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“I rejected Ottawa because it wasn’t the right future for me anymore,” he says. “I’ve spent enough years accepting every opportunity simply because somebody offered one. The contract was generous, but it would have taken me away from my family, the farm and…” His gaze shifts toward me. “And Audrey. I didn't want to leave her.”

My heart gives another stupid little leap.

Last night, Miles told me he chose Chilmore. He chose his family, the farm and whatever life we might build together. Hearing him say it in front of Big Mike and the people holding his professional future makes the choice feel even more real.

Big Mike studies him over the rim of his cup. “Robert Callahan telephoned me after you declined.”

"He did?" Miles straightens. “Why?”

“Apparently, he assumed the Snow Leopards had made a competing offer for you. He wanted to know what it would cost Ottawa to beat it.”

“Did you tell him you hadn’t offered me anything?”

“Eventually,” Big Mike chuckles.

The director of hockey operations sighs. “He made Callahan improve the offer before admitting we hadn’t made one.”

Big Mike shrugs. “I was curious how much money they had in their salary cap. And how badly they wanted him.”

“You used me to negotiate a contract I’d already declined?”

“I prefer to think of it as independent market research.”

For one second, I watch the news move across Miles’s face. It isn’t regret exactly, but the weight of knowing the dream continued chasing him after he stopped running toward it.

Then his hand finds mine beneath the table and he links his fingers through mine and squeezes.

“It doesn't matter anyway,” he says, looking across at me. "I wouldn't take it. No matter how much they offered."

Big Mike smiles, although I notice it isn’t his usual enormous billionaire grin. It’s sharper. The look of a man who has just received confirmation of something he already suspected.

“Good,” he says. “Because declining Ottawa didn’t create my interest in you. It merely confirmed what I've been thinking ever since you arrived at Mistletoe Resort and started performing admirably for the Wildcards.”

Miles’s brows draw together as he sits straight in his chair. “Your interest in what exactly?”

“I’ve been watching you throughout this tournament, Miles Stratton. Not only during the games, but all around the resort too.” Big Mike gestures toward the empty rink below. “I watched you turn a group of players nobody knew how to use into an actual team. You worked out that Nate’s speed becomes twice as dangerous when Aidan creates space for him. You steadied the younger players without embarrassing them. You ran a team meeting while Coach Dave slept through his hangover.”

“He still claims he was just resting his eyes,” Miles says.

Samuel Voss leans forward, resting his arms across his knees. “I watched two of your practices. Players know when a coach is faking authority instead of earning it. Nobody listened to you because Dave gave you permission to lead the group. They listened because they respect you.”

Miles looks across at him. “I still don't understand what you want from me.”

Samuel’s expression remains serious. “You're a Chilmore local. You get what this place is all about, Miles. And I think half our younger roster would skate through a wall for you.”

The director of hockey operations opens a black folder bearing the Snow Leopards logo and my stomach swirls aggressively.

“What interested us wasn’t only that the players listened to you," she says. "It was that you found a different way to reach each of them. That’s difficult to teach.”

“You made an incompatible roster believe they belonged together,” Big Mike adds, sliding the folder toward Miles.

Miles looks down at the folder but doesn’t dare touch it.

“The Chilmore Snow Leopards would like to offer you a one-year assistant-coaching contract,” Big Mike says. “Player development will be your primary focus. You’ll work with emerging players, assist with gameday preparation and translate whatever nonsense happens in hockey operations into language professional athletes can understand.”

The silver-haired woman raises one eyebrow. “I’m sitting right here, Michael.”

“And yet my statement remains accurate.”