Chapter 21 #3
I rest my gloves on the top rail. Look down the length of the rink.
Clipboards. Radios. Coffee cups balanced on dasher caps. A lift humming near the concourse. Somebody arguing about exit signage.
Every person in this building right now is the beginning of the Mustangs story.
Cam and Levi put up the structure, the shell.
But this—this early-morning chaos with purpose—is what turns a rink into a franchise.
You don’t inherit that loyalty.
You earn it. You stay long enough for it to mean something.
I understand Mrs. Henderson’s question, and what she was really asking.
Do I have what it takes to take on the role of a founding coach?Am I built for the long game.
I've been the guy on the ice my whole career.
Maybe this is what comes next. Being the reason the next guy becomes the guy.
We skate back toward center ice. The three of us fall into an easy circuit, the kind that means nobody's ready to stop moving but nobody has anything urgent to say either.
Levi breaks it first.
"Lily's been asking about the baby shower. Leia's due in July. She wants someone who actually understands event logistics—not just a spreadsheet with a centerpiece budget."
Cam picks it up without missing a stride. "And Tara's coordinator fell through last week. Three months out. We're running out of options."
They’re not looking at me. They’re just talking. I’m the one adding meaning.
I keep my face neutral. The thought lands, uninvited.
Jane Cooper blew up a wedding in January. They're already asking if someone can build one in May. And plan a baby shower in June.
I don't say this out loud. But something in my chest expands—because it means Cedar Falls already has reasons to need her before she even knows this town exists on my map.
Cedar Falls is where Jane could build something. Not just survive—build. Her business. A life.
And us?
The thought is too big, too early. I push it back where it came from.
Cam pivots the conversation again, reading the ice with his usual precision. "Mustangs are going to want their head coach visible. Community events. Charity skates. The whole deal. You'll be a fixture."
I glance up. The auxiliary screen is running a clean feed now. Tara gives a thumbs up toward the catwalk. Scott appears at her shoulder, radio in hand, says something. She nods.
Visible here means being in the building before sunrise because the town is.
Levi: "Can’t wait for you to give Scott a run for his money. Cedar Falls’ Most Eligible Bachelor, round two."
Cam grins: "You're not dating, right? Your reputation precedes you. Everyone thinks you're basically a monk who hits people for a living."
A beat. I skate a half-circle. Come back.
"I'm… kinda seeing someone."
The silence isn't dramatic. It's the rapid recalculation of two men processing new information without warning—the particular stillness of friends realizing they've missed a chapter.
Cam: "Kinda?"
"Once my work situation is settled, I'd like to make it official."
They exchange a look over my head. I see it. I choose not to acknowledge it.
Then, near-unison: "Bring her to Cedar Falls."
Levi: "Sounds like she's the one we need to convince."
I don't confirm or deny.
Which is, of course, a confirmation.
"She doesn’t know about the job details yet," I say, matter-of-fact.
I can already hear her response: You want me to road-trip to a mountain town I've never heard of to meet your hockey friends and tour an arena that doesn't have a name yet? Did you hit your head?
And I'd say: Yes. All of the above. Pack a bag.
And she'd laugh. And roll her eyes. And probably show up anyway.
Because that's who she is. Stubborn. Curious. Relentless.
I’m crossing my fingers on that.
Off ice. Showered. Sitting in a conference room with windows that look out over the rink.
My phone buzzes. A text from Jane:
JANE: Grace is singing Broadway in the car. Send help.
I grin.
ME: I miss your voice. Even when you're not singing.
Three dots.
JANE: I miss your hands.
My breath catches. I stare at the screen.
ME: Be more specific.
JANE: You know exactly what I mean.
ME: I’m in a meeting, about to meet staff. Also, half-hard in my jeans.
JANE: Mmm. When I see you again. I’m not letting you out of bed for three days.
I set the phone face-down on the table.
Look out at the rink.
Take a breath.
Get it together, Prescott.
A knock at the door.
Levi introduces me to the front office team—the GM, the head of hockey ops, the operations lead. Handshakes are firm and genuine.
We're five minutes in when the door opens and a woman leans in, headset around her neck, visibly pleased with herself.
"Both auxiliary screens are live and the Jumbotron feed is locked. Two hours ahead of schedule." She addresses the room. "Thought you'd want to know."
Then at me. "Sorry—hi. Welcome. Go Mustangs." She's gone before anyone responds.
"She always like that?"
"Only when something goes right."
The rest of the meeting is professional, warm, and mercifully free of pitch decks.
The contract sits on the table.
Three pages. Clean language. Start date: July 1.
It looks simple on paper. It feels like a tectonic shift in my chest.
I read it again.
Not looking for loopholes.
Looking at what they’re putting on the line.
Housing before I even sign. Budget carved out. Staff slots structured around a head coach who doesn’t technically exist yet.
This isn’t a list of expectations.
