Page 31

Chapter

Twenty-Six

The last month of the semester passed in a blur of late-night study sessions, phone calls to landlords when our fridge went out, and too many trips to Tim Hortons.

Crystal and I were deep in finals prep, but we managed to find enough time to help Shar and Rob look for a new place.

It had two bedrooms and was closer to campus than my place.

I filled every spare second. It helped keep my mind off of Chase. That is until I crawled into bed at night and then, no matter how tired I was, I couldn’t keep thoughts of him out of my head. It was the sweetest torture.

Shar’s spring concert rode the heels of moving chaos and just two days before final exams. The Rozsa Centre was packed, and Shar looked radiant in the black satin dress she could still fit into.

She was worried about having to buy a new wardrobe, but I, for one, couldn’t wait until her belly was big enough to rub.

The moment the final piece ended—a lush, soaring rendition of Scheherazade —our group erupted.

“THAT'S OUR GIRL, SHAR!” Axel bellowed, loud enough that an older man in the front row adjusted his hearing aid. Bear whistled through his fingers, and I had to tug on Rob’s sleeve to keep him from jumping up on his chair.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

We headed to Ranchman’s the night finals wrapped up.

The team had just gotten their marching orders for the offseason, but for the moment, we were all free as birds.

Rob danced with his arm slung over Shar’s shoulder, gently rocking her in time with the music.

Bear and Nick kept the pitchers of beer replenished, and Rory challenged two girls to a game of pool.

Which he lost. Crystal pretended not to know him until he dipped her on the dance floor and whispered something that made her laugh so hard she dropped her clutch.

When the three of us reconvened at our table an hour later, Shar looked tired. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes as she watched Rob put Nick in a headlock.

“Everything okay?” Crystal asked.

Shar kept her face a mask of calm. “What if he starts to resent me? Or the baby? What if he gives it all up and then hates me for it?”

My heart squeezed. “You saw his speech. He seemed pretty sure of himself.”

She scoffed. “Sure, he is now. But what about after the baby comes? What about when we’re up all night and still trying to finish our classes? What about when he can’t just be like this with the team, and it’s his last year, and then—” Her lips drew into a line. “What about in five years? Ten?”

I didn’t have an answer.

“Everything has to end eventually, doesn’t it?” Crystal mused.

It was true. I’d played soccer in elementary and middle school, but then the only option was the high school team, which I had no interest in trying out for. Basketball was the same. You either got serious and made the teams or you were done.

I frowned. Why was it like that for youth sports? For adult sports, especially hockey? If there were over fifty thousand youth hockey players in Canada, why was there only one path for competitive play? Why wasn’t anyone building something for all those players living their backup plans?

My brain lit up like it always did when a good puzzle presented itself.

I needed to do more research.

After a blustery spring storm, campus felt like the inside of a snow globe after it’d been shaken and left to settle. It was quiet and draped in thick, wet snow as I took my usual spot in front of the computers in the library.

Finals were over. Half the dorms had emptied. The coffee shop was running on reduced hours, and the only other person in the library looked like he’d fallen asleep over his notes three days ago and no one had the heart to wake him.

I pulled out my stack of legal pads and a pen, then logged in with my student ID. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to find, but the question I had at Ranchman’s wouldn’t release its claws.

I waited for the internet to dial up, then dug in.

I searched hockey leagues, tournaments, and organizations, took notes on the boards and coaches, then refined my searches.

I searched through old newspapers and magazines, scanned articles about youth sports infrastructure, university development programs, minor league foundations, alumni-run travel leagues, women’s rec leagues, even intramural models at other universities.

I bookmarked pages from the CJHL, the CCHL, the BCHL, even obscure ones like the Thunder Bay Junior B Circuit.

It was a mess of scribbled names, numbers, and acronyms, but at least I had some contact information and a place to start.

I flipped to a clean page and started sketching a rough model. How many players aged out of Juniors every year in Alberta? What percentage dropped out of competitive play entirely? How many moved into coaching or development? How many wanted to but couldn’t afford to?

Could there be a place for them? Could there be more?

My pen flew over the page. Equations, cost estimates, notes on liability. I made a note about gear sponsorships and volunteer-run rinks. League insurance. Travel costs. Ice time contracts.

I started crunching numbers like I had with Chase, my determination solidifying. There were so many players. How did nothing competitive exist for them? It seemed ludicrous.

When my head started pounding, I realized I’d forgotten to eat lunch. And dinner.

I stretched my arms over my head, then put away the periodicals before logging out and gathering my notes, tucking them into my bag.

I grabbed a ham-and-cheese wrap from the bookstore, then drove the few blocks to Shar’s place, wolfing down the food in the car.

She ushered me in, quick to show off their progress. There were still boxes lining the hall, but she had a few pictures up and the kitchen cupboards were stocked.

Shar, in her leggings and an oversized Calgary Philharmonic hoodie, grabbed my hand and dragged me down the hallway to see the future nursery. They’d painted a soft sage green halfway up the walls and a rocking chair now sat in the corner.

“It’s going to be amazing.”

She beamed. “We don’t know the gender yet, so we figured we’d go with green.”

It was all I could do to follow her back into the living room before opening my backpack. Once she was settled on the couch, I pulled out my notes. “I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night.”

“Which thing?” She raised an eyebrow, and I huffed a laugh.

“Nothing to do with papier-maché lingerie, so you might be disappointed.”

“I definitely will be.”

I grinned, setting the legal pads on the coffee table. “I’ve been crunching numbers. Looking at how many athletes age out every year with nowhere to go. Not to the AHL, not to Europe, not even to rec leagues. Just . . . done.”

Shar’s expression sobered. “Yeah?”

I hesitated. “What if we started a conversation? Talked with some of the people who already run leagues for under-eighteen athletes. What if we showed them these numbers and asked about the potential for expanding things?”

Shar blinked at me, then slowly grinned. “Do you think they’d talk with us?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. But I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Shar put a hand on her belly. “That’s good enough for me.”

We chatted for another hour or so, spitballing ideas for what our cold calls or emails would even look like. When I finally got home at nine thirty, the sky was streaked pink and gold. Damn, I always loved the start of summer.

I walked to the mailboxes at the corner of our street and pulled out my key. Inside I found a small stack of mostly flyers and advertisements, but as I closed the metal door, a white envelope caught my eye.

I re-locked the box and pulled it out from between a tanning bed coupon and a reminder that Stampede tickets were going on sale.

When I saw the handwriting and the name and address in the top corner, I dropped my keys.