, staring at him from the counter accusatorially, was Zach’s card.

Goddamn it, why had he kept it?

He should throw it away.

But his fingers still hesitated over it.

Finally, he fisted them and left it.

Took a really long shower. Ate a plate of leftovers without tasting anything, and then switched on the TV, picking another big, stupid movie full of explosions. But by the time the credits rolled, Gavin felt like he hadn’t really seen any of it.

Went to bed and even though he was tired after last night’s restless night, couldn’t find a comfortable position.

The next day, rinse and repeat.

Again and again and again .

He had things to do. Wood to chop for the winter. A handful of emails he should answer. Supplies and groceries to buy.

But even when he took care of everything on his list, including going into town and sitting at the diner, he felt restless. Itchy. Weird.

On the fifth day, he caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were sunken, dark circles underneath them. Nothing had felt right since Zach had left.

It wasn’t Zach necessarily—though he couldn’t argue that it wasn’t Zach, either—but it was like he’d exposed the complete uselessness of the life he’d built here.

What was he even doing ?

On the sixth day, he sent an email to Jon, and twenty minutes later, Gavin answered a call on his tablet.

“Hey,” his therapist said. “Long time no talk.”

It had been six months. At first, Gavin had felt guilty about not answering his emails about scheduling new appointments. But then he’d considered the alternative and even ghosting felt better than pushing himself into places he had no intention to go.

“Yeah, about that,” Gavin said, rubbing his neck and feeling shame wash over him.

“I get it. I pushed you. You got pissed. You hide when you don’t know how to deal with emotion.”

Gavin rolled his eyes, even though it was a well-documented fact by now.

He’d come all the way out here after Noelle had died, hadn’t he ?

He’d called it re-prioritizing, but he could look back now and see it for what it was: hiding .

From people he hadn’t known how to talk to anymore and a world he hadn’t wanted to rejoin.

“Right,” Gavin said.

“So, what’s up? You said you were having trouble sleeping?”

That was the bare minimum. The least of the problems that he could confess to Jon to get him on a call.

“Yeah. About the last week.”

Jon looked non-accusatory. He never looked angry or hurt or upset. Sometimes a flash of judgment crossed over his face, but it was always when Gavin deserved it.

He’d have deserved it now, but it was missing in action.

“Anything new?”

Gavin took a deep breath. He was going to talk about this. “Someone came to see me.”

“That happens, still?”

“Not like this,” Gavin confessed. “It was one of my old players, that I coached when I was at Portland U. One of my . . .well, we weren’t supposed to have favorites, but it happens, and he was one of mine.

He’s working for the university now, as an assistant coach, and he wanted to offer me the head coaching job. ”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t pretend to shoot him?”

“No.” Gavin grimaced. He knew Jon had thought the way he’d built up his walls hadn’t been healthy. You can say no, and create firm boundaries without being so freaking dramatic, Gavin.

And he knew that, obviously. But the dramatics ensured that people didn’t come back. That the stories and the legends grew. That he became like the hockey boogeyman, and eventually people would just stop bothering him.

That had happened.

Until Zach.

“I let him in the house,” Gavin continued. “I invited him for dinner. We watched a movie. Drank some beers. I . . .” He didn’t know how to say this so he just fucking said it. “He grew up.”

Both Jon’s eyebrows raised now.

“How old is he now?” he asked neutrally.

And yeah, that was a hell of a lot easier question than the one he knew Jon wanted to ask.

“Twenty-seven.” Gavin tapped his fingers on the counter in a relentless rhythm.

“He’s quit playing hockey, professionally, and that really bothered me, at first. His explanation makes sense, and he seems happy, but it .

. .it was like a jolt to the system. Realizing that he’s grown up. Making his own grown-up decisions.”

“So he showed up, offered you a job, and you two caught up. And now you’re not sleeping.”

Maybe there wasn’t any judgment in Jon’s tone, but Gavin felt like he deserved a whole truckload of it.

“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it,” Gavin said.

“Any thoughts as to why?”

“I just . . .” Gavin squirmed, even though he didn’t want to.

He knew what was true. What he should say.

But the words stuck in his throat. They were too similar to what Jon had pushed him to do, why he’d stopped seeing him six months ago.

“After he left, I can’t seem to settle back into my old life. ”

“But you never left it. You invited Zach into your life,” Jon said.

“I did,” Gavin said. And despite all this bullshit, he couldn’t say he regretted it, even now.

“Is it possible,” Jon asked, so carefully neutral, “that Zach exposed how this life you’ve chosen doesn’t fit you anymore?”

Gavin didn’t want to answer that. So he didn’t.

“He showed me some hockey tape. Guys on the team. They’re exciting.

A lot of upside. So much potential.” And as much as Gavin had been thinking about Zach and that moment on the couch, he’d been turning over the Jones and McCoy problem in the back of his head.

Considering how a coach might approach Finn Reynolds and convince him to divorce himself from all the expectations inherent with his last name. How he might approach Finn Reynolds.

And that was the root of the problem, wasn’t it?

Zach hadn’t been wrong; this team would be a challenge, but an exhilarating one.

“You didn’t tell him that you didn’t watch hockey anymore?” Jon asked.

“I did . . .I . . .I could’ve said no.” But he hadn’t. He’d leaned in, just as interested and fascinated by the game as he’d ever been.

“But you didn’t.”

Gavin huffed in frustration. “You want me to say it? Okay, I miss it. I miss having a purpose. I miss . . .” God, so many things.

Numbness was a comfortable state of being now, but he missed being alive .

Missed feeling alive.

“It doesn’t make me feel better to hear you say it,” Jon said gently.

He could be an ass about this; he’d been right, after all. It had taken Gavin six months to see it, to feel it, but he couldn’t deny it any longer.

“Well, that’s something.”

Jon was quiet for a long moment. So long, Gavin actually felt himself tense up, wondering what Jon was gearing up for.