Theo...
Theo executed his position. With the correct angles. Proper spacing. Textbook positioning.
Zero instinct. Zero joy.
He looked like a different player. Still talented, still fast, but the spark that had made him dangerous—the creativity, the risk-taking, the infectious energy—was gone. He played like someone going through the motions. Like someone who’d learned that shining too bright got you burned.
My chest tightened. I blew the whistle.
"Again. Tyler, tighten up that passing lane. Jamie, you’re telegraphing. Theo..." His name caught in my throat. "Higher in the zone."
He nodded without meeting my eyes. He skated to position.
We’d played four playoff games. Won three. We should have swept. We would have swept, if our chemistry hadn't shattered.
The first-round series against Detroit should have been dominant. Instead, it had been grinding, ugly hockey. We’d won Game Four by a single goal, and only because Kieran had stood on his head for sixty minutes.
Coach Reeves appeared beside me, arms crossed. "What happened to Callahan?"
"Nothing." The lie was familiar. I’d been telling it for three weeks.
"He’s playing scared. That’s not the kid who took a hit for you opening night."
"He’s adjusting to playoff intensity."
"Bullshit." Reeves’s voice dropped lower. "And you’ve been different too. Distant. Whatever happened between you two, fix it. We need him sharp for the conference semis."
He skated away before I could deny anything happened.
Nothing happened. I’d made sure of it. I’d ended it before it could become real, before it could threaten everything I’d built.
The contract extension sat in my apartment, signed and notarized. Five years. No-movement clause. Financial security. Captaincy guaranteed.
Everything I’d wanted.
I watched Theo receive a pass and take the shot. Perfect form. No passion.
The puck hit the post with a hollow clang that echoed through the empty arena.
The locker room after practice felt wrong.
Usually, playoff energy filled every corner—music, chirping, the sharp edge of competitive focus mixed with camaraderie.
Today, silence pooled in the spaces between conversations. Guys clustered in their usual groups, but the connections felt frayed.
I sat in my stall, focused on unlacing my skates. If I focused on the physical task, I didn't have to look at Theo three stalls down. I didn't have to see him shower and dress with the same emptiness he brought to the ice now.
"Cap." Kieran dropped onto the bench beside me. He was still in full goalie gear, sweat-soaked and intense. "We need to talk."
"About the defensive coverage in—"
"About what you did to Callahan."
My hands stilled on the laces. "I don't know what you’re talking about."
"Luca." Kieran’s voice carried a decade of friendship. We’d been drafted the same year. We’d suffered through rebuilding seasons together. We’d fought our way to relevance. He knew me better than anyone on this team. "He showed up to camp like sunshine, and now he looks like someone killed his dog. And you’ve been walking around like a ghost. So either tell me what happened, or admit you’re full of shit."
I finished unlacing. I set the skates aside. "It’s handled."
