Chapter 7
Monday morning arrived with crystal-clear skies and the kind of cold that made Jake's breath fog as he walked to the rink. The snow from Sunday had been plowed into neat banks along Main Street, and Timber Falls looked like a postcard version of itself.
No—the call that would confirm what he'd already decided.
This was it. The moment where he stopped waiting for his life to start and actually started living it.
Jake skated until his legs burned and his shoulder sent up warning flares. Then he sat on the bench, pulled out his phone, and called Steve Kowalski before he could talk himself out of it.
Steve answered on the third ring. "Jake Morrison. I was hoping to hear from you today."
"I appreciate the offer," Jake said. "I really do. But I'm going to have to turn it down."
Silence on the other end. Then: "Can I ask why?"
"I'm staying in Timber Falls. I've got an opportunity to coach here, and I think that's the direction my career needs to go."
"Coaching." Steve didn't sound angry, just surprised. "You're turning down the NHL to coach in the ECHL?"
"I'm choosing the life I want instead of the one I thought I was supposed to want."
Another pause. "Okay. I respect that. Takes guts to walk away from this kind of offer."
"Thank you for understanding."
"For what it's worth, Morrison—I think you'll make a hell of a coach. You've got the hockey IQ and the patience. If you ever change your mind, give me a call."
"I will. Thanks, Steve."
Jake hung up and sat in the empty rink, holding his phone, feeling like he'd just jumped off a cliff and discovered he could fly.
His phone buzzed immediately. Derek, his agent.
Derek: Steve just called me. You actually did it.
Jake: Yeah.
Derek: I think you're crazy. But I also think you know what you're doing. Good luck, Morrison.
Jake: Thanks. For everything.
Derek: Call me if you need anything. And hey—send me an invite to the wedding.
Jake: What wedding?
Derek: The one you're going to have with that baker. Marcus talks about you two like it's a Hallmark movie.
Jake smiled despite himself. Then he texted Marcus.
Jake: I did it. Turned down Nashville.
Marcus: How does it feel?
Jake: Terrifying. Also right.
Marcus: That's usually how the right choices feel. Now go plan that date tonight and stop overthinking.
Jake: I don't overthink.
Marcus: You absolutely overthink. It's your signature move. Just... be yourself. Lucy already likes you. You don't have to be perfect.
Jake pocketed his phone and skated a few more laps, letting Marcus's words sink in. You don't have to be perfect.
When had perfect become his default setting? When had being good enough stopped being good enough?
By 8:30, the team started trickling in for practice. Owen bounced onto the ice like usual, followed by Dmitri's steady presence and Ryan's philosophical musings. Marcus appeared last, giving Jake a subtle thumbs up from the crease.
Tommy blew his whistle. "Gather up!"
The team circled around their coach. Tommy looked at Jake, something knowing in his expression.
"Before we start," Tommy said, "I want to make an announcement. Morrison's going to be joining the coaching staff next season as assistant coach. He'll start transitioning this season—learning the ropes, helping with strategy, working with you yahoos on skills development."
The team erupted. Owen looked like Christmas had come early. Marcus was grinning like a maniac. Even Dmitri cracked a smile.
"But Coach," Owen said, "you're still playing this season, right?"
"I'm finishing out the season," Jake confirmed. "But I'll be doing double duty—playing and learning to coach. Fair warning: I'm going to be even more insufferable about proper technique."
"Impossible," Ryan said. "You're already maximally insufferable."
The team laughed, and Jake felt something warm spread through his chest. This was his team. His future. His choice.
Practice was good—hard but good. Tommy put Jake through his paces, having him run drills while explaining the coaching rationale behind each one. It was like seeing hockey through a new lens, understanding not just what to do but why and how to teach it.
By 10 AM, Jake was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.
In the locker room afterward, Marcus cornered him.
"So. You did it."
"I did it."
"How does it feel?"
"Like I just made the biggest decision of my life and I have no idea if it was right."
"It was right," Marcus said confidently. "I've never seen you this present. You're actually here—in this locker room, in this town, in this life. Not waiting for somewhere else."
"What if I'm making a mistake? What if—"
"Jake. Stop." Marcus grabbed his shoulders. "You're allowed to choose this. You're allowed to want something different than what you planned when you were eighteen. That's called growing up, not giving up."
"My dad—"
"Your dad would want you to be happy. Trust me on this. Parents want their kids to be happy. Even the ones who push hard."
