Keeping focused. Code for staying in the closet, avoiding distractions, being the son he could present to his old-boys' club.
I should have felt validated. I should have felt the satisfaction of his approval after years of chasing it.
Instead, I felt empty.
I changed into street clothes and left the arena through the player’s exit. The parking lot was nearly deserted, just a few cars under flickering lights.
I sat in my truck with the engine running, heat blasting, not driving anywhere.
I pulled up my texts with Theo. Three weeks of nothing. Before that, weeks of coded messages and stolen moments that had been the best parts of my day.
The last message was from me.Can't do this anymore. I’m sorry.
His response, an hour later.Me too.
Two words that said everything.
I typed:Are you okay?
I stared at it. I deleted it. What right did I have to ask? I’d ended it. I’d made my choice. I’d told him he was a mistake.
But watching him take that hit, watching him lie motionless on the ice...
I realized something I’d been avoiding for three weeks.
I didn't just care about Theo Callahan. I didn't just want him.
I loved him.
And I’d thrown it away for a contract that felt like a prison sentence.
My phone buzzed again. Text from Coach Reeves.
Coach Reeves:Theo is concussed. Out minimum 7 days. Playoffs aren't the same without him. Whatever you two had going, we needed it.
Whatever you two had going.
Past tense.
I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, breath fogging in the cold truck. I’d won the game. Won the contract. Won everything I thought I wanted.
And lost the only thing that mattered.
One week later. Conference finals.
We advanced without Theo, grinding through games with defense and goaltending. Kieran was playing possessed. Jamie elevated his game. Tyler took on more responsibility.
We were winning. Three wins from the Stanley Cup Finals.
And it felt meaningless.
Theo was cleared to practice but not to play—still in protocol, another three days minimum. He came to games, sat in the press box, wore a suit instead of gear.
I watched him on the Jumbotron sometimes, when I was on the bench. He clapped at the right moments. He stood for goals. He looked engaged.
But the light was still gone.
Game Three. Tied series 1-1. Physical, desperate hockey. I took a high stick that opened a cut above my eye—same spot Theo’s had been. The trainer patched it quickly and sent me back out.
