She shook her head. “Hiding away as we have has been good, just what I needed, but we can’t hide here forever.”
“But the season is almost done. Me returning now won’t make any difference.”
She winced, like she thought he was blaming her for missing games.
“Sar, no. It’s not your fault. Please don’t think I’m blaming you.”
“The fans will blame me.”
“No, they won’t—”
“They always do.”
“They won’t,” he repeated firmly, “because they won’t know why I wasn’t there.”
“Exactly. It doesn’t matter how it’s described, as soon as the team says you’re away on personal leave they’ll think it’s something to do with me, and—”
“So what if it is? You’re the most important part of my life. You’re more important than hockey.”
“You say that, but they don’t agree.”
“Who cares if they agree?” he said roughly. “This is my life. You, our baby, this is our real life. And if the team agrees that I need personal leave, then it’s for a good reason, and the fans need to respect that.”
She pressed her lips together then nodded. “I know that. It’s just I think explaining a few things might help people understand.”
Uh uh. He was innoway ready to spill their personal lives in that way. His wife might be on every social media platform known to man, but Dan stayed away. Bad things happened to people who spent too long on their phones looking to be entertained by other people’s lives they judged better—or worse—than their own. “No. We don’t owe anyone anything.”
“But it could be important. Especially as you’re looking for an extension on your contract.”
“I don’t care about that.”
She arched her eyebrows.
“Okay, I do, a bit. But honestly, the people who need to know, know. Those who are making those decisions know why we’re here and not there. The team is the one who gave me leave.”
“I know.”
“And to be honest, right now I don’t even care if I don’t get an extension. I could retire and I’d be happy.”
“Really?”
The skeptical lift to her brow echoed his heart’s protest. Okay, so maybe that was an exaggeration. He might pretend to be happy, but he’d rather leave on his own terms, rather than feel pushed to do so because of this unexpected tragedy.
“So what would you do if you retired?” she asked, ramming the point home.
He didn’t know. His future felt as nebulous as any hope of a child seemed to be. He’d completed a year of a business degree, so he could finish that. But that wouldn’t take too long, and then what? Coaching? No. Working with the team in some other capacity? Maybe. But that would mean more time in the city, and he’d half promised Sarah that when he retired, they could leave the city and raise their family in either Muskoka or investigate living in Australia. And while the idea of living in Sydney appealed—imagine living somewhere with that much sunshine—something about Muskoka kept drawing him.
“All I’m saying is that it might help the fans understand and be supportive if they knew.”
He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t want people talking about us, which is why I don’t want people knowing.”
“But don’t you think us talking about it would help others who have had a similar experience?”
So?he wanted to say, but didn’t. Right now he didn’t care about anyone else. “Look, Sar, I don’t know how you can even suggest such a thing. Just in case you haven’t noticed, I’m nowhere near being ready to talk about this. I’m not over this, and I sure as heck can’t think that anything I have to say would help anyone else right now.”
He’d be more likely to turn people away from God if they truly knew his thoughts.
“Maybe I’m just taking longer to process this, because I didn’t have a missionary for a dad, and I was never a pastor’s kid—”
