“Callahan, you look more pathetic than usual,” Tucker said, sliding next to me, tossing his helmet onto the bench. “Thought you’d be happier now that your babysitter’s not around to hover.”
I glanced at him, gave a dry half-smile. “Some people don’t need babysitters, Tucker.”
Tucker chuckled. “Yeah, well, some things apparently need a whole PR department to keep from exploding.”
I let that slide, knowing exactly what he meant, but didn’t respond. I was trying not to replay the clip in my head. Or her words. She’d done it to protect the team, she said. Protect the brand. Protect Grayson. Protect the captain. Me? I was just collateral damage.
Grayson came over, pulling his jersey over his head, smirking like he always did when he thought he’d caught me off-guard. “Hey, eyeson the game, Callahan. Can’t have you taking out your drama on the ice.”
I huffed, tying my laces tighter than necessary. “I’m fine,” I muttered, but the edge in my voice betrayed me.
“Uh-huh,” Grayson said, eyebrows raising. “Sure you are.”
“Just—focused,” I said, standing up and brushing past him. “Let’s get this over with.”
Theo, always the observant one, rolled his eyes as he grabbed his helmet. “Focused or pissed off about Chicago? I heard your PR babysitter got herself a gig there because you threw one too many tantrums…”
I didn’t even think about it, just shoved my shoulder into his side. “Shut up, Theo.”
The guys cackled laughter, enjoying unnerving me a little too much.
“See?” Tucker slapped my back hard. “I knew I was right about you missing your babysitter.”
I shook my head and pulled on my gloves, ignoring their chatter as I tried to carve out a mental space where Holly and her betrayal didn’t exist. It didn’t help that every second here reminded me of what I had to prove tonight.
Coach called us together, voice sharp. “Listen up. We’re trailing in the series, two games to one. That’s not where we want to be. Game 4 is ours to take. This is the point where we turn the tide or go home. You know the stakes. Focus, precision, and don’t let mistakes bleed into panic. You want to show everyone what Surge hockey is? Make it count.”
A few nods, grumbles, and the shuffle of gear. I tightened my chinstrap and glanced around at the guys. Grayson’s eyes met mine, and I could see he was trying to gauge my mood, maybe preempt the shit I might throw on the ice. I gave him a noncommittal grunt. He let it go.
Tucker leaned in. “You’re quieter than usual, Callahan. This isn’t like you.”
“Not in the mood, Tucker.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, grinning like he’d just scored some secret victory. “The Chicago lights got you spinning.”
“Shut up,” I muttered, jerking my stick upright and heading toward the ice.
As we skated out for warm-ups, the tension under my skin didn’t ease. The crowd noise hit me, and normally, it would’ve sparked adrenaline. Tonight it just reminded me of everything else: the bar fight, the PR fallout, Holly gone, and how I’d been made the fall guy. I shoved it down, focusing on the drills, the passes, the puck, but my hands were tighter than they needed to be, and my reflexes were slightly off.
The puck dropped, and the game began in a blur of bodies, blades, and adrenaline. Early on, I got smacked more than a few times, Theo yelling from the blue line, “Get up, Callahan! Eyes open!” I grunted back, a little too sharp, letting frustration misfire.
Then it clicked. A power play. Minnesota pressed hard, their captain wheeling in a cross-ice pass. I dropped low, extending, glove snapping just in time, puck slamming against my chest protector before sliding harmlessly away. Theo picked it up and carried it down the ice, eyes lighting up.
“Counter! Callahan’s got it!” he yelled.
We executed perfectly. I saw my chance to clear, Mason weaving through defenders, the puck on his stick. I launched it down the ice, he juked one guy, then another, and fired a shot that slipped between the goalie’s pads. Goal. The Minnesota Wild barely had time to blink. The crowd erupted.
I skated back to my crease, chest still hammering, adrenaline sparking in places I hadn’t realized were dulled. That goal shifted momentum, and we rode it, every pass and check sharper than before. My focus finally felt right, my edge honed.
Late in the third, Minnesota mounted a furious comeback, crowd roaring, sticks clashing. One-on-one with their forward, I sprawled, glove and pad blocking a dangerous shot, then scrambled up to intercept a second attempt. The surge of relief when the puck slid away… god, I hadn’t felt this alive in days.
Finally, the whistle blew. Victory. Two to one, but we’d pulled off the win, and barely. Everyone skated to each other, shouting and whooping, drenched in sweat and triumph. I leaned on the boards, catching my breath, mind still half elsewhere. The win felt good, but so much of it was hollow. Mostly because Holly wasn’t here to see it. She wouldn’t get to smile, nudge me, or say something cheeky about my sweaty hair. I shoved the thought down and skated off with the team, throwing high-fives, smiling for the cameras, but there was a hollow part of me that no scoreboard could fill.
Tucker clapped me on the back, grinning. “Not bad for flying solo, Callahan. Babysitter’s away, but you managed to scrape through.”
I groaned, shaking my head, smirking despite myself. “A win’s a win.”
The locker room had finally emptied, leaving the hum of the overhead lights and the faint scent of sweat lingering in the air. My gloves lay discarded beside my bag, laces half-undone, pads still clinging to my legs. I slumped onto the bench, shoulders heavy, heart still thudding from the game but weighed down by everything else.
