Ezra lifted a brow. “Too bad my prime only lasted a few seasons. Not like some men in this room.”
His gaze flicked between Gavin and Alois, something knowing settling into the space that didn’t need to be explained out loud.
Experience sat in the room like something tangible. Years. Games. Hits. Careers that had stretched longer than others could hold.
I adjusted my grip on the mug slightly, absorbing it all, filing it away the way I always did—connections, hierarchy, the invisible structure of a world I was still learning how to exist in.
This wasn’t just a home.
This wasn’t just a visit.
This was… history.
And I was standing in the middle of it without a map.
Alois shifted beside me then, close enough that I felt it before I registered the movement. His hand settled at the small of my back, steady and deliberate, guiding me forward a step as Myla moved past us again.
It wasn’t lingering. It wasn’t soft. It was functional. And still—it steadied me instantly. Like he knew exactly when I needed it. Like he’d been watching closer than he let on.
We moved through the space together, conversation flowing around me—hockey, history, pieces of a world I was still learning how to navigate.
But every time my attention drifted—it pulled back to the windows. To the city. To the reason we were here.
And every time I glanced at him—it didn’t make any more sense.
Time pressed in eventually, reality catching up to something that had felt briefly suspended outside of this awkward but awesome morning.
Myla walked us toward the entry, her hand brushing lightly against my arm as we slowed. “I’m glad you got to see the city this way,” she cooed, her voice just for me.
I nodded, glancing back once more toward the windows, the skyline, the quiet power of it all. “Me too,” I admitted.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Alois, then back to me. “He doesn’t usually do thing like this,” she added gently. “At least from what I’ve gathered.” Before releasing me, Myla gave a small wink.
My breath caught, just for a second.
Before I could respond, Ezra stepped in, steady and grounded. “Car’s waiting.”
The airport didn’t feellike an airport. There were nolines. No crowds pressing in from every direction. No overhead announcements fighting for space in the air.
Just movement—quiet, controlled, intentional.
Alois guided me through a side entrance I wouldn’t have noticed on my own, glass doors sliding open before we even reached them, a single staff member already stepping forward like he’d been expecting us.
The noise dropped off behind us, replaced by something cleaner, more contained—polished floors, low voices, the faint hum of a space built for efficiency instead of volume.
I’d flown private before. Grown up around it in a way that made it feel normal in certain spaces, certain circles.
But this—this felt different.
Less about luxury. More about function.
We passed through a short corridor that opened straight onto the tarmac, the morning air bitter, colder, carrying that familiar mix of jet fuel and metal that settled low in my lungs.
The plane sat a few yards ahead, already staged for departure, stairs down, crew in position, everything moving with quiet efficiency.
And I was so thankful. The thought flashed before my eyes—a full roster of NHL players walking through a commercial terminal would’ve been a mess. Delays. Security bottlenecks. People trying to get close just to say they had. I didn’t realize how much I’d been bracing for that until it wasn’t there.
I slid into my seat without thinking about it too much, settling in as the rest of the team filtered in, conversations low, movements automatic.