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Success tastes like champagne and sounds like your agent celebrating a contract that should feel like winning but somehow feels like choosing sides.

“Three years, full no-movement clause, and a significant raise,” Jerry’s voice crackles through my phone as I stare at the paperwork spread across my kitchen table. “It’s everything we hoped for when you came to Boston. Clean slate, fresh start, proof that you’ve turned things around.”

“Yeah,” I say, but the enthusiasm I should feel is nowhere to be found. “It’s great.”

“You sound like someone just told you your dog died. This is good news, Reed. Career-defining good news.”

“I know. I just... need some time to process.”

“Process what? They’re offering you stability, respect, a chance to be a cornerstone player instead of a reclamation project. What’s to process?”

What’s to process is that Chelsea’s been back in Phoenix for three weeks, and every conversation we’ve had has felt like we’re both holding our breath, waiting for someone to make a decision that changes everything.

What’s to process is that this contract feels like choosing Boston over possibility, stability over love, the safe choice over the right choice.

“I’ll call you back,” I tell Jerry.

“Reed—”

“I need to call Chelsea first.”

“Christ. You’re really going to let a woman dictate your career decisions?”

“I’m going to talk to the person I love about the biggest decision of my professional life. There’s a difference.”

I hang up before he can argue, then immediately dial Chelsea’s number. She answers on the second ring, sounding distracted.

“Hey. Bad time?”

“No, just reading. What’s up?”

“Boston offered me a three-year extension. Full contract, no movement clause. Jerry’s practically having an orgasm over the terms.”

Silence. Then: “That’s... wow. That’s huge, Reed. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” I pause, trying to read her tone through two thousand miles of distance. “You sound thrilled.”

“I am. I’m happy for you. This is what you’ve been working toward.”

“But?”

“But nothing. It’s a great opportunity.”

“Chelsea.”

“What?”

“Talk to me. Really talk to me. What are you thinking?”

Another pause, longer this time. I can almost hear her choosing words carefully.

“I’m thinking this is exactly what you deserve. Recognition for how hard you’ve worked to become someone better. Proof that people see you as more than your mistakes.”

“That’s your therapist voice.”

“What?”

“That’s your professional, supportive, completely neutral therapist voice. I want to know what Chelsea thinks.”

“Chelsea thinks...” She sighs. “Chelsea thinks this complicates things. But Chelsea also thinks your career shouldn’t be complicated by her geography issues.”

“What if I want it to be complicated?”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this about me. This is your life, your career, your future. Don’t let me be the reason you make the wrong choice.”

“What if you’re the reason I make the right choice?”

“Reed—”

“What if choosing stability over possibility is the wrong choice? What if playing it safe isn’t actually safe at all?”

She’s quiet for so long I think the call dropped.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here. Just... thinking.” Her voice sounds small, distant. “I have news too.”

“What is it?”

“I got a job offer. Yesterday. Seattle Icehawks. Mental performance coordinator. It’s... it’s everything I thought I wanted before Chicago happened.”

Seattle. Professional sports. The career she lost because of me, offered back to her on the other coast.

“That’s incredible, Chelsea. When do you start?”

“I haven’t accepted yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because it feels like running away again. Different city, different team, but same pattern of choosing work over everything else.” She pauses. “And because it would put me even further from you.”

“Chelsea, this is what you’re meant to do. High-level sports psychology, working with elite athletes, building the career you trained for. You have to take it.”

“Do I? Or do I have to stop letting other people’s definitions of success dictate my choices?”

“This isn’t other people’s definition. This is your dream job.”

“My dream job was the one that got me into this mess in the first place.”

I lean back in my chair, processing the weight of what she’s saying. Both of us being offered exactly what we thought we wanted, and both of us questioning whether it is enough.

“When do you have to decide?”

“Two weeks. They want me to start after the new year.”

“And the Phoenix stuff? Your clients?”

“I’d transition them to other therapists. It’s doable, just... it means starting over again. New city, new team, new everything.”

“New possibilities.”

“New complications.”

“Chelsea,” I say carefully, “what do you want? Not what’s practical or safe or what makes sense on paper. What do you actually want?”

“I want to stop being afraid of wanting things. I want to build something meaningful that doesn’t require me to choose between professional success and personal happiness. I want...” She trails off.

“What?”

“I want to stop having this conversation in different time zones.”

“So let’s fix that.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet. But Chelsea, if you take the Seattle job—”

“You’re not following me to Seattle, Reed. I won’t let you uproot your entire life because I can’t figure out mine.”

“What if I want to uproot my life?”

“What if you think you want to and then resent me for it later?”

“What if you stop making decisions for both of us and let me decide what I’m willing to risk?”

“Because your risk tolerance has always been so healthy.”

“Touché. But this isn’t about risk tolerance. This is about priorities.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning maybe the question isn’t whether we can make this work long-distance. Maybe the question is whether we want to keep trying to build something together or separately.”

Silence stretches between us, filled with the weight of everything we’re not saying. Both of us standing at crossroads, holding career opportunities that should feel like victories but instead feel like choices between safety and love.

“I should let you go,” she says finally. “You need time to think about the contract.”

“Will you think about Seattle?”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“Good. And Chelsea?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever you decide, decide for you. Not for me, not for us, not for anyone else. Just you.”

“You too. Promise me you won’t turn down a three-year contract because of geographic complications.”

“I promise I’ll make the choice that feels right. Even if it doesn’t look right on paper.”

After we hang up, I sit in my kitchen staring at the contract Jerry sent me. It should represent everything I’ve worked for. Financial security, professional respect, the chance to be part of something stable and successful.

But all I can think about is Chelsea’s voice when she said she didn’t want to have conversations in different time zones anymore. The way she sounded torn between the life she’s building and the possibility of building something together.

I set the phone down and look at the contract again. Three years in Boston. Stability. Security. The life I thought I wanted when I was busy destroying the life I actually wanted.

My laptop’s open before I fully realize what I’m doing. NHL team locations, salary caps, trade possibilities. The Seattle Icehawks—expansion team, building their identity, probably willing to take risks on players with complicated histories if the fit is right.

It’s insane. It’s impractical. It’s exactly the kind of dramatic gesture Chelsea would tell me not to make.

But maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve both gotten so good at making practical choices that we’ve forgotten how to make brave ones.

My phone buzzes. Jerry again.

Jerry: Please tell me you’re not about to do something stupid for a woman.

Me: I’m about to do something smart for both of us.

Jerry: That’s the same thing.

Me: Set up a call with Seattle’s management. I want to explore options.

Jerry: WHAT?

Me: You heard me.

Jerry: Reed, you have a guaranteed contract in Boston. Three years. Full no-movement clause. Why would you even consider—

Me: Because maybe what I need isn’t a no-movement clause. Maybe what I need is the right movement.

Me: Call Seattle.

I pull up Chelsea’s contact and type a message I delete three times before sending.

Me: Question. What if we both went to Seattle?

Me: Not following you. Not making your decision for you. Just... what if we both chose something new?

Me: What if we chose each other AND chose our careers?

Me: What if I want us both to win?

I hit send before I can overthink it, then sit back and wait for her to tell me I’m crazy.

But maybe crazy is exactly what we need.

Maybe the safe choice has been the wrong choice all along.