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Chapter twenty-five

Nina

“S till can’t sit still, huh?”

Dr. Elias Franklin’s voice floats from behind a stack of books as I hover awkwardly just inside his office door.

I offer a sheepish smile. “Some things never change.”

He emerges a second later with his cardigan rumpled and glasses halfway down his nose. He is holding two chipped mugs of black coffee like he’s been expecting me since sunrise.

“You always did come in here looking like you had twelve tabs open in your brain,” he says, handing me a mug and gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

“Only twelve?” I settle into the familiar, squeaky seat. “I’ve matured.”

His eyes twinkle with something that lives between fondness and challenge. “We’ll see.”

The smell of dusty books and strong coffee hits me like a warm, intellectual hug. His office hasn’t changed. The same framed diploma from Stanford sits behind him. The same cracked globe stands in the corner. The same overstuffed bookshelf that leans precariously against the wall is still filled with sport psych journals, yellow legal pads, and photos of athletes frozen mid-victory.

“So,” he says, folding into his desk chair and peering at me like I’m a puzzle he still enjoys solving. “Tell me what’s rattling you.”

I laugh quietly, more exhale than sound. “That transparent, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You showed up here on a Saturday in boots you haven’t broken in and a look that says you’ve rewritten your decision matrix six times before lunch.”

I stare into my coffee. “The NHL offered me a job. League office. Senior Mental Performance Consultant. Full relocation, full staff. Big visibility.”

His expression doesn’t change. He just nods slowly, like he’s flipping a mental page. “And?”

“And… I haven’t said yes.”

He waits. Because he’s Elias. Because he knows the power of silence.

“I thought it would be a no-brainer,” I continue. “It’s the kind of opportunity people in our field dream about. Prestige, influence, the whole package. But ever since the email landed, I’ve felt like my chest is full of wet cement.”

“Because?”

I hesitate. “Because I’ve started to build something in Detroit, something I didn’t expect to matter this much.”

“Define ‘something,’” he says, sipping his coffee.

“The team,” I say. “The players. The progress. The relationships. Not just with them, but with myself. I’ve changed.”

He leans back, steepling his fingers. “So the conflict isn’t between good and bad. It’s between right and more right.”

“Exactly. I thought this job was the goal,” I finally admit. “All those late nights, all those conferences and certifications—I thought they were leading me to something like this. But Detroit… it’s like I accidentally found a life I want, and now I don’t know if I can let it go.”

His face softens. “The dream evolves. That’s not failure. That’s growth.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous sound. “Try telling that to the voice in my head that keeps screaming I’ll regret it if I don’t take the big leap.”

“Regret comes in all shapes,” he says. “You can regret staying. You can regret leaving. But regret isn’t a sign of failure. It’s a symptom of caring.”

I blink fast. “Wow. That’s depressing.”

He chuckles. “Only if you expect life to come with a guarantee. Which you don’t, by the way. You’ve always chosen challenge over certainty.”

I stare at the bookshelf behind him. A cracked spine catches my eye— Quiet Leadership. It’s one of the first books he ever handed me.

“What would you do?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer. Not directly. He sets his mug down and leans forward.

“You remember when you got the offer to intern with the Marines instead of staying in academia?”

I nod.

“You were terrified. Said it wasn’t you. Said you weren’t tough enough. But you went.”

“And it changed everything,” I say quietly.

He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what Detroit is. Maybe you’re afraid to stay because it’s too close to joy.”

I squint. “That’s messed up.”

He smiles. “So are most brilliant people. My point is, don’t measure this choice by the size of the opportunity. Measure it by what kind of life it leads to.”

My throat tightens. “You think I’m running?”

“I think you’ve spent a long time proving you could go far. Maybe it’s time to see how deep you can go instead.”

The office is suddenly too warm. Or maybe it’s just me.

“I wish there was a right answer,” I murmur.

“There isn’t,” he says. “There’s only the truth.”

“And how do I find that?”

He lifts his mug in a half-toast. “Listen to the part of you that doesn’t need applause to feel certain.”

I close my eyes for a second. The weight of everything I haven’t said presses down like fog.

Alex. The players. The arena. The quiet thrill of seeing growth happen in real time. The way I felt when I stood at that podium, sure of nothing but the love in the room.

Maybe it’s not about choosing the shinier option.

Maybe it’s about choosing the one that feels like home.

But even now, with Elias’s wisdom threading through my thoughts, I’m not ready to choose.

Not yet.

I stand, setting my mug on the desk.

“Thank you,” I say.

He gets up, hands in his pockets. “You’ll do the right thing. You always do. Even when it scares the hell out of you.”

We hug. Brief but full of history.

As I walk out into the sharp morning air, I feel a little lighter. Not because I’ve made my decision.

But because I know it’s okay to be scared of both directions.

