Chapter 20
Room to Exhale
West
I'm early for my flight.
The departure board at JFK cycles through cities like a dealer shuffling cards at six-thirty this blistery morning.
New York → Milwaukee → San Diego → Cedar Falls.
Checked in my hockey equipment. My carry-on is at my feet. The itinerary is clear: Milwaukee Thursday afternoon, San Diego Friday morning, Cedar Falls Friday evening.
Three conversations. Three coaching positions. One decision I've already half-made but refuse to announce before I've given each stop its due respect.
You don't close doors before you walk through them. Professional courtesy demands that. Respect demands that.
But you also don't pretend you don't know which one feels right.
I buy a black coffee from the terminal kiosk. Pause at a window overlooking the tarmac where ground crews are loading a regional jet. Watch the choreography of it—precise, mechanical, everyone knowing their role.
That's the shape of the last twelve years. Know your role. Execute. Don't hesitate.
I take a sip. The coffee is terrible. Airport coffee always is—over-extracted, sitting too long, served in a cup thin enough to burn your fingers, even at this early hour. I drink it anyway because discipline is a series of small, unglamorous choices, and terrible coffee at six a.m. is one of them.
The terminal walkway stretches ahead. Long, bright, full of people moving with purpose or pretending to. And somewhere between the kiosk and the gate, something in me goes quiet.
Not the terminal. The terminal is as loud as any airport at dawn—wheels on tile, announcements cycling through gates no one's listening to, a child somewhere having feelings about a dropped juice box.
Me. Something in me goes quiet.
And from that quiet comes a sense of lightness. A relief that’s clean and surprising, so complete that my stride almost falters.
My eyes follow briefly a ground crew tech in a neon vest, hood up, hauling suitcases onto the belt loader.
The Olympic truth arrives without fanfare.
Not grief. Not bitterness that engulfed me a month ago. Just the shape of the thing I've been carrying finally settling into something I can see clearly.
I've been carrying the same sentence for months. Pulling it out at dinners, at press scrums, in conversations with my agent:
I can still play.
That’s the line my team manager tells me, hinting at an extension of my contract. That's the line I've been repeating for months. To myself at three in the morning when sleep won't come.
True. My body isn't done. Stats held through December. I could lace up for any team in the league tomorrow and not embarrass myself.
That was never the question.
Sochi was twelve years ago. I was twenty-two and believed that effort was a direct exchange for outcome—put in the work, get the result, simple math. Then, the 2018 NHL ban. The 2022 COVID withdrawal. The 2026 roster that came out and moved on without me.
And I finally realize the dream I'd been chasing belonged to a kid who doesn't exist anymore.
And maybe that's okay. Because that kid never imagined a woman like Jane. Never imagined wanting something more than the ice. Never imagined choosing.
But I can. And I am.
Standing in the terminal walkway at JFK this Thursday morning, it feels like a valve opened. One I didn't know I'd been holding shut.
What arrives instead is exhale.
The neon man looks up and our eyes meet. I give him a nod with my empty coffee cup. He smiles, waves and carries on.
So do I.
I step away from the window and start walking toward my gate.
I grin as I throw away the cup. For a second, it feels symbolic enough to make me laugh.
Jane slips into my thoughts. I feel like whistling.
I remember her laughter from our goodnight call last night.
Jane was barely holding it together telling me Grace had issued an ultimatum—either close the distance or fund a pair of industrial-grade soundproof headphones for her.
Apparently our calls have been keeping her up.
Jane didn’t sound embarrassed. She sounded… pleased. And laughed louder.
It’s no wonder how easily she dismantled my celibacy rule.
Three years of holding myself in place and calling it discipline. Calling it discernment. Calling it choosing wisely.
Celibacy wasn’t just physical. It was posture. Closed stance. Weight back. Stick down. Play defense. Stay safe.
I didn't decide to change it. She just happened.
A woman who tries her best—cheerfully, stubbornly, with a paperclip for a zipper pull, without a net, without a backup plan, without anyone standing behind her catching the pieces.
And somewhere in watching that, my walls came down so quietly I didn't even hear the demolition.
She didn't break my rule.
She made it unnecessary.
“WEST!” I hear a female gasp on my left.
Familiar. Not a casual fan.
Caroline Baker, my ex-fiancée, ten feet away.
She looks… good. Not the curated glamour I remember—the kind that came with careful lighting and an awareness of who was watching. This is different. Settled. She looks like a woman who sleeps well and doesn't check her phone at dinner.
She's carrying a toddler on her hip—dark curls, tiny sneakers, one fist gripping a stuffed elephant by one ear.
West," She repeats. Surprised but not uncomfortable.
"Caroline."
We stop. Two adults in an airport, history between us that ended with explosion but now eroded.
"Where are you headed?"
"A few places."
"Work?"
I nod.
"Still playing?"
"For a few more months."
She shifts the toddler higher on her hip. The kid regards me with the frank assessment of someone who hasn't learned politeness yet.
"Seeing anyone?"
"Yeah." No hesitation. No deliberation. The word lands with the ease of something I've been saying in my head for weeks.
"Serious?"
"Feels like it."
Her smile is genuine. Small. "That's good, West."
She means it. And I believe her.
There’s no nostalgia.
The toddler slips from her mother’s arms and lands steady on her feet.
She makes a beeline for my carry-on, tiny fingers wrapping around the leather tag with surprising strength—the determined focus of someone whose entire world is whatever’s directly in front of them
I crouch.
Untangle her grip carefully, finger by finger, the way you handle something precious and slightly unpredictable.
Before I pull away, I drag a knuckle lightly across her palm.
