Chapter 9
NINE
DANE
The town’s rink is louder than I’ve ever heard it be.
Even when I was in high school, and we were one game away from going to the state championship.
It’s not because the stakes are higher—this isn’t the Stanley Cup, or even close—but because everyone knows this is the last game. The end of spring league. The final chance for these kids to prove to themselves how far they’ve come.
I stand at the boards, arms crossed, watching Scottie skate warm-up laps. She looks focused. Calm. Ready.
I wish I could say the same for myself.
I haven’t seen Gina properly in days. Not since the conversation outside the rink that left something fractured between us. We’ve passed each other, nodded, exchanged polite words for Scottie’s sake. Nothing more.
It’s been hell.
I keep replaying her words in my head. I don’t want a vacation romance.
As if what I feel for her could ever be that small.
But she’s right about one thing. I didn’t choose clearly. I let things sit in the gray because that’s where I’ve lived most of my adult life. Between seasons. Between contracts. Between decisions.
That stops today.
The game starts fast. The kids are energized, sloppy in places, brilliant in others. Scottie plays like she has something to prove, pushing herself harder than usual, trusting her instincts.
Halfway through the second period, she scores.
The crowd erupts. Parents cheer. Teammates swarm her.
I grin so hard my face hurts.
During the break, I pull the team together.
“Whatever happens out there,” I tell them, “I’m proud of how you’ve played this season. You showed up. You learned. You treated each other like teammates.”
I look directly at Scottie when I add, “That’s what matters.”
She nods, jaw set.
The third period is chaos in the best way. Fast shifts. Missed shots. A save that makes the goalie’s dad lose his mind in the stands.
With less than a minute left, Scottie intercepts a pass and breaks away. She fakes left—exactly like we practiced—and snaps the puck past the goalie.
The horn blares.
Game over.
They win.
The rink explodes into noise, kids piling onto the ice, parents spilling down from the bleachers. I scan the crowd automatically.
And then I see her.
Gina stands near the glass, hands clasped together, eyes bright with pride. When Scottie skates over, Gina pulls her into a fierce hug, laughing and crying at the same time.
My chest tightens.
This is what I almost walked away from.
When the crowd thins and the kids start packing up, I wait. I don’t rush her. I don’t ambush her. I learned something from our last conversation.
She finds me instead.
“Congratulations coach,” she says, still a little breathless. “That was an incredible game.”
“They earned it,” I reply.
She hesitates. “Scottie’s never been prouder.”
Something in her tone softens me. “She should be.”
We stand there, awkward again, but this time I don’t let it linger.
“Can we talk?” I ask. “After?”
She studies my face. “About?”
“Everything.”
A long pause. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Please,” I say, more urgently than I’ve ever said any other word.
“Okay,” she says finally.
I don’t take her back to the rink benches or the lodge. I take her to the small park overlooking the water, the one with the weathered picnic tables and the uneven dock that locals use more than tourists ever will.
The envelope is heavy in my jacket pocket.
I take a breath. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”
She folds her arms loosely. Not defensive. Guarded.
“You were right,” I say. “About the risks of me leaving. About things being temporary.”
Her eyes flicker.
“I don’t want that either,” I continue. “And I don’t want you—or Scottie—waiting around for a man who hasn’t made up his mind.”
She exhales. “Dane—”
“I’m not done.” I pull the envelope out. “I didn’t come here to offer apologies. I came with a plan.”
Her gaze drops to the envelope, then back to my face. “I don’t want—”
“Just listen,” I say gently. “Please.”
She nods once.
I hand it to her.
Inside are the sketches. The notes. The rough timelines. Ideas for summer youth clinics. Partnerships. Small, intentional growth. Nothing flashy. Nothing overwhelming.
“This isn’t about fixing your lodge,” I say. “It’s about building something together. If you want to.”
She flips through the pages slowly, her expression unreadable.
“I’m not asking you to wait a year,” I say. “I’m asking you to let me invest my time here. My energy. My future.”
She looks up. “Your contract—”
“Is one year,” I say. “And it’s flexible. I’ve already talked to them about running clinics remotely during the off-season. About reducing travel when possible.”
Her breath catches.
“I have to see things through with the team I have now. But when it’s over, I want something else. I want this. I want us.” I swallow hard. “I don’t want to live in two worlds anymore. I want one. With you and Scottie.”
Silence stretches, thick and terrifying.
Finally, she looks at me fully. “Why now?”
“Because losing you scared me more than losing my job,” I say simply.
Her eyes fill.
“I didn’t choose clearly before,” I add. “I am now.”
She closes the envelope and holds it to her chest.
“You can’t promise forever,” she says.
“No,” I admit. “None of us can. But I’m promising effort. Commitment. Showing up. And if someday you decide this isn’t enough, I’ll respect that.”
She swallows hard.
“And Scottie?”
“I would never treat her like something temporary,” I say. “Ever.”
She steps closer.
“This scares me,” she says quietly.
“Me too.”
“But I love your plans,” she says. “And I love that you didn’t assume.”
“Good, because I love you.”
She gasps. “You do?”
“Absolutely. Any chance you might be able to love you too?”
She nods. “Loving you has never been the problem.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Is that… a yes?”
She smiles through tears. “It’s a chance.”
I pull her into my arms, careful and reverent, like I’m holding something fragile and precious. She melts into me, the tension leaving her body in a rush.
“I’m really proud of you,” she whispers.
“I’m really proud of us.”