***

By the time I pull into the parking lot at the Acers arena, the sun is dipping behind the rooftops and the lot is already humming with activity. I kill the engine and sit there a second longer than I should, watching players unload gear from cars, staff heading inside with clipboards and radios. I’m starting to feel that game-night buzz—electric and urgent, laced with adrenaline and purpose.

I grab my bag and head inside.

The arena’s inner corridors always smell the same—like cold concrete and rubber mixed with the scent of focus, sweat and possibility. It's oddly grounding.

Coach Stephens catches me just outside the locker room.

“Hey, Doc,” he says, clipboard in hand, brow furrowed like he’s mid-strategy.

“Hey, Coach. Big night?”

“Bigger than most,” he says. “We win this, we lock in our seed in the playoffs. Lose it, we make things harder than they need to be.”

“Sounds like most playoff races.”

He smirks. “You’re not wrong. Boys are fired up though. Focused. Dialed in.”

I nod, then gesture toward the locker room. “Mind if I check in?”

“Go on in. But don’t let Henderson talk you into another motivational TikTok. We’re still trying to forget the last one.”

I laugh and wave him off. “No promises.”

Inside, the locker room’s bustling and alive. The pre-game playlist is pumping, a mix of rap, rock, and pure chaos. Players are stretching, lacing skates, exchanging chirps like they haven’t seen each other in years. There’s a current of tension, but the good kind.

James spots me first. He throws up his arms like he’s welcoming royalty.

“Well if it isn’t our award-winning mental goddess!”

“Oh no,” I mutter.

Ethan turns around, grinning wide. “Did you retire that green dress, or can we vote for a second appearance?”

“You ever thought of putting ‘team goddess’ on your business card?” James adds.

I set my bag down and cross my arms, arching a brow. “Only if I put ‘honorary disaster wrangler’ under your names.”

Parker chuckles from the bench. “Seems accurate.”

Connor grins. “She’s not wrong.”

“Thank you,” I say with mock grandeur. “I’ll be here all night. Good luck out there.”

Ethan throws his towel at James, who ducks and nearly knocks over a water bottle. “Team disaster indeed.”

I glance around the room, heart tugging in all directions. These guys have grown so much. We’ve grown. And being part of that? It’s been more than a job. It’s been a purpose.

Then I see Alex.

He’s at his stall, taping his stick with practiced precision. He’s already half-geared—pads on, jersey down, hair still damp from warmup showers—but when his eyes meet mine, the noise of the room fades.

He stands and walks over, slow but deliberate. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“You look... good.”

“Are you still thinking about the dress?” I tease.

He shrugs with a crooked grin. “Maybe. But also just you. Right now. Here.”

I exhale slowly. The thing that wants to rise in me is too big for this hallway. Too risky for this moment. But my fingers twitch, and I want so badly to reach for his.

Instead, I say, “Play like you own the ice.”

He tilts his head. “Only if you’re watching.”

“I always am.”

His smile softens into something that aches. “We’re good?”

I nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

He doesn’t push. Just bumps my shoulder lightly as he heads back toward his stall.

The team rallies around him as he suits up. Game time. Focus shifts. But my pulse stays right where he left it—elevated.

I drift back down the hallway, past the media crews and staff with headsets, past the trainers and water jugs and the unmistakable hum of arena life gearing up. And then I stop.

I find the spot I always do—just behind the tunnel where the team enters the ice. From here, I can see them line up, helmets gleaming under fluorescent light, gloves tapping shoulders, and last-minute chirps exchanged. And then, I’m right there for the rush forward onto the ice.

It never gets old.

The sound, the energy, the way the building comes alive.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Another email. The subject line glows bright: Response Required: League Office Offer.

I don’t open it.

I just hold it in my hand, heart pounding.

This is where I feel like myself. In the chaos, the motion, the heartbeat of something alive and unfiltered. But is that enough?

Elias’s voice echoes back to me: “Maybe you’re afraid to stay because it’s too close to joy.”

Maybe. Or maybe I’m afraid of waking up one day and wondering what I could have been if I’d taken the leap. The big stage. The seat at the table I always thought I was climbing toward.

My gaze finds Alex as he takes the ice, all speed and focus, his stick cutting smooth arcs, his stance powerful. Like he was made to be there.

He glances toward the tunnel. Briefly. Just once.

And I know he’s looking for me.

My fingers tighten around the phone.

I feel like myself here. In this rink, with this team. But how do I walk away from the career move I’ve been working toward for a decade? What kind of fool turns down everything they thought they wanted, just because something real snuck in and made them question it all?

Relationships don’t always last. You never make a life decision because of a guy. That’s what everyone says. That’s what I say.

But right now, I don’t know what scares me more: refusing the job I’ve wanted for years, or staying in the place that’s starting to feel like home.

And worse... what if I make the wrong choice?