I look up at him through the cage and say nothing.
He wants a reaction.
He doesn’t get one.
Callaway skates in immediately, shoving the guy away from my crease like it’s instinct.Like he’s protecting me without thinking.
The ref pulls him back, barking.
Callaway spreads his hands innocently.“I’m just saying hi.”
The guy laughs and chirps back.
Callaway turns slightly, mouth near my cage.“You okay?”
My eyes snap to his.
He means it.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His gaze lingers a beat too long, then he skates away before I can do something stupid, like reach out and grab his jersey and keep him close.
Midway through the third, we get our chance.
Boston’s defense pinches too aggressively, trying to keep the puck in at our blue line.Callaway reads it instantly and picks off the pass like he’s been waiting for it.
Two-on-one the other way.
He pushes the puck ahead to our winger, then drives the middle lane like he’s going to the net.
Boston’s defenseman backs up, trying to play the pass and the shot at once.
Callaway gets the puck back at the right circle with a sliver of space.
He shoots.
Low far side, using the defenseman as partial screen.The puck slips under the goalie’s pad.
Goal.
2-0.
The crowd goes nuclear in the worst way.
Callaway celebrates like he’s making a point, skating past the Blackbirds’ bench with a grin that’s anything but polite.
Then he points at me from the far end of the rink.
A forward pointing at his goalie after scoring.
It’s a statement.
The cameras catch it.Hopefully the commentators will discuss that we’re working as a team.Thankfully, they won’t talk about the way his eyes lock on mine like he’s daring me to admit we fit together on the ice the way we fit everywhere else.
The game continues.
I stay calm.
