Chapter 7
SEVEN
DANE
I wake up to sunlight.
Not the harsh, blinding kind, but the slow, lingering glow that slips through the curtains and settles into the room like it plans to stay awhile. It takes me a moment to remember where I am—and why the light feels different here.
It’s early summer.
That’s the first thing I register. The second is Gina.
She’s lying on her side beside me, hair loose, one knee bent toward her chest, the sheet twisted around her legs. The room is quiet in that soft, lived-in way that comes from people being awake elsewhere in the house even if they’re not making noise yet.
Scottie.
The thought lands gently. Not panic-inducing. Not heavy. Just present.
But Gina and I didn’t talk about this. And considering how she’s reacted about other things…
Fuck. Maybe I should have left sooner. Well, it’s too late now.
I lie still for a minute, listening. A distant door opens and closes. Water runs briefly in the bathroom down the hall. Somewhere outside, a bird is doing its absolute best to be heard over everything else.
This isn’t my cabin. It isn’t a hotel room or a rental or some temporary stop between seasons.
It’s a life in motion.
Carefully, I slip out of bed and pull on my jeans, grabbing my shirt from the floor and heading toward the kitchen. The windows are open, letting in cool air that smells like pine and damp earth. The kind of air that tells you winter has finally given up.
Coffee first. Always.
The kitchen is small but efficient. There’s a calendar on the fridge, crowded with handwritten notes and color-coded blocks—lodge bookings, youth hockey events, school deadlines, reminders I recognize instantly as the kind that come from managing everything yourself.
I pour a cup and lean against the counter, staring out the window at the yard. There are a couple of chairs pushed to one side like someone meant to sit in them later.
She’s built something here. And I know she can do so much more.
I open the notebook I brought with me—not because I planned to work, but because the ideas won’t leave me alone.
I don’t sketch anything fancy. Just rough notes. Possibilities.
Small summer clinics.
Youth development weekends.
Off-season conditioning that doesn’t feel like punishment.
A place players can come without cameras or expectations.
A place that feels like this.
“You’re up.”
I turn to find Gina in the doorway, wearing an oversized T-shirt and leggings, hair pulled into a messy knot that looks suspiciously like she didn’t fight it very hard. She looks softer this morning. Less guarded.
“Old habit,” I say. “Hope it’s okay.”
She nods, stepping farther into the kitchen. “Scottie went back to sleep. Miracles do happen.”
I smile. “I didn’t wake her, did I?”
“No.” She pours herself coffee, glancing at the notebook. “Are you working?”
“Thinking,” I correct again.
She peers at the page, reading upside down. “That looks like work.”
“Occupational hazard.”
She huffs a quiet laugh and sits across from me. The sunlight hits her face just right, and for a second I forget what I was going to say.
“You didn’t have to stay last night,” she says, not accusatory. Just stating a fact.
“I know.”
“And you didn’t have to bring your job into my kitchen.”
“I know that too.”
She waits.
I take a breath. “I’m not trying to turn your life into something it’s not.”
“I know,” she says slowly.
“I just—” I gesture at the notebook. “I can’t stop seeing possibilities here. Not problems. Not things to fix.”
Her shoulders loosen, just a fraction. “Okay.”
“That lodge,” I continue carefully, “could be incredible in the summer. Not huge camps. Not chaos. Intentional stuff. Skill-building. Confidence. Giving kids a place where they’re seen.”
She studies my notes more closely now. Not defensive. Curious.
“You’ve thought about this,” she says.
“I’ve been thinking about it since I stepped back on that ice.”
She leans back in her chair. “That makes sense.”
It does. More than my old life does right now.
She glances back over her shoulder. “Look, I’m going to have to get Scottie open in a bit. And I don’t think—”
“It’s okay.” I give her a grin, though there’s a dull ache in my chest. “I’ll make myself scarce.”
I pull back to look into her eyes. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah.” She relaxes slightly. “I’ll see you later.”
I kiss her good-bye and hope I can prove to her that I’ve meant everything I’ve said. That we can build something new from the old. Personally and professionally.
A few days later at the rink, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m standing at the edge of something important.
The rink is quieter than it was a few days ago, now that there are only two teams left standing, preparing for the final game in the tournament.
Scottie skates like she’s got something to prove today—not to anyone else, but to herself. I recognize that look. I’ve worn it.
Gina watches from the bleachers. She looks relaxed in a way she didn’t before. Still guarded, but not braced for impact.
I’d like to think spending a few days getting to know her daughter, and a few nights locked in passionate embraces, have helped to lower the guards she’s built up.
After practice, we walk out together, the air outside warm enough that jackets are optional.
“Scottie’s been talking about your team non-stop,” she tells me. “Apparently she thinks she’s running your first camp.”
I laugh. “I’d hire her if I knew there was a job to offer. Even if I know she’ll be gunning for my job in another year.”
She laughs. “You can count on that.”
Before I can respond to that, my phone buzzes in my pocket. The name on the screen makes my heart stop.
“I should take this,” I say.
She nods, already stepping back. “Of course.”
I answer with my heart in my throat.
“Dane,” the owner says. “We’ve made a decision.”
I close my eyes.
“We’re offering you a one-year renewal.”
Relief hits first. It’s followed almost immediately by regret.
“One year,” I repeat.
“It gives everyone flexibility,” he says. “We think it’s the smart move.”
We talk logistics. Dates. Next steps.
When the call ends, I stand there for a long moment, phone heavy in my hand.
Gina waits a few steps away, pretending not to watch me.
“Well?” she asks when I return.
“They renewed my contract.”
Her smile is immediate and genuine. “Dane—that’s incredible.”
“It is,” I say. And it should feel like a victory.
She hugs me without hesitation. Warm. Proud. Supportive in a way that catches me off guard.
“I’m really happy for you,” she says.
I hold her a second longer than necessary.
Because now I have everything I thought I wanted.
And I don’t know yet how to tell her that leaving might be harder than staying.