Page 122 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

All three scouts nod approvingly. This is the answer they expected, the mature response that confirms I'm not just a skilled player but someone who thinks long-term.

"We'll be in touch," Toronto says, standing and extending his hand. "In the meantime, keep working on that one-timer. It's already a weapon, but consistency is what separates the AHL from the Show."

I shake each of their hands, mind already racing ahead to practice drills I can run, video I should review, adjustments to make to my off-ice training. And then, cutting through the hockey calculations, a single thought surfaces that changes everything:

Hannah.

Whatever decision I make now affects her too. Staying means another year together at school. Leaving means distance, complications, choices neither of us anticipated making so soon. The realization should terrify me—this additional layer of complexity to an already life-altering decision—but instead, it feels right. Important. Necessary.

Coach walks the scouts out, leaving me alone in his office for a moment to collect my thoughts. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Hannah.

Meeting over yet? Dying to hear how it went. I'm by the fountain.

A smile spreads across my face as I type back:On my way. Good news.

Coach returns, closing the door behind him. His expression is serious but not stern—proud, maybe, with a hint of the paternal concern he shows when he thinks no one's looking.

"That went well," he says simply.

"Yeah," I agree. "Better than I expected after the injury."

"Told you." He sits on the edge of his desk rather than behind it, a subtle shift that changes the dynamic from coach-player to something more like mentor-protégé. "They saw what I've been seeing all season. What I saw when I recruited you four years ago. You've got the tools, Sanderson."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak past the sudden tightness in my throat. Coach has never been effusive with praise—his philosophy always more stick than carrot—which makes this moment all the more significant.

"Whatever you decide, I'll support it," he continues. "Stay, go, doesn't matter. You've earned the right to choose your path."

"Thank you." The words feel inadequate but necessary. "For everything."

He waves away my gratitude with characteristic gruffness. "Thank me by making the right choice for you. Not for the scouts, not for your family, not for some girl—" He pauses, noting my expression. "Though I hear that particular situation has…resolved itself?"

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Coach knows everything that happens on his team, whether we want him to or not. "You could say that. You could also say I have a girlfriend now."

He shakes his head, but there's a glimmer of amusement beneath his disapproval. "Just make sure your personal life doesn't interfere with your decisions about your future. This is your career we're talking about."

"It won't," I assure him, though I'm not entirely convinced. Hannah factors into my calculations now in ways I couldn't have anticipated a month ago.

Coach studies me for a moment, then nods, apparently satisfied. "Go on, then. I'm sure you've got someone waiting to hear about this meeting."

I don't bother denying it, just grab my bag and head for the door. As I reach it, Coach calls after me: "Connolly."

I turn, hand on the doorknob.

"I'm proud of you," he says, the words so unexpected I almost don't register them. "Not just for the hockey. For how you've handled everything this season. Shows character."

Coming from Coach, this is the equivalent of a tearful speech. I nod, unable to find the right response, and slip out the door before the moment becomes uncomfortable for both of us.

The rink always feels different after a meeting like this—the familiar smells of ice and sweat and athletic tape suddenly tinged with possibility, with futures branching in directions I'd only imagined in distant daydreams. I walk through the players' tunnel, past the locker room where Miller and Rodriguez are arguing about some video game, past the equipment room where our sticks are being prepped for tomorrow's optional skate.

Outside, spring sunshine hits me like a physical force after the artificial chill of the arena. I strip off my team jacket, draping it over one arm as I make my way across campus toward the central fountain where Hannah waits.

I spot her immediately—perched on the fountain's edge, legs crossed at the ankle, a textbook open on her lap though she's clearly not reading it, her eyes scanning the paths leading to her position. When she sees me, her entire face lights up in a way that makes my chest tight with a feeling I'm still getting used to.

"Well?" she calls as I approach, closing her book without marking her place. "How did it go?"

I can't hold back my grin as I reach her. "They want me. Entry-level contract, AHL to start with potential for call-ups next season."

"Sanders!" She leaps up, throwing her arms around my neck with such enthusiasm that her book tumbles forgotten to the grass. "That's incredible!"

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