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A man stands at the boards in a wool overcoat, polished and unhurried, with snow settling on his shoulders like it wouldn't dare inconvenience him.

I recognize him instantly. He's been standing in the heated lounge at every practice. Every Wildcards game. Watching on in the front row of the coffee-drinkers.

"Hell of a performance the other night," he calls. "You got a few minutes? Thought we could grab a drink in the Ski Bar. Just a conversation."

Just a conversation?

Eleven years of hockey has taught me there's no such thing.

"Uh…" I look to Audrey, but she nods like I'd be an idiot to say no. "Yeah, sure. I can meet you."

Audrey's hands slide out of mine, and I guide her back to the boards with my heart going wild inside me chest. She watches me step off the ice toward the man carrying the possibility I've chased my entire life.

A scout.

An NHL organization has finally noticed me.

But as I walk away, I catch myself thinking…

Audrey still hasn't answered what I am to her.

But what is she to me?

Chapter 12

Miles

The Ski Bar has been decorated to within an inch of its life.

Christmas garlands loop over the whiskey shelves, a wreath sits proudly on the moose head in the center, and a bartender in a Santa hat is pretending not to eavesdrop on the most important conversation of my career.

The scout's name is Robert Callahan, and he shakes my hand like a man who has done ten thousand of these meetings and remembers exactly none of the faces behind them.

"So, Ottawa," he says, sliding a whiskey toward me. "I've been watching your tournament. Safe to say, I'm impressed."

"I noticed the watching."

He settles onto his stool and smiles with a grin I've learned not to trust.

"Here's what interests me, Stratton. Big Mike built that roster out of spare parts. I've watched a rookie who celebrates goals by kissing the glass, a defenseman who bribes dogs with pretzels, and a coach who is—as far as I can tell—an alcoholic. It should be a Christmas pageant on skates." He taps the bar. "Instead, it's organized. But only when you're around."

I keep my hands still around the glass.

Through the window behind him, I can see the rink where Audrey is pretending to pack away after the disco but is absolutely watching us.

"So my question is simple," Callahan says. "After all these years, why has no team ever kept you?"

I give him the honest version. The whole eleven-year tour of it. He listens without interrupting, which is more than most GMs ever managed.

"And the second question." He turns his glass slowly. "If the right opportunity appeared, would you relocate? Ottawa's a long way from this mountain."

A year ago, that question would have been the easiest of my life.

Ottawa means an NHL crest, money that saves the farm outright, and proof that I am good enough. That a decade of temporary contracts was building toward something.

Now the answer snags on an image I can't shake: Audrey at the market hut, laughing with my mother, turning an empty stall into my families future.

Can I really sit back and watch that happen through a phone screen from three thousand miles away?