Chapter 110 One Year Mark
Crew's POV,
Rose's first birthday party was in our apartment on a Saturday in June, exactly one year after she'd entered the world screaming and perfect.
The place was full of people. Maya and Simone. Marcus and his wife. James and Emily from the clinic. David, my sponsor. A few teammates. Both our mothers. Too many people for our space, but everyone wanted to celebrate.
Rose sat in her high chair wearing a ridiculous pink dress Maya had bought, cake smashed all over her face, laughing as everyone sang happy birthday off-key.
"She's going to be a disaster to clean up," Harper observed, taking approximately five hundred photos.
"That's what birthdays are for. Being disasters."
After cake, after presents, after everyone had held Rose and proclaimed her the smartest/cutest/most advanced one-year-old ever, people started filtering out.
My mom pulled me aside before leaving. "You look happy. Really happy."
"I am happy."
"One year sober from Rose's birth. That's huge, sweetheart."
"Twenty-one months total. But yeah. One year of being a father while sober. That feels like the bigger accomplishment."
"It is. You're doing so well. I'm proud of you."
After everyone left, Harper and I cleaned up while Rose napped, exhausted from excitement.
"This year went fast," Harper said, loading the dishwasher.
"Fastest year of my life."
"Rose is walking now. Saying 'mama' and 'dada.' Eating real food. She's not a baby anymore."
"She'll always be a baby. Our baby."
"You're getting sentimental in your old age."
"I'm thirty-one. That's not old."
"It's old for hockey."
She was right. I'd returned to training three months ago, cleared for full contact. Skated with the team during summer workouts. Felt good. Strong. My shoulder was healed—not perfect, but functional.
But something had shifted. Playing didn't feel the same anymore. The drive, the obsession, the willingness to sacrifice everything for the sport—it was fading.
"I've been thinking about next season," I said carefully.
Harper stopped loading dishes. "And?"
"And I don't know if I want to do it. Play another full season. Be gone half the time. Miss Rose growing up. Put my body through another eighty-two games plus playoffs."
"What do you want to do instead?"
"I don't know yet. That's the problem. Hockey is all I've ever done. I don't know who I am without it."
"You're a father. A husband. A person in recovery. Those are all things outside of hockey."
"But they don't pay the bills."
"Your contract does. For another year. Plus the Groundwork money. Plus my clinic income. We're stable, Crew. You don't have to decide right now."
My phone buzzed. Text from Marcus: Drinks tonight? Need to talk about something.
I showed Harper. "Marcus wants to meet. Says he needs to talk."
"About what?"
"No idea. But knowing Marcus, it's either very good or very bad."
That evening, I met Marcus at a quiet bar downtown. He was already there, nursing a water, looking serious.
"What's going on?" I asked, sitting down.
"I'm retiring," he said without preamble. "End of this season. I'm done."
I stared at him. "You're thirty-three. You've got years left."
"I've got years of chronic pain and injuries that won't heal properly left. My body's done, Crew. I can keep playing, but it'll destroy me. So I'm choosing to stop while I can still walk." He paused. "The team's offering me a position. Player development coach. Same thing they're probably going to offer you."
"They haven't offered me anything."
"They will. You're perfect for it—young enough to relate to prospects, experienced enough to teach them, good reputation with the organization. And Crew, you should take it. Before hockey takes everything from you the way it almost did to me."
"But I just came back from injury. I haven't even played a full healthy season since—"
"Since you overdosed two years ago. I know. And you came back. You proved you could do it sober. You don't have anything left to prove. Walk away while you're healthy. While Rose still recognizes you when you come home. While you still have a marriage."
"Harper and I are fine."
"Are you? How many games did you miss last season? How much of Rose's first months were you actually present for? You were healing from surgery, but what about next season? And the one after that?" Marcus leaned forward. "I'm telling you this as your friend—hockey will take everything if you let it. I almost lost my marriage. I missed my kids' childhoods. Don't make my mistakes."
After Marcus left, I sat in the bar alone, thinking about what he'd said.
I'd missed so much of Rose's first year. The surgery. The recovery. The playoff push where I'd destroyed my shoulder playing hurt. I'd been physically present but mentally absent for months.
And next season would be the same. Road trips. Injuries. The constant grind of professional hockey.
Was I really willing to sacrifice more years with Rose for a sport I wasn't sure I loved anymore?
I texted Harper: Coming home. Need to talk.
At the apartment, Rose was already asleep. Harper was on the couch with her laptop, working on clinic scheduling even though it was 10 PM.
"Marcus is retiring," I said, sitting next to her.
"I know. His wife texted me. She's relieved."
"He said the team's going to offer me a coaching position. Player development. Working with prospects."
Harper closed her laptop. "And?"
"And I'm thinking about taking it. Not playing next season. Just retiring. Moving into coaching."
