“Where are you?”he asks.
“In the car,” I say.“Heading to my apartment.”
“Good.”He pauses.“How soon are you leaving for Oregon?”
“Tomorrow morning.”My voice catches, and I force it down.“I had to?—”
“Have a buffer,” he finishes, like he’s inside my head.Like he already knows the part I don’t want to admit.
I go still.
Cally’s always been too good at that—at seeing straight through me and calling it out like it’s a fact.Like I don’t get to pretend.
“Yeah,” I whisper.“A buffer.”
“Harvey will get you a flight,” Cally says immediately, sliding back into control because he can’t stand sitting in helplessness.“I wish I could be there for you, but just remember this is nothing like your mom.He’s going to be fine.”
My laugh is quiet and bitter.“You’re kind of there.In my ear.Yelling at me.”
He makes a low sound that might be a laugh.It might be frustration.“Ves.”
“What?”
“Nothing, I’m just concerned.There’s too much happening.”His voice shifts again, and I feel it before he says anything—like the ground moved under him and he’s trying to pretend he didn’t stumble.
There’s more to this than my dad’s illness and the fact that he believes that he has to look after me.Why didn’t I catch that sooner?
“How are ...”I hesitate.Superstition is stupid until it isn’t.Until you’ve watched it become a coping mechanism for men who live on luck and routine and fear of jinxing the only thing they can’t control.“Can I ask without ...ruining something?”
He scoffs.“You confuse me with that superstitious asshole.”
Of course he means Monty.
“I’m not a fucking goalie who has to stretch twenty-seven times in a corner or the universe will punish him,” Cally snaps, and the way he says goalie—like it’s a slur—tells me everything I need to know about his mood.
My stomach turns.“Did you get into a fight with him—again?”
“No.”He growls.“We haven’t played against each other since they traded him to Boston.Let’s hope that continues.”
“Sounds more like you miss him.”
His breathing changes.Shallow.Controlled.Like he’s trying not to say something.“Surprisingly, it has nothing to do with him.They might trade me,” he says finally, and the exasperation in his voice can’t cover the fact that there’s fear underneath it.
My body goes cold.
“You’ve been with the Cobras since your rookie year,” I say, because my brain rejects it.Because Callyisthe Cobras.His face is on billboards in Colorado.Kids wear his jersey like it’s a symbol of faith.
“I know,” he bites out.“That’s the fucking point.”
I sit back as the driver merges into traffic, my coffee cup trembling in my grip.
“Why would they?—”
“Because the Cobras are trying to win now,” he says, words sharp with resentment, and then, quieter, like it costs him, “And because they think they can win without me.”
My throat closes.“That’s insane.”
“It’s business,” he says, like the phrase tastes like ash.“And apparently, the Portland Orcas are desperate.They need a new captain.Cas Spearman is retiring.”
