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The next morning, I wake up at dawn with nervous energy that demands movement. My official start date isn’t for another week, but I need to see the facility, need to make this real, need to find Reed and verify he’s not just an elaborate hallucination brought on by cross-country moving stress.

The Icehawks training facility is beautiful—all glass and steel and the promise of building something significant from scratch. I use my new employee credentials to get past security, following signs toward the practice rinks where early-morning skaters are already working.

Through the glass, I can see players stretching, going through individual drills, preparing for whatever official practice awaits. The familiar ballet of professional athletes warming up, each movement precise and purposeful.

And there, near center ice, stretching his hamstrings with the focus of someone who’s done this routine ten thousand times, is Reed.

He looks good in Icehawks colors—teal and navy that somehow make his dark hair look richer, his build more imposing. But more than that, he looks settled. Like someone who belongs here, who made the right choice for the right reasons.

I watch him for a few minutes, processing the reality of seeing him in this context. Not visiting, not temporary, but integrated into this team, this city, this life we’re apparently building together.

He hasn’t noticed me yet, too focused on his warmup routine. But then something makes him look up—instinct, peripheral movement, that magnetic awareness we’ve always had for each other—and his entire face transforms when he sees me.

The smile that spreads across his features could power the building. Pure joy, unguarded and infectious, like someone just told him Christmas came early.

He skates toward the boards where I’m standing, and I meet him at the glass. For a moment, we just look at each other through the barrier—me in civilian clothes, him in full gear, both of us grinning like idiots.

“Hi,” he says, voice muffled by the glass but still clear enough to make my chest tight.

“Nice jersey.”

“Thanks. New team, thought I’d try the local colors.”

“How’s it fit?”

“Better than expected. Like maybe I was meant to be here all along.”

The words hit harder than they should, loaded with implications about belonging and choice and the way some decisions feel right even when they terrify you.

“When did you get here?” I ask.

“Few days ago. Wanted to get settled before springing myself on you.”

“Consider me sprung upon.”

“Good sprung upon or bad sprung upon?”

Instead of answering, I walk around the rink to the team entrance, flashing my credentials at the attendant who waves me through. The locker room area is bustling with players and staff, but I navigate through it with single-minded focus.

Reed’s skating toward the opening in the boards when I reach ice level, and something in my expression must telegraph my intentions because his eyes widen.

“Chelsea—”

I don’t let him finish. Instead, I step onto the ice in my sneakers, grab the front of his practice jersey, and kiss him.

Right there. In front of his new teammates, coaching staff, and anyone else who happens to be watching. Soft but sure, claiming him and this moment and the choice we’re making together.

When we break apart, I’m vaguely aware that the rink has gone quiet. Twenty-something professional athletes and various staff members staring at their new mental performance coach kissing their recently acquired right wing like she owns him.

“Hi,” I say again, quieter this time.

“Hi.” His hands find my waist, steadying me on the ice. “I loved that. Do it again.”

Around us, the team has resumed their warmup skating, though I catch more than a few curious glances and probably several phones capturing this moment for posterity. But for once, I don’t care about controlling the narrative or managing appearances.

I stand on my tip-toes and kiss him again.

For once, I just care about being here, with him, choosing us in front of everyone who matters.

“So,” Reed says, still holding me steady on the ice, “how do you want to handle this? The whole teammates-knowing-we’re-together thing?”

“Honestly. Professionally. With clear boundaries about work versus personal time.” I meet his eyes. “But not secretly. I’m done with secrets.”

“Good. Because I’m terrible at keeping them anyway.”

“I noticed.”

A voice from across the ice interrupts us: “Hendrix! You planning to skate today, or just stand there making out with the staff?”

We turn to see Coach Hartley grinning at us with the expression of someone who’s been coaching long enough to roll with whatever curveballs his players throw at him.

“Sorry, Coach,” Reed calls back. “Got distracted.”

“I can see that. Dr. Clark, welcome to the facility. Looking forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, Coach. Sorry for the disruption.”

“No disruption. Just good to see Hendrix smiling for reasons that don’t involve hitting people.”

Laughter ripples across the ice from players who’ve clearly been briefed on Reed’s history. But it’s friendly laughter, welcoming rather than mocking.

“Alright,” I tell Reed, stepping carefully back toward solid ground. “Go play hockey. I’ll be here when you’re done.”

He skates backward toward his teammates. “I like the sound of that.”

As practice resumes around us, I watch from the stands, marveling at how right this feels. Not perfect—we’ll have complications, professional challenges, the inevitable growing pains of building something real instead of just surviving something impossible.

But right. Like we’re finally moving in the same direction instead of just orbiting each other’s chaos.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.

Unknown: Welcome to Seattle. Heard you might be staying a while. - Dave (equipment manager)

Then another: Unknown: Welcome to Icehawks. Happy to have you. - Jenny (team nutritionist)

And another: Unknown: If you need restaurant recommendations, I’ve got you covered. - Gary (goalie)

One by one, messages from team staff and players welcoming me not just as their new mental performance coach, but as part of whatever extended family they’ve built here.

It’s more belonging than I’ve felt in years. Not because of my credentials or professional achievements, but because I’m the person who makes their teammate happy. Because love, it turns out, is its own kind of qualification.

I settle into the stands to watch the rest of practice, surrounded by the sounds of skates on ice and voices calling plays and the particular energy of athletes who love what they do.

Tomorrow, I start my new job officially. Next week, Reed and I will probably have our first fight about work-life balance or whose turn it is to do dishes. Next month, we’ll face whatever challenges come with mixing professional and personal in ways that would have terrified me a year ago.

But today, I sit in the stands of a Seattle hockey rink, watching the man I love play the game he loves, in a city we chose together.

Today, that’s enough.

More than enough.

It’s everything.