“Wouldn’t know how to take a headline even if I wanted one.”
“That’s the problem.” He took a long drag of silence before adding, “Stay sober, Shaw. I meanreallysober. No whiskey in your coffee, no whatever-the-hell you think counts as coping.”
I rubbed the side of my neck. “You calling to hold my hand?”
“I’m calling because I’ve got owners breathing down my neck, and your name still sets off fire alarms. You get through this semester without a fight or a DUI, maybe we talk about you coming back. Not on the ice—you’re done—but as development staff.”
That word—development—stuck like grit in my teeth. Still, something in me twitched. “So, I get to train kids how not to end up like me. Hell of a pitch.”
Gideon didn’t rise to it. He rarely did. “You don’t get many second chances, Calder. You sure you’re not gonna piss on this one too?”
I leaned back against the headboard, towel still damp around my waist. “What if it’s already halfway down my leg?”
He sighed, something between annoyance and old loyalty. “You’re not funny.”
“No, but I used to be dangerous.”
“That used to mean something.” His voice softened then, like he almost felt sorry for saying it. “Listen. You’ve got four rules, and they’re not negotiable. One—stay sober. Two—no altercations with players or parents. Three—no bad press.And four—no sleeping with anyone remotely connected to the program.”
The silence stretched, heavy enough to choke on.
Gideon caught it quick. “Christ, tell me you didn’t already?—”
I cut him off with a laugh I didn’t quite feel. “Relax. My halo’s shiny and intact.”
“Don’t test me, Shaw. You so much as look at someone the wrong way, and I’ll bury you so deep the worms will need GPS.”
“Motivating as always.”
“Just get through the season. That’s it. One clean run and you earn a foot back in the door.” He paused. “You still love it, don’t you? The game.”
I didn’t answer right away. The sound of skates against ice flashed through my head—the cut, the scrape, the echo that used to calm everything down.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Still do.”
“Then act like it.”
A beat.
“Still there?” Gideon’s voice cracked through the speaker, a dry rasp of impatience.
“Where else would I be?” I stood, pulled a wrinkled shirt over my head. Buttons didn’t line up, but it’d do.
He didn’t bother to laugh. “Heard something this morning. Your kid’s in the news cycle again.”
I reached for my jeans. “Meaning what? Another headline about his power play?”
“Not this time.” Papers shuffled on his end, that sound he made when lining up facts to punch me with. “Word is, Nate broke up with his girlfriend. Or she walked out. Depends who you ask.”
For a second, the noise went thin. “Didn’t even know he was seeing anyone.”
“That right there’s the problem.”
I paused, belt half-looped. “The problem?”
“Maybe, I don’t know, take five minutes to find out what your kid’s doing when he’s not on a scoresheet.”
I stared at the phone like I could burn it through the plastic. My voice dropped low. “You can lecture me all you want about being a player, Gideon. But you don’t get to tell me how to be a father.”
