Page 47 of The Man in the Cottage

"Busy doing what? Hiding in a cottage? Finding yourself?" He raises an eyebrow. "Or is there something else going on that you're not telling me?"

I think about Kelly. About the date, the kiss, the way she looked at me when she said she fell for the guy who fixed her sink. I haven't told anyone about her. I haven't told anyone about anything.

"There might be something," I admit.

Jaxson's eyes go wide. "Something like a woman something?"

"Maybe."

"Howe." He grabs my shoulders. "You're telling me you disappeared for six months, and you came back with a girlfriend?"

"She's not my—I don't know what she is. It's new."

"But there's a she. There's an actual human woman who's putting up with your brooding ass."

"I don't brood."

"You absolutely brood. It's your whole thing." He's grinning again, delighted. "Okay, you have to tell me everything. Name, job, how you met, all of it."

"After practice."

"That's not fair."

"Life's not fair. Get dressed."

He grumbles but lets it go, heading to his own locker while I finally start unpacking my bag. The familiar routine settles over me—gear on, skates laced, tape around my stick. My body knows what to do even when my brain is somewhere else.

Somewhere in Longshore, probably. Wondering what Kelly's doing right now, whether she's writing or eating breakfast or thinking about me the way I'm thinking about her.

I texted her this morning before I left. Just a quick message, letting her know I'd be gone for a few days.

Practice with the team. I’ll be back Thursday.

Her response came immediately: Good luck. Try not to beat anyone up.

Very funny.

I thought so. Miss you already.

Three words that shouldn't mean as much as they do. Miss you already. Like I'm someone worth missing.

Practice is brutal.

I knew I'd lost some conditioning—six months of skating alone isn't the same as six months of team practices and games—but I didn't realize how much until I'm gasping for air halfway through the first drill. The guys are faster than I remember, sharper, their passes crisp and accurate while I'm still trying to find my rhythm.

It's not just physical. It's mental too. Every time someone skates too close, I tense up. Every time there's contact—a bump, a check, the normal collision of bodies that happens a hundred times a practice—I have to force myself not to react. I keep seeing that photographer's face. Keep feeling my fist connect with his jaw. Keep waiting for something to snap.

Coach Morrison watches from the boards, his face unreadable. He's been with the team for fifteen years, seen plenty of players come and go, dealt with scandals worse than mine. But he hasn't said a word to me since I arrived—just a nod of acknowledgment when I stepped onto the ice, nothing more.

I wonder what he's thinking. Whether he's glad to have me back, or whether he's just going through the motions because the front office told him to. Whether he trusts me, or whether he's waiting for me to prove I can't be trusted.

I push through. That's what I've always done. When things get hard, you don't stop—you push through until they're not hard anymore. I've built my whole career on that mentality. Play through the pain. Ignore the doubt. Keep moving until the whistle blows.

But somewhere around the third drill, I realize something has shifted. The hunger isn't there. The desperation to prove myself, to earn my spot, to be the best on the ice—it's dimmed. I'm skating the patterns, making the plays, doing everything I'm supposed to do. But my heart isn't in it.

I'm going through the motions. And I don't know how to stop.

After practice, I stay on the ice while everyone else heads to the locker room. I skate slow laps around the rink, feeling the cold air on my face, listening to the silence. This used to be my favorite part—the empty arena, the fresh ice, the feeling of being alone with the game I loved.