Page 10 of The Man in the Cottage

Nothing. Everything. A woman with dark eyes who makes me want to be someone I'm not sure I can be anymore.

"Just working off some energy," I say.

Frank grunts, unconvinced. He's been around long enough to know when someone's lying, but he's also been around long enough to know when not to push. That's why I like him.

"Your agent called the office yesterday," he says. "Looking for you."

I stop skating. "What?"

"Said he's been trying to reach you. Wanted to make sure you were still alive." Frank raises an eyebrow. "Seemed pretty worried. Or annoyed. Hard to tell with those types."

Dave. Of course. I've been dodging his calls for a week, ever since the conversation about the team wanting me back. He's left six voicemails that I haven't listened to and sent about a dozen texts that I've only glanced at. Words like opportunity and career and don't blow this jumping out at me before I put the phone away.

"I'll call him," I say.

"Uh huh." Frank pushes off from the boards. "Whatever's going on with you, figure it out. You're too good to waste yourself on some rink in the middle of nowhere."

He walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best. I don't have a response. I don't know what I'm doing here, what I'm waiting for, what I think is going to happen if I just keep hiding long enough.

The team wants me back. That should be good news. Six months ago, I would've given anything to hear those words. But six months ago, I didn't have a reason to stay.

I skate a few more laps, slower this time, letting my body cool down. Then I grab my bag and head for the showers.

I call Dave from the parking lot, sitting in my truck with the heat running, because I know if I put it off any longer he's going to show up in person and that's the last thing I need.

He picks up on the first ring. "Finally. I was starting to think you'd died."

"I'm not dead."

"Could've fooled me. You know how many times I've called you this week?"

"I've been busy."

"Busy." He says it like it's a foreign word, something he doesn't understand. "Travis, the team wants you back. This is what we've been working toward for six months. What could possibly be more important than that?"

I don't answer. Outside the windshield, a mom is loading hockey bags into a minivan while two kids chase each other around the parking lot. Normal life. The kind of life I used to think I'd have someday, back before everything got complicated.

"Talk to me," Dave says, his voice softer now. "What's going on?"

"I don't know if I want to go back."

Silence. A long one. I can picture him on the other end, pinching the bridge of his nose the way he does when I'm being difficult.

"You don't know if you want to go back," he repeats. "To the NHL. To your career. To the thing you've been doing since you were five years old."

"Yeah."

"Travis." He takes a breath. "I'm going to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me. Are you okay? Like, mentally? Because this doesn't sound like you."

I almost laugh. "I don't know what sounds like me anymore."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

More silence. Then Dave sighs, the fight going out of him. "Okay. Look. The team's giving you two weeks to report. That's not a lot of time, but it's enough to figure out what you want. Take a few days. Think about it. But Travis—don't throw this away because you're scared. You made a mistake. You paid for it. That doesn't mean you don't deserve a second chance."

A mistake. Is that what it was? Sometimes it feels like the only honest thing I've ever done.