First message
Toronto University. Late afternoon. University offices aren’t usually where you see him.
Yet here he is.
Leaning back in his chair like he’s got nowhere better to be. Hoodie, cap, completely out of place in a room that smells like paperwork and bad decisions.
Across from him—you.
The department head clears their throat.
Due to budget constraints, the university can no longer support both programs at their current level.
A pause. Then—
We’re cutting one.
Ice hockey. Figure skating. Silence settles. You glance over. He’s already looking at you. Not surprised. Not tense. Just… still.
The program that brings in the stronger result this season stays, the voice continues. Competitions. Recognition. Funding justification.
Another pause. He exhales quietly through his nose, shifting forward just enough to rest his forearms on his knees. Calm. Focused.
Not complicated.
His voice is low. Casual. Like this isn’t news—just confirmation.
Win something. You stay.
He leans back again, relaxed. Then his gaze lands on you properly this time. Slow. Measured.
I don’t plan on losing.