There was some silence between us for a short distance and then he finally said it.

“Ryan told me they’ve offered you a spot next season.”

I shook my head, keeping my eyes on the road. “It doesn’t work that way, there are draft rules and regulations—”

“So you’ve considered it.”

I glanced at him. “It’s not possible.”

“You won four games in a row and barely broke a sweat. Trust me, our GM can make it possible.”

I ignored him, not ready to approach the topic of leaving a job I’d been married to since I graduated just to toss around a puck and be slammed into from every angle for the next ten years.

Even if the thought was kind of invigorating to say the least. Not just about playing hockey.

About quitting my job.

Dad helped carry Troy to the living room sofa, the entire time raging against the other team for his injuries. “Penalty box…you kidding me with that…we should be pressing charges.”

“Dad, back off. I’m fine,” Troy groaned as he settled into the corner.

“You need anything, just ask your mother. By the way, did you see this?” He handed me and Troy the paper. “Look who made front page. And in a good way…”

I looked at a familiar sketch of number nineteen and the distant crowd surrounding him. Their signs held high, their cheers practically coming to life through the page. The audience was in black in white, but the back of the player himself, centered and enlarged was shaded in the blue and white uniform colors.

The fan signs all read words of encouragement for his recovery and return.

We’ll Miss You #19

Come Back Strong

We Believe In You

We’ll Be Here When You Get Back

My eyes instantly darted to the signature on the bottom left to confirm what I already knew, Harper Maxwell.

I stepped out to the backyard and peeked over at the guest house, remembering our night there together. Smiling for the first time in weeks when I realized she had known it was me all along, came looking for me, finding me in the shower.

That sinking feeling returned.

It was all real. It was all for me.

Me: Saw the front page of Sports Time... It’s phenomenal, Harper.

That was stupid. So were the other three or four messages I’d sent her in the last few days since I left Troy’s hospital room on Saturday.

Me: Can we please talk when you’re back?

“I’ll take a large Touchdown please.” I stood in front of the bar at Brooklyn Lines Café, watching Harper’s friend Nicole work the counter solo.