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Back in Boston, I throw myself into routine like it’s armor against feeling. Practice, gym, therapy sessions with Dr. Walsh where I carefully avoid mentioning that I just flew across the country to leave flowers for someone I’m supposed to be getting over.

“You seem different today,” she observes during Thursday’s session, pen poised over her notepad like she’s taking inventory of my emotional state.

“Different how?”

“Lighter. Less... contained.”

“Maybe I’m just having a good week.”

“Maybe. Or maybe something shifted.” She studies me with the kind of professional attention that costs two hundred dollars an hour. “Want to talk about it?”

I could tell her about Phoenix. About sunflowers and parking lots and the way Chelsea looked when she realized I’d been watching her work. About how seeing her happy—really happy—made my chest feel less hollow for the first time in months.

Instead, I deflect. “Just hockey stuff. Team’s a good one. Season’s looking promising.”

“Hmm.” She makes a note, clearly not buying my deflection but professional enough not to push. “How are things with the youth program?”

Better territory. I tell her about Tommy’s progress, about Sophie’s slap shot technique, about the way these kids see hockey as pure joy instead of professional obligation.

How teaching them reminds me why I fell in love with the game before contracts and media and the weight of other people’s expectations made it complicated.

“It sounds meaningful,” she says. “Like you’re building something important.”

“Just volunteer work.”

“Is it? Or is it who you’re becoming?”

After the session, I drive to the community rink for practice with the kids.

The building’s old, functional, nothing like the state-of-the-art facilities I’m used to.

But there’s something honest about the scarred ice and dented boards, like they’ve earned their imperfections through years of actual use instead of corporate sponsorship.

“Coach Reed!” Sophie waves from center ice, missing half her gear because eight-year-olds are apparently incapable of remembering complete equipment. “Watch this!”

She attempts what might charitably be called a spin move, loses her balance spectacularly, and slides into the boards with enough force to rattle the plexiglass. Instead of crying, she pops up with her hands in the air and a big smile.

“That was good. Wow. Let’s practice that one again.”

For the next hour, I lose myself in fundamentals—teaching kids how to stop without falling, how to handle the puck under pressure, how to get back up when someone knocks you down. Basic lessons that apply to more than just hockey.

After practice, I’m collecting scattered equipment when my phone buzzes.

Chelsea: How was your flight?

My heart does something complicated against my ribs. I know that careful phrasing, that formal distance that could mean anything or nothing.

Me: Long. Gave me time to think.

Three dots appear and disappear for a full minute. I wait, not wanting to push, giving her space to say whatever she needs to say or nothing at all.

Chelsea: About?

Another long pause. I finish putting away equipment, lock up the facility, sit in my car in the parking lot staring at my phone like it’s a Ouija board.

Me: About showing up versus staying. About whether there’s a difference.

Chelsea: Is there? A difference?

Me: I think showing up is the easy part. It’s dramatic. Makes you feel like you’re doing something important.

Me: Staying is harder. It’s everyday choices. Being present when it’s boring or difficult or when there’s no audience to witness your grand gestures.

I attach a photo—the community rink, empty now except for the Zamboni driver preparing the ice for tomorrow’s lessons. Not glamorous, but real.

Me: Here if you want to talk. No pressure. Just... here.

She doesn’t respond immediately, and I don’t expect her to. We’ve got months of silence and two thousand miles of distance to bridge. But for the first time since Chicago, the silence doesn’t feel empty. It feels possible.

Three days pass. I fall into routine—practice with the Blizzards, sessions with Dr. Walsh, afternoons with kids who think hockey is supposed to be fun. Normal life for someone learning how to stay in one place without feeling trapped.

Thursday afternoon, I’m running late to the community rink because team practice went long.

Some issue with power play execution that had Coach running us through drills until we got it right.

By the time I arrive, the kids are already on the ice, working through warm-up skating with Maria supervising.

“You’re late,” she calls as I lace up my skates. “Everything okay?”

“Team stuff. Sorry.”

“No worries. They’ve been practicing what you taught them last week. Sophie’s been trying that spin move for twenty minutes.”

