Chapter 2 #2
"I got a call from Derek yesterday," Jake said. He hadn't planned to say it, but the words came out anyway.
Tommy's expression didn't change. "Your agent."
"Yeah."
"What'd he want?"
"There's a scout. Been watching me. Nashville, he thinks. Derek says they might make an offer."
"And?"
"And... I don't know." Jake watched Emma nail a pass to another kid, both of them cheering. "I'm twenty-eight. This is probably my last shot at the NHL. If I turn it down—"
"You've already turned it down," Tommy said.
Jake looked at him, startled. "What?"
"In your head. You've already decided. You're just scared to admit it."
"I haven't—"
"Jake." Tommy's voice was firm but not unkind.
"I've known you since you were eight years old.
I know when you're lying. You come out here every Saturday, you coach these kids, you light up like a damn Christmas tree.
You don't do that during team practices anymore.
You don't do that during games. The only time I see that kid I used to coach—the one who loved hockey more than breathing—is when you're out here with Emma and her friends. "
Jake wanted to argue, but the words died in his throat.
"You know what the difference is between settling and choosing?" Tommy asked. "Settling is what you do when you've given up. Choosing is what you do when you've figured out what matters. You decided which one you're doing yet, Reaper?"
The nickname—the one his teammates used, the one that had started when someone noticed he never smiled during games—sounded strange coming from Tommy.
Reaper wasn't the eight-year-old who'd skated until his feet bled.
Reaper was the shell Jake wore to get through each season, the armor that protected him from admitting he might not have made it.
"I don't want people to think I gave up," Jake said.
"You care that much what people think?"
"I care what I think. And right now I think... I think I'm not sure what I'm doing anymore."
Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. "Then figure it out. But don't let some idea of who you were at eighteen decide who you get to be at twenty-eight. Your dad wouldn't have wanted that."
He skated off to help a kid who'd fallen, leaving Jake standing alone at the boards.
Emma skated over, breathing hard, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.
"Coach Jake, do you ever get nervous during games?"
"All the time," Jake admitted.
"Really? But you're so good."
"Being good and being nervous aren't mutually exclusive."
Emma frowned, clearly working through the vocabulary. Then: "My mom says if something makes you nervous, it means you care about it. Is that true?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "That's true."
"Do you care about hockey?"
The question was so simple, so direct, that for a moment Jake couldn't answer. Did he care about hockey? Or did he care about the idea of hockey—the dream he'd been chasing since he was Emma's age, the promise he'd made to his father, the version of himself that existed only in his imagination?
"I care about teaching you hockey," Jake said finally. "Does that count?"
Emma considered this seriously. "I think so. My mom also says that doing what makes you happy is more important than doing what other people think you should do."
"Your mom sounds smart."
"She is. She's a doctor." Emma said this with obvious pride. Then: "Are you happy, Coach Jake?"
Out of the mouths of seven-year-olds.
Jake looked around the rink—at Tommy helping a kid with his stick grip, at Owen Fletcher (their twenty-one-year-old rookie, who'd volunteered to help today) dramatically pretending to be a goalie while kids shot pucks at him, at the scoreboard that still had last week's final score displayed.
"Yeah," Jake said, and was surprised to realize he meant it. "Right now I am."
Emma beamed. "Good. You should be happy all the time."
She skated away before Jake could tell her that happiness wasn't that simple, that being an adult meant making complicated choices between what you wanted and what you were supposed to want, between who you were and who you'd planned to be.
But maybe Emma was right. Maybe it could be that simple.
Maybe the problem was that Jake had spent so long chasing happiness that he'd forgotten to recognize it when it was standing right in front of him.
The lunch rush was exactly what Lucy needed—too busy to think, too busy to spiral, just enough mental space to focus on making sandwiches and pulling fresh bread from the oven and ringing up orders.
Mae handled the register with her usual cheerful competence while Lucy worked the back, assembling orders and trying not to think about Uncle Walter's words.
Your grandmother didn't leave you this place so you could disappear into it.
The words kept circling in her brain, impossible to ignore.
By 1:30 PM, the rush had slowed to a trickle. Mae was wiping down tables, humming along to the indie playlist Lucy had on low volume. Lucy was in the kitchen, prepping tomorrow's cinnamon rolls, when she heard the bell chime.
