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Eleven years of two-way contracts and exit meetings, and somebody finally put my name on the right kind of paper.

"You want to know why we want you," Callahan says, reading the hesitation on my face.

"The thought crossed my mind."

"It's simple really. Our locker room is broken." Pearce leans back. "We've got young talent that doesn't listen, veterans who've checked out, and a locker room that plays like twenty guys who just met on a bus. We've watched you take a roster of leftovers—no offense—"

"None taken. We put it on t-shirts."

"—and turn them into a team that beat active pros. The way you got those kids to adjust mid-game against Boston… That doesn't happen by accident, Stratton. That happens because of you."

Holy fuck.

Eleven years of great locker-room guy delivered like a consolation prize, and now two men from an NHL front office are sitting across a table telling me the thing I've been screaming into the void my whole career: my leadership is the value.

I should feel nothing but triumph.

Instead, my first complete thought is that Ottawa is three thousand miles from a market hut where the woman I can't stop thinking about is selling tours to my families farm.

For the next ten minutes, I ask all the practical questions any player should ask. And Ottawa answers them all beautifully.

Player housing is handled by the club. They see me taking second-line minutes, working the penalty kill and earning a place inside the leadership group if I prove myself. The money becomes guaranteed the moment the contract is signed, with a hefty sign-on bonus that would kick start everything.

Every answer the two men across the table give me makes it more real.

But none of them make the choice any easier.

"Alright. It all looks great, and this is clearly something I've been hoping for for a long time," I say. “But I need time to think. The tournament is still running, and I made a commitment to captain this roster until it ends. When do you need my answer?”

Pearce and Callahan exchange a look.

"We're reshaping the roster after Christmas for a playoff push," Pearce says. "Trades are moving fast and the Mistletoe League is attracting widespread attention. We're moving quickly. So we need your answer within days, Miles."

Callahan slides the folder closed and pushes it toward me.

"Take it. Read it. Talk to whoever you talk to." He stands and buttons his coat. "But Stratton, eleven years is a long time to wait for a door to open. And for a guy your age, believe me, they don't usually open twice."

I close the folder, tuck it inside my coat against my chest and shake both their hands. Walking out, that folder weighs more than any hockey bag I have ever carried.

And yet, all I can think about is the woman downstairs who still doesn’t know what is inside it.

I text Audrey from the elevator and ask her to meet me near the main entrance with her coat.

Ten minutes later, she waits beneath the enormous garland-covered archway in a cream wool coat thrown over the green dress. Outdoor lights shine through the snow catching in her blonde hair, while resort staff hurry behind her carrying tartan blankets toward the waiting sleighs.

The sight of her hits me the same way it did on that mountain road ten days ago.

“Well?” She searches my face, still wearing some of the guarded expression she had when I left her in the ballroom. “How did it go? Blink twice if they made you sign in blood.”

I laugh, but her smile remains cautious.

“It got serious,” I admit.

“Serious how?”

I pull the navy folder far enough from inside my coat for her to see the Ottawa logo. Her eyes widen.

“Serious enough that you’re going to read every word of this with me,” I tell her. “No hiding. No protecting you from information you deserve to have.”