Jake nodded, not quite trusting his voice.
"Now," Marcus said, releasing him, "tell me about tonight. What's the plan for this date?"
"I'm cooking. Or attempting to cook."
"You? Cooking?"
"Lucy's been feeding me for three years. I figure it's my turn."
"What are you making?"
"I have no idea. I thought I'd stop by the grocery store and... figure it out?"
Marcus looked horrified. "Jake. No. You can't just wing a first date meal. You need a plan. A recipe. Backup options in case you burn everything."
"I'm not going to burn everything."
"You burned ramen last month."
"That was one time!"
"It was ramen, Jake. It comes with instructions."
Owen, who'd been eavesdropping shamelessly, chimed in. "My mom always says the secret to cooking is butter and salt. Just add those to everything and it'll taste good."
"That's actually not bad advice," Ryan said. "Also wine. Cooking wine makes everything better."
"I'm not serving Lucy burned food swimming in wine and butter."
"Then what are you serving her?" Marcus asked.
Jake ran his hand through his hair. "I don't know. Something that says 'I'm trying really hard but also I'm not trying too hard because that would be weird.'"
"That's not a food, that's a psychological state."
"Exactly. Which is why I'm asking for help."
The team spent the next fifteen minutes debating first date meal options.
Owen advocated for pasta ("Can't go wrong with carbs!
"). Dmitri suggested his grandmother's pierogi recipe (too complicated).
Ryan proposed a philosophical approach ("Cook what speaks to your authentic self"). Marcus just laughed at all of them.
Finally, Tommy walked over. "What's all the commotion?"
"Morrison's cooking dinner for Lucy tonight and he has no idea what to make," Marcus explained.
Tommy considered this. "You trying to impress her or feed her?"
"Both? Neither? I don't know."
"Make something simple that you can't mess up. Roast chicken, vegetables, maybe some potatoes. Classic, straightforward, hard to ruin."
"I can definitely ruin a roast chicken."
"Then call your mother and ask her to walk you through it.
She made you dinner for eighteen years—she knows what you like and what you can handle.
" Tommy clapped Jake on the shoulder. "And Morrison?
Stop overthinking. Lucy likes you. She's not coming over to judge your culinary skills.
She's coming over to spend time with you. "
After practice, Jake sat in his truck and called his mom.
"Jake! Twice in one weekend. What's going on?"
"I need help. I'm making dinner for Lucy tonight and I have no idea what I'm doing."
His mom laughed—warm and delighted. "You're cooking for her? Jake, that's wonderful."
"It would be more wonderful if I knew how to cook."
"You know how to cook. You just don't do it often. What were you thinking of making?"
"Tommy suggested roast chicken."
"Perfect. Simple, impressive, and nearly impossible to mess up if you follow instructions." His mom walked him through the recipe—what to buy, how to prep, what temperature and timing. She made him write it all down, twice, to make sure he had it.
"Mom? Thank you. For everything. For understanding about Nashville."
"Honey, I'm proud of you. Not for turning it down—for knowing what you wanted and choosing it. That's brave."
"I don't feel brave. I feel terrified."
"That's how you know it matters. Now go to the store, buy your ingredients, and don't forget fresh herbs. They make everything look fancy."
Jake spent the rest of the morning at the grocery store, carefully selecting everything on his list. Chicken, potatoes, vegetables, fresh rosemary (which he'd never used but his mom swore by), a bottle of wine (for cooking and drinking), and—on impulse—flowers.
Not roses because that felt too serious, but a mixed bouquet that the florist assured him was "casually romantic. "
By 2 PM, Jake was back in his apartment, staring at all the ingredients spread across his tiny kitchen counter and wondering what he'd gotten himself into.
His phone buzzed. Lucy.
Lucy: Still on for tonight?
Jake: Absolutely. 7 PM?
Lucy: Perfect. Should I bring anything?
Jake: Just yourself. And maybe low expectations.
Lucy: My expectations are extremely high actually. You've been eating my cooking for three years. Time to return the favor.
Jake: No pressure then.
Lucy: I'm kidding. I'm just excited to spend time with you. Even if the food is terrible.
Jake: It won't be terrible. Probably.
Lucy: I believe in you. See you tonight.
Jake set down his phone and looked at the ingredients. Then he pulled up his mom's recipe on his phone, put on his one non-hockey playlist (classic rock, mostly), and started cooking.
Monday morning at The Bread Basket was chaos.