"Hey, Luce."
Lucy looked up to find Rei Nakamura leaning against the doorframe, PT bag slung over one shoulder, dark hair pulled into her signature high ponytail.
Rei was small—barely five feet tall—but she radiated the kind of confident energy that made professional hockey players do exactly what she told them during physical therapy.
"You're here early," Lucy said. Rei usually came by after work, around 7 PM, for coffee and to complain about whichever player had skipped their exercises that week.
"Half day. Tommy's knees are acting up, so he cancelled afternoon practice." Rei grabbed a stool and sat. "Also, I heard about this morning."
Lucy's hands stilled in the dough. "Uncle Walter told you?"
"Uncle Walter tells everyone everything. It's his love language." Rei accepted the coffee Lucy slid across the counter. "So. How are you?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You look like you haven't slept in a week, there's flour in your hair—which, granted, is normal—but you're also doing that thing where you knead dough aggressively when you're upset."
Lucy looked down at her hands, which were indeed working the dough harder than necessary. She forced herself to slow down.
"Uncle Walter thinks I'm working too much," Lucy said.
"Uncle Walter is correct."
"I run a business. I can't just—"
"Yes, you can." Rei's voice was firm. "Lucy, I love you, but you're being ridiculous. You work six days a week, 16-hour days. You haven't taken a vacation in five years. You eat approximately one real meal per day. You're twenty-seven years old and you're living like a 70-year-old workaholic."
"I'm honoring Grandmother's—"
"Your grandmother would be horrified," Rei interrupted. "She came to this country so her family could have better opportunities. She didn't build this place so you could sacrifice your entire life to it. She built it so you'd have a foundation—not a prison."
Lucy felt her eyes start to burn. Not Rei too. She couldn't handle both Uncle Walter and Rei ganging up on her in the same day.
"I don't know how to do anything else," Lucy said quietly.
Rei's expression softened. She reached across the counter and grabbed Lucy's flour-dusted hand.
"Yes, you do," Rei said. "You're brilliant and creative and you have so many dreams you're sitting on.
Remember when we were in college and you wanted to travel?
You had that whole list of bakeries you wanted to visit.
Paris, Tokyo, Seoul, New York. You were going to spend a year just learning and experiencing and living. "
"That was before—"
"Before Grandmother got sick. I know." Rei squeezed her hand. "But Luce, it's been five years. At some point, you have to stop putting your life on hold."
"I'm not—"
"You are." Rei's voice was gentle but unyielding. "You're stuck. And I'm worried that if you don't unstick yourself soon, you're going to wake up at forty and realize you spent your entire twenties and thirties in this kitchen."
Lucy pulled her hand back and went back to kneading. "I like this kitchen."
"I know you do. But liking something and disappearing into it are two different things."
They sat in silence for a moment. Mae's humming drifted back from the front room, punctuated by the occasional clink of dishes.
"I don't know how to want things anymore," Lucy admitted.
"I used to want so much—the travel, the culinary school, the adventure.
But now when I try to imagine leaving, all I can think about is Grandmother and how disappointed she'd be, and the recipes being lost, and the community not having this place anymore.
It's like wanting things for myself feels selfish. "
"It's not selfish," Rei said. "It's human. And your grandmother would understand that."
"You don't know that."
"Actually, I do. Because I talked to her about it."
Lucy's head snapped up. "What?"
Rei had the grace to look slightly guilty. "Right before she died. When you'd decided to stay and give up the culinary school. I went to see her in the hospital and I told her I thought you were making a mistake. That you were too young to give up your dreams."
"What did she say?"
"She said you weren't giving up your dreams—you were postponing them.
She said that sometimes we have to do what's needed in the moment, but that doesn't mean we stop dreaming.
She said she trusted you to figure out the balance eventually.
" Rei paused. "And then she asked me to promise I'd remind you of that if you ever forgot. "
Lucy felt tears slip down her cheeks. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of flour.
"I miss her," Lucy whispered.
"I know." Rei came around the counter and hugged her, and Lucy let herself lean into it. "But she wouldn't want you to miss your own life because you're too busy preserving hers."