She bursts into laughter.
Full. Bright. Immediate.
Her hand clamps around my finger instead, like she’s claimed a better prize.
It lands somewhere in my chest—the heat of that tiny grip.
For a second, I let her hold on.
Then, I straighten.
Caroline’s watching me with the expression of a mother who’s seen a hundred people interact with her child.
“Take care, Caroline.”
She shifts the girl back onto her hip. “Safe travels.”
They move on. The toddler watches me over her shoulder, still clutching the stuffed elephant, still grinning like we’re in on something together.
I stand there for a moment. Not thinking about Caroline. Not even close.
That door closed so completely I can’t find the seam.
I’m thinking about the laugh. The grip of those small fingers. The warmth of a hand no bigger than my palm.
I wonder if this is why my parents want me to have babies soon.
Not the dynasty language. Not the bloodline rhetoric or the boardroom version of family.
Just the joy. The chaos. The weight of a small hand.
A house that isn’t quiet like mine.
Siblings. Someone to tuck in—more than one.
A woman I love watching me get it wrong and laughing anyway—the way Jane laughs, like the world is absurd and wonderful, and totally worth showing up for.
I imagine the way she'd look pregnant. Round with my kid. Barefoot in a kitchen that's ours—not mine, not hers, ours. And holding a baby—our baby—with that same stubborn, protective fierceness she brings to everything.
Mine.
I had braced against the idea of babies—fortified. Shift my edges. Send it wide. Keep it out of the slot. Never let it become a scoring chance.
But it’s here now, clear and unforced.
I don't just want a family. I want a family with Jane.
The thought should terrify me. Eight days on an island. Three weeks of distance. No labels. No promises.
But today I just feel ready. The thought anchors me.
I pick up my bag and walk to my gate.
Icall my parents before boarding. My mother answers first—and always on the second ring.
"You're early." Not a question. Eleanor Prescott tracks her son's movements with the casual omniscience of a woman who runs a litigation team of forty-five.
"Flight's in twenty."
"Milwaukee first?"
"Then San Diego. Colorado last."
A silence. Not hostile. Recalibrating.
"And Boston?"
I almost smile. "Interviews first."
"Coaching?" My father's voice now—he's been listening from the start, which means they're in the car together or sitting at the kitchen island, which means this conversation was anticipated. "The firm—"
"Deserves someone fully committed. That's not me right now."
I don't frame it as rejection. I don't frame it as anything. It's sequencing—and they're sharp enough to hear the difference.
"You don't see that changing?" My father asks.
"I don’t want to string you along. Just not right now."
A pause—which means they're looking at each other.
My mother, softer than expected: "You've always preferred the ice."
That lands without needing a response.
"And neither of you are retiring anytime soon," I add, lighter now. "I've got time."
Another pause.
Then, casually—the way you mention weather: "I’ve got Boston's booked after the last stop."
My father: "Jane knows?"
"Not yet."
I can hear my mother's intake of breath. Controlled. Pleased. And I can already imagine her call or text to Jane.
"Let me have this one."
She doesn't push. Neither does he.
That's the version of my parents I'm learning to trust—the one that steps back when it counts.
"Call us after Colorado," my mother says.
"I will."
I hang up. Board. Watch JFK shrink to a grid of lights through the window.
Milwaukee is the sensible choice.
Strong organization. Midwestern stability. Real hockey culture rooted in decades of development. The people I meet are genuine, the facility is solid, the pitch is honest. Everything a career advisor would put at the top of the list, and mark with a red star.
It feels like wearing someone else's coat—fits in the shoulders, wrong through the chest.
I give them full attention—three hours of meetings, a facility tour, genuine questions. They deserve that.
But instinct isn't ego.
It’s just information your body processes before your brain finishes the sentence.
San Diego is the flashy one.
Big market energy. West Coast light pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows. Polished pitch deck. They want a face for the rebuild—a coaching hire that gets a profile in The Athletic and generates overwhelming attention that sells season tickets before the first puck drops.
Standing in their rink, I understand what's wrong with perfect clarity: this job would require me to perform. Every day.
Not coaching. Performance.
And I've spent enough years performing.
San Diego is also about as far from Boston as you can get without leaving the country.
I notice this.
I don't dwell on it.
Both stops were generous. Both sincere.
Neither felt right.
My phone buzzes in the San Diego airport.
JANE: How's it going?
ME: I haven't embarrassed myself.
JANE: Yet.
ME: Give me time.
The rhythm is fast. Comfortable. The register we've found over three weeks of distance—easy enough to be real, sharp enough to be us.
JANE: Last stop tomorrow?
ME: Yeah.
I start to type: You'd like this town.
I stare at the words. Delete them letter by letter.
Not yet. Not like this. I'm not going to nudge her toward a life she hasn't chosen on her own. I want to pick cleanly first—then show up. Not the other way around.
JANE: Grace and I are on a little trip. Girls' road adventure.
I picture Grace behind the wheel, Jane in the passenger seat with her feet on the dash, hair in a messy bun, stealing fries from a roadside bag. The image hits me low and immediate.
ME: Don't let Grace have too much fun.
Something happens on her end—a beat, a half-second delay that I've learned to read as a laugh she doesn't want to explain. Then:
JANE: No promises ;)
Damn that winky face. I can hear her voice in it—teasing, breathless, the same tone she used when she told me to make her come on that Zoom call. My jaw tightens. Three weeks since Anguilla. Feels like three years.
I put the phone away.
Then I realize Jane didn’t say where.
Vegas. Has to be. Grace is twenty-two and has been cooped up in Boston through the worst of February. Of course it's Vegas.