I park on the side of the road. Far enough that we’re not obvious. Close enough that we can see the house.
Her house.
The Honda Pilot sits in the driveway.
“What now?” Callum asks.
Zephyr stares ahead. I stare at that fucking SUV. My hands grip the steering wheel hard. I want to run my fists through the windshield.
Ten minutes pass.
Callum sighs. His leg bounces. The whole car shakes with it. He has an endless amount of energy and zero patience.
“Can we go?” he says. “She’s not coming home.”
Zephyr and I look at each other. Then back at the house.
“We’ll wait here all night if we have to,” I say.
Callum groans.
Thirty minutes in, he won’t shut up.
“I’m just saying, if we’re gonna sit here, we might as well talk about something. Like how Rowan’s been up our asses about the Michigan game.”
“Rowan’s always up our asses,” Zephyr mutters. “That’s what captains do.”
“Yeah, but he’s extra captain-y lately. Like he thinks he’s coaching us too.”
I glance in the rearview mirror. “He’s trying to keep you from getting benched.”
“I’m not getting benched.”
“You almost got benched last week for that lazy line change.”
Callum leans forward between the seats. “I was tired.”
“You’re a winger. Your whole job is to hustle. You can’t be tired.”
“Says the guy who plays right wing like he’s allergic to the defensive zone.”
Zephyr snorts. “He’s got you there.”
I shoot him a look. “You want to talk defense? How about that turnover you gave up in the neutral zone against State?”
“That was on Nolan. He pinched when he shouldn’t have.”
“Nolan pinches because you don’t cover him.”
“I do cover him. He just thinks he’s a fourth forward half the time.”
Callum laughs. “Nolan’s problem is he watches too much NHL and thinks he’s Cale Makar.”
“More like he thinks he’s on a power play when we’re at even strength,” Zephyr says.
“Speaking of power plays,” Callum continues, “Asher almost let in that softy on the five-on-three last game. I thought Coach was gonna pull him.”
I shake my head. “Asher’s fine. That puck deflected off someone’s skate.”
