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“Yeah,” I say. “Trying not to think about it too much before it happens.”

“Smart.” He claps my shoulder. “Whatever they say, you’ve earned the conversation. Remember that going in.”

I nod. I don’t say anything else, because there isn’t anything else that needs saying, and Beau’s already moved on to spotting Wyatt, who doesn’t need spotting but lets him do it anyway because that’s just how this room works.

The girls are in Boston.

Margo texted me around eleven. A photo of her and Sloane in some boutique on Newbury Street, both of them holding up ridiculous hats. Caption: Sloane says this one screams “future Supreme Court justice.” I text back:

it screams something. not sure it’s that.

Margo

Rude. I look incredible.

You look like you’re about to sentence someone to community service in a very expensive hat.

Margo

That’s the exact energy I was going for, thank you.

An hour later, another photo — this one of June, arms full of shopping bags, looking simultaneously delighted and exhausted. Caption: she found a store that sells nothing but candles and has spent 40 minutes there. I laugh at my phone in the middle of the locker room. Cash asks what’s funny. I say nothing, in the tone that means it’s absolutely something. He doesn’t push — Cash has learned not to push on this particular subject, even though he clearly has theories.

By the time I’m home and showered, there’s a last text:

Margo

driving back now. tired. bought you nothing because you’re impossible to shop for. love you though.

I look at that text longer than I probably need to.

love you too. drive safe.

I set the phone down. Tomorrow’s the call. I don’t tell her about it yet — not because I’m keeping it from her, but because I want to know what it actually is before I hand her something that might turn out to be nothing.

First thing on Monday morning, I’m in Coach’s office.

He’s got two chairs set up facing his laptop, which is already propped on a stack of old media guides to get the camera angle right. He’s in a collared shirt instead of his usual quarter-zip, which tells me he takes this more seriously than he’s letting on.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to say much. Let them talk. Answer what they ask you, honestly, and don’t oversell anything.” He looks at me. “You don’t need to. Your tape does that.”

I nod. I sit. The call connects eight minutes early, which either means Dan Reiss runs early or the Bruins side does, and either way it’s already a good sign that nobody on this call is going to waste anyone’s time.

Dan Reiss’s face fills half the screen first. Same smooth, professional energy as the phone call in February — a man who has clearly done this exact thing a hundred times and still manages to make it feel personal each time. Beside him, a second window opens: a man in his fifties, gray at the temples, wearing a Bruins polo like it’s just a shirt and not the single most significant piece of clothing I’ve ever seen on a screen.

“Theo,” Dan says. “Coach O’Grady. Thanks for making the time.”

“Course,” I say.

“This is Pete Kowalski,” Dan says. “Director of Player Personnel for the Bruins. Pete’s been tracking your tape since Burlington.”

Pete leans into frame. Easy smile, the specific confidence of a man who has spent thirty years in professional hockey and has stopped needing to prove it. “Theo. Good to finally get some face time. Coach — good to see you too. It’s been a minute.”

“Pete.” Coach nods. “Good to see you’re still ugly.”