"I think," Carol says carefully, "that he'd be thrilled to come home and find that you've taken ownership of the space you're going to share."
The space we're going to share.The assumption in that statement should probably terrify me.
Instead, it feels like a challenge.
"Bear," I call out, and the mountain of a man looks up. "How do you feel about a side project?"
Chapter Twenty-One
Ryder
The private jet hums beneath us as we cruise at thirty thousand feet, New York City sprawling like a glittering circuit board through the cabin windows.
I'm sprawled in one of the plush leather seats, half-listening to Connor and Jackson argue about whether the Rangers' new goalie is actually any good or just lucky.
"I'm telling you, he's got holes in his technique you could drive a truck through," Connor insists, dealing another hand of poker to the guys clustered around the small table. "Guy telegraphs his movements like he's semaphore signaling."
"Says the man who let in three goals against Detroit," Jackson fires back with a grin.
"Hey, that's different. Detroit's got some serious shooters this year."
Blake glances up from his cards, catching my eye. "You've been quiet, Scott. Usually you're right in the middle of these debates."
I shrug, pulling out my phone to check for texts from Mia for probably the twentieth time in two hours. "Just focused, I guess."
"Focused on that woman of yours, more like," Logan observes from across the aisle, where he's reading what looks like a business magazine. Even retired, the guy still keeps track of everything.
"Maybe," I admit.
The truth is, this whole road trip has felt different.
Not just because I miss Mia—though Christ, I miss her like I'm missing a vital organ—but because for the first time in my career, hockey feels like it's part of something bigger. Part of a life I'm building instead of just a thing I do.
"Best I've ever seen you play, Scott," Coach Brody calls from his seat up front, not looking up from the tablet where he's reviewing game footage. "Whatever she's doing, bottle it."
The guys laugh, and Connor throws a peanut at my head while Jackson makes exaggerated kissing sounds. Blake elbows me in the ribs with a shit-eating grin.
"Aww, look at him blushing," Connor teases. "Our little rookie's all grown up and in love."
"Fuck off," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite myself.
But they know it just as well as I do… there's nothing but truth in Coach's words.
The hat trick against Detroit, the assist in Chicago, that ridiculous save I somehow made in Boston when I was playing out of position.
I'm playing the best hockey of my life.
"All jokes aside man, you're different lately," Blake says, tossing his cards down and leaning back in his seat. "Good different. Like you finally figured out what you're playing for."
Yeah. I have.
I'm playing for the woman who watches every game on her phone between checking on rescue animals. The woman who texts me pictures of puppies because she knows it'll make me smile. The woman who's probably asleep right now wearing my hoodie and dreaming about things that have nothing to do with hockey but everything to do with me.
"Three wins down, one to go," Connor adds, gathering up the cards. "You keep playing like this against the Rangers, we might actually sweep this thing."
"Don't jinx it," Jackson warns.
The team flight attendant glides toward us from down the aisle. She's carrying a silver tray of drinks that catch the cabin's lighting like amber jewels. The ice cubes clink against crystal tumblers as she sets down my sparkling water with a twist of lime. Perfect. She remembers my pre-game ritual without me having to ask.
