Chapter 38 First Scout Call
Summer in Evergreen Hollow carried the easy rhythm of long days and warm nights, the kind that made time feel generous. Lily Kane, home from her junior year at Denver, filled the house with her presence again—her laughter echoing from the backyard where she coached Everett’s street hockey games, her late-night chats with Holly about everything from team dynamics to life dreams, and her gentle way of scooping Clara up for “big sister skates” on the driveway.
But beneath the familiar comfort, a new current ran through Lily’s days: the quiet buzz of possibility from the pro hockey world.
It started with the text in late spring from Connor Reid, a scout for the PWHL’s Boston Fleet. “Saw your playoff run. Impressive two-way play. Coffee when you’re home this summer?”
Lily had shown the message to her parents that night, eyes wide. Rowan’s grin had been immediate and proud; Holly’s hug had been tight and a little teary. They’d agreed: a casual meeting, no pressure, just information.
The coffee date was set for a quiet café on Main Street in early July. Connor arrived in a Fleet polo, mid-thirties, easy smile, clipboard tucked under one arm like it was second nature.
Lily wore jeans and her old high-school hoodie, hair in a ponytail, trying to look calm while her stomach did flips.
Connor ordered black coffee; Lily got an iced latte with extra foam.
They sat at a corner table, morning sun streaming through the window.
“First off,” Connor said, “great season. Thirty-two points, plus-minus leader on your line, and the way you kill penalties—coaches notice that. You play smart hockey.”
Lily felt her cheeks warm. “Thank you. It was a fun year.”
He nodded, flipping open his notes. “We’re building something special in Boston. Young core, veteran leadership, new facilities. We think players like you—versatile, high-character, local ties—could fit really well.”
Lily swallowed. “Local ties?”
Connor smiled. “You grew up what, three hours away? Your dad’s legacy in the game doesn’t hurt. But more than that—we like how you lead. Teammates talk about you organizing study groups, helping freshmen adjust. That stuff matters in pro locker rooms.”
They talked for an hour: about the Fleet’s style of play (fast, physical, strong forecheck), the city (how the fanbase was growing fast), the realities of pro life (travel, media, NIL opportunities in a big market). Connor asked about her senior-year goals, her off-ice passions, even her favorite pre-game meal (Holly’s lasagna, naturally).
When they parted, he shook her hand firmly. “Nothing formal yet. Enjoy your summer. We’ll be in touch after the season starts. But Lily—you’re on our radar.”
She walked home in a daze, the summer air feeling suddenly electric.
That night at dinner she recounted every detail. Everett’s eyes were saucers. “Boston? Like real pro Boston?”
Clara clapped. “Lil-eee pro!”
Rowan listened quietly, pride shining. Holly reached across the table and squeezed Lily’s hand. “Whatever you decide, we’re with you.”
The rest of summer carried that quiet hum of possibility.
Lily helped with Everett’s hockey camp, coached Clara’s “tiny tot” skating class, and worked extra hours at Heartstrings redesigning the app for its fall launch. But in quiet moments—watching fireflies from the porch swing or driving back from the lake—she let herself imagine it: the Fleet locker room, the roar of a pro crowd, the chance to play in the city she’d grown up dreaming about.
In late August, another email came: an invitation to Boston’s rookie development camp in September—unofficial, no commitment, just a chance to skate with pros and see the operation up close.
Lily accepted before her nerves could catch up.
The camp was a whirlwind: early ice sessions with Fleet veterans, strength testing, meetings with coaches and staff. She skated lines with players she’d watched on TV, held her own in drills, and earned quiet nods from the head coach after a strong scrimmage shift.
On the last day, Connor pulled her aside.
“You belong here,” he said simply. “Think about it. We’d love to have you after graduation.”
The flight home felt different—shorter, somehow, even though the distance was the same.
When she walked through the airport doors in Minneapolis, her family was waiting: Everett waving a homemade “Welcome Home Pro!” sign, Clara in a tiny Fleet jersey Holly had ordered as a joke, Rowan and Holly holding each other’s hands and smiling like they already knew.
Lily dropped her bag and ran to them.
The hug lasted a long time.
Later that night, on the porch swing under the same stars that had watched her grow up, Lily leaned against her mom’s shoulder.
“I think I want to try,” she said quietly. “After senior year. Declare for the draft. See if Boston picks me.”
Rowan’s arm tightened around Holly’s shoulders. “Then we’ll be in every stand, every game, just like always.”
Everett, eavesdropping from the doorway, yelled, “And I’ll be your biggest fan!”
Clara, half-asleep on Rowan’s lap, murmured, “Lil-eee Boston.”
Holly kissed the top of Lily’s head. “From a mistletoe bet to the pros. Look how far you’ve come.”
Lily smiled into the night, heart racing with quiet, thrilling certainty.
The ice was calling louder than ever.
And this time, she was ready to answer—for real.