"Crew, you just came back from injury. You haven't even played a full season yet. Are you sure you want to give up?"
"I'm not giving up. I'm choosing something different. Choosing to be home. To watch Rose grow up. To not destroy my body for a sport that won't love me back." I grabbed her hand. "Harper, I missed so much this year. I don't want to miss more."
"But will you regret it? In five years, will you wish you'd played longer?"
"Maybe. But I'll regret missing Rose's childhood more."
She was quiet for a moment. "What does Dr. Okonkwo say?"
"I haven't told her yet."
"Then tell her. Before you make any decisions. Make sure you're choosing this for the right reasons, not because you're scared or burnt out."
The next day, I had an emergency session with Dr. Okonkwo.
"Marcus is retiring," I told her. "And it's making me think about my own career. About whether I want to keep playing."
"What's making you question it?"
"I missed Rose's first year. I was there physically but mentally I was always thinking about hockey. About recovery. About getting back on the ice. And now that I'm back, I'm realizing—I don't want it the way I used to."
"That's not necessarily a bad thing. Priorities shift. Especially after having a child."
"But what if I'm just burnt out? What if I give up and regret it?"
"Then you deal with the regret. But Crew, you can't make decisions based on fear of future regret. You have to make them based on what feels right now." She paused. "What does playing hockey give you that coaching wouldn't?"
I thought about it. "Adrenaline. Competition. The feeling of being on the ice. Being part of the team as a player versus watching from the bench."
"And what does coaching give you that playing doesn't?"
"Stability. Being home. Not risking my body. Actually being present for my family. Building something beyond my own performance."
"Which list feels more important?"
I knew the answer immediately. "The second one. But admitting that feels like giving up."
"Or it feels like growing up. Choosing what matters most instead of what used to matter most." She closed her notepad. "Crew, you're not the same person who started playing professional hockey. You're in recovery. You're a father. Your values have changed. That's okay. Actually, that's healthy."
That evening, I told Harper everything Dr. Okonkwo had said.
"So what are you going to do?" she asked.
"I'm going to call the GM tomorrow. Tell him I'm interested in the coaching position. That I want to retire as a player and transition to development work."
"You're sure?"
"No. But I'm doing it anyway."
The next morning, I called the Canucks' GM.
"I want to talk about the coaching position Marcus mentioned. The player development role."
"We were hoping you'd be interested. When would you want to start?"
"This season. I'm retiring as a player. Moving into coaching immediately."
There was a pause. "Crew, are you sure? You're only thirty-one. You've got years left."
"I'm sure. I want to be home. I want to coach. This feels right."
"Okay. Let me talk to ownership. We'll have a contract drafted by next week."
After hanging up, I sat in silence for a moment. Processing what I'd just done.
I'd retired. From professional hockey. The sport I'd dedicated my entire adult life to.
And it felt... right.
Harper found me on the balcony an hour later. "Did you call?"
"I called. I'm retiring. Moving into coaching. It's done."
She sat next to me. "How do you feel?"
"Terrified. Relieved. Like I just made the biggest decision of my life."
"You did make the biggest decision of your life."
"Second biggest. First biggest was going to rehab."
"Fair point." She grabbed my hand. "I'm proud of you. For choosing us over hockey. For being brave enough to walk away."
"I'm not walking away. I'm just changing roles."
"Still brave."
That afternoon, I posted on Instagram. Photo of Rose on my shoulders, both of us smiling. Caption simple:
After 9 seasons, I'm retiring from professional hockey. Moving into player development coaching with the Canucks. This wasn't an easy decision, but it's the right one. I want to be present for my family. I want to build something beyond my own performance. Thank you to everyone who supported me through the highs and lows. The journey isn't over—it's just changing direction.
The comments flooded in within minutes. Teammates congratulating me. Fans thanking me for my career. Messages of support and encouragement.
And one from Joel, of all people: Congrats on retirement and fatherhood. You made the right choice. I wish I'd made it sooner.
I showed Harper. "Joel commented."
"What'd he say?"
"That I made the right choice. That he wishes he'd made it sooner."
"How's that make you feel?"
"Nothing. He's just another guy who chose wrong and realized it too late. I'm choosing right while I still can."
That evening, the Canucks organization announced my retirement officially. Press release. Social media posts. The whole thing.
My phone didn't stop buzzing all night. Teammates. Coaches. Fans. Media requests for interviews.
"This is overwhelming," I told Harper around 10 PM.
"Welcome to life after hockey. Everything's overwhelming when you're not focused solely on the game."
"Is this what normal people feel like all the time?"
"Normal people don't retire from professional sports at thirty-one. But yes, generally life is overwhelming when you're paying attention to it."
That night, lying in bed, I felt something I hadn't felt in years.
Peace.