It’s buy-in.
They’re building a franchise.
And they’re building it around me.
My future. Right there in fourteen-point font.
"I'd like a few more days."
Nobody flinches.
The GM nods once. "Take the time you need. Walk the town. Sit with it. This isn't New York. It's not supposed to be. But it's real. And if that's what you're looking for, you'll know."
That's the thing about people who are building something real—they're not nervous about a man who takes decisions seriously.
Cam walks me out. Waits until the door closes behind us, until it's just the two of us in the corridor with the cold coming off the ice through the walls.
"You're signing."
"I know."
"Then what's the hold?"
I don't answer right away.
“Mrs. Henderson asked if I'm the kind of man who stays. I am. But staying only matters if I have someone…”
"I want to talk to her first."
Not because the decision depends on her answer. Not because I need permission. But because she's the person I want to tell before it exists anywhere outside my own certainty. Before it's official. Before it's real.
Cam looks at me for a moment.
Then he nods slowly.
"Bring her to Cedar Falls, West."
This time it's not a joke.
Back at the hotel.
I sit on the bed. Pull out my phone.
Finally—finally—a text from Jane.
JANE: Sorry! Long drive. I'll spare you the details. But we are at our destination.
Relief hits first—she's safe. Then frustration. Then want so acute it borders on pain.
Long drive. How long? From where to where? She's being deliberately vague, which means she's processing something. Is it about us?
I stare at the screen. Three weeks since I had my hands on her. Three weeks since I felt her pulse against my mouth. Three weeks of texts and calls and the slow, maddening ache of wanting someone who's two hundred miles away and might as well be on another planet.
I almost type: Come to Colorado. I need to see you. I need to taste you. I need to know this is real outside a Caribbean bubble.
Instead, I send:
ME: You okay?
JANE: Define okay.
ME: Functional. Uninjured. Not currently being held hostage by highway bandits.
JANE: Then yes. Okay-adjacent.
I almost call her.
Almost.
She sounds tired. And I don't trust myself to keep the conversation casual when what I actually want to say is come to Colorado and I'm making decisions and I want you here and I counted thirty-three reasons this won't work but I don't care about a single one of them.
ME: Miss you.
It's the most honest thing I've said all day. And the least sufficient.
JANE: Miss you too.
I stare at the screen.
Two hundred miles. A contract. A future that doesn't have her shape in it yet.
But it could—if she's willing. If two people who've been circling each other across state lines can finally close the distance.
Big ifs. Real ifs. The kind worth having the conversation for.
Cedar Falls isn't New York. It's not even Boston.
It's small. Quiet. The kind of place where everyone knows your name and your business.
Jane would hate that. Or love it. I can't tell.
She's a city girl—subway tokens, bodega coffee, anonymity as armor. But she's also the woman who haggled with a Caribbean vendor for twenty minutes over a dress.
She fits everywhere and nowhere. That's the thing about her.
And I want to see her try to fit here.
I set the phone down. Lay back on the bed. Stare at the ceiling.
I'm hard. Have been since she texted. Three weeks of distance and my body still responds to her like she's in the room.
I could take care of it. Should, probably. But I don't.
Because when I finally get my hands on her again after the Cedar Falls interview, I want to be so desperate I can't think straight. Want to be so hungry I forget my own name. Want her to feel exactly how much I've missed her—in every thrust, every bite, every bruise I leave on her skin.
So I lie here. Aching. Counting the hours.
The room is quiet in a way the island never was.
After a moment, I reach for my phone again—not for messages this time.
Photos. The island comes up in a rush: Jane in the sun, Jane in the water, Jane laughing at something I said that wasn’t even funny.
Her hand in mine. Her head on my shoulder.
Eight days that were supposed to be temporary and somehow became the truest thing I’ve had in years.
I scroll until the ache settles into something steadier. Something like certainty.
Tomorrow I'll walk the town. See it the way I'd want her to see it.
Colorado outside the window, quiet and wide.
If I’m going to ask her to consider this, I need to be certain what I’m asking.
But tonight, I'm just a man in a Colorado hotel room missing a woman somewhere on a road trip with her sister—who probably doesn't know she's already rewritten every plan I thought I had.
I should sleep. Early morning tomorrow.
I set an alarm for five. The game starts at six-ten and I want to be in the arena when it does.
Instead, I lie here and think about the way Jane looked on that Thursday Zoom call. The way she pulled down the zipper of that hoodie—slow, deliberate, her eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to look away.
I close my eyes and I'm back in the casita. Her legs on my shoulders. Her nails in my thighs. Her voice breaking on my name when I made her come so hard she couldn't remember how to breathe.
I palm myself through my boxers. Already half-hard.
I don't care.
I will myself to stay still.
The dam didn't just break for her.
It broke for both of us.
I don’t pretend this is simple.
But I’m done pretending it’s temporary.