I step onto the ice, immediately feeling the familiar peace that comes with blade against frozen water. The kids swarm me like puppies, all excitement and questions about why I’m late and whether we’re going to work on slap shots today.

“Coach Reed,” Tommy says, slightly out of breath from skating laps, “there’s a lady in the stands watching us.”

I look up, following his gaze to the bleachers where parents sometimes sit. Most of the seats are empty except for one woman in jeans and a desert-tan sweater, dark hair pulled back, watching the ice with the kind of focus that makes my pulse stutter.

Chelsea.

She raises one hand in a small wave, like she’s not sure she’s welcome but decided to risk it anyway. I skate over to the boards, heart hammering against my ribs.

“Hi,” I call up to her.

“Hi,” she calls back. “Hope it’s okay that I’m here.”

“Of course it’s okay. When did you—how are you here?”

“Flew in this morning. Red-eye.” She looks tired but determined, like someone who’s made a decision and is seeing it through. “Thought maybe we could talk. If you have time after practice.”

“Yeah. Yes. Definitely.”

“Coach!” Sophie appears at my elbow, studying Chelsea with eight-year-old directness. “Is that your girlfriend?”

“Sophie—”

“She’s pretty. And she’s watching you like my mom watches those cooking shows. All focused and stuff.”

I look back at Chelsea, who’s clearly heard every word and is trying not to smile. “She’s... a friend.”

“Did you go to school with her?”

I laugh. “No, we didn’t meet in school. Let’s focus on hockey right now.”

But for the rest of practice, I’m hyperaware of Chelsea in the stands. The way she watches the kids, the small smile when Tommy finally manages a clean stop, the way she applauds when Sophie nails that spin move she’s been working on.

When practice ends and the kids file off to the locker room, my heart rate picks up again as I skate over to where Chelsea’s sitting.

“Want to come down here? Ice level’s more comfortable for talking.”

She makes her way down the bleacher steps carefully, like someone not used to navigating around hockey equipment. When she reaches the boards, I open the gate for her.

“Careful. Ice is slippery.”

She steps onto the rink in sneakers, immediately grabbing my arm for balance. “Jesus, how do you make this look easy?”

“Over twenty years of practice.”

We make our way to the bench, where she can sit without worrying about falling. Up close, I can see the exhaustion around her eyes, the careful way she’s holding herself like someone who’s made a big decision but isn’t sure about the aftermath.

“So,” I say, settling beside her on the bench. “Phoenix to Boston. That’s not exactly a short trip.”

“Neither is Boston to Phoenix.”

I study her profile, looking for clues about why she’s here, what she’s thinking, whether this is closure or possibility. “How long are you staying?”

“Ten minutes. My flight leaves soon.” She turns on her heel, so I grab her, catching a hint of a smile.

“Don’t play me like that,” I tease.

She shrugs. “I bought an open ticket.” She looks out at the empty ice, where the Zamboni is making slow circles. “I needed to see you. Really see you, not just glimpses from a parking lot.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, your interview changed things. Not just professionally—though that mattered. But personally. The way you talked about us, about what we had... it made me realize I’ve been carrying a lot of shame about something that wasn’t entirely shameful.”

I nod, understanding.

“I mean maybe falling in love with you wasn’t the mistake. Maybe the mistake was thinking love was supposed to be convenient. Safe. Something that fits neatly into career plans and family expectations.”

She turns to face me, and I see something in her eyes I haven’t seen since Vegas—possibility mixed with fear, want balanced against wisdom.

“I miss you,” she says quietly. “More than I want to admit. More than what’s probably healthy.

When you came to Phoenix and then disappeared, life just fell flat.

But I’m going to let you continue this here.

I’m staying at the Marriott downtown. Room 412.

If you want to talk more, come find me. If you don’t, I’ll understand. ”

She stands carefully, testing her balance on the ice. I resist the urge to reach out and steady her, to make this easier than it needs to be.

“The kids are great, by the way,” she says. “You’re good with them. Natural teacher.”

“Thanks.”

“See you later, Reed. Maybe.”

She makes her way off the ice slowly, and I watch her go like I’ve watched her leave a dozen times before. But this time feels different. This time, she’s not running away.

She’s giving me a choice.

The question is whether I’m brave enough to make it.