Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
That hollow space inside me stretched wider, like something had cracked open and wind was rushing through.
I almost hitCall Back.Almost. Then my thumb slid toClear.The screen went black, and I shoved it deep in my coat like it might bite me.
He’d called before, sure—holidays mostly, quick and polite, like checking in on a distant uncle. But this felt different. Late night. Out of nowhere.
What the hell did he want now? He’d made it, after all. NHL jersey hanging on his locker, ESPN graphics spelling out the family name that I’d scraped together from broken teeth and busted knuckles. He had everything I’d ever wanted for him. Ice time, sponsors, interviews. Fans chanting his name.
And still, every time I turned on the TV, he talked like he’d raised himself.
Go ahead, kid. Thank your agent. Thank your coach, your nutritionist, your bloodyguru. “I did it on my own,” you tell them. Right. Those new skates? “On your own.” Those cross-country tournaments? “On your own.” Those nights I worked two shifts so you could fly to Quebec for Junior Cup? All me in the rearview, huh?
He learned that shrug from his mother, same one that saidyou’re not enough, Calder.
The cigarette burned down to the filter. I flicked it away, watched the ember die on the wet ground. My hands didn’t shake anymore. There wasn’t anything left to shake.
Guilt used to chew on me in moments like this. A couple years back, maybe I’d have felt something close to pride—at least one of us got out clean. But that faded, stripped away bit by bit until only the noise remained.
Now? Nothing. Just an empty slot where fatherhood used to live. You can’t mourn what was already ash.
The phone buzzed once more, a short vibration, like the universe testing me. I didn’t check it.
He was a grown man now. Had his team. His brand. His glossy magazine smiles. He could make his choices.
And so could I.
Tomorrow I played the good soldier. Gideon’s latest PR patch job. Crestwood’s brand-new coach for “women’s hockey”—his words, not mine. Babysitting skaters still figuring out which end of the stick to hold. Fine. I’d smile for the cameras, say the lines, play along.
But not tonight.
Tonight, the city still owed me a drink, maybe three. A fight, if I got lucky. Something to remind me there was blood left under the skin.
The wipers scraped across the windshield, smearing snowmelt and city grime into a gray blur. Detroit lights blinked through it—neon, sodium yellow, red brake glow. I kept one hand on the wheel, the other pressed a dent into the steering leather.The Pour Housesat maybe fifteen minutes across town, depending on traffic, but I drove slow. Needed the noise of the engine more than the quiet waiting at the bar.
Knox Callaghan’s face slid across the billboard near Jefferson—his chin lifted, a smile like polished chrome.Poster boy of redemption. Shithead in a suit.I snorted, shoved the thought back, but it clawed up again, anyway. Every damn article for months had plastered his name in bold type: CALLAGHAN’S REBOUND—FROM SUSPENSION TO SUCCESS.
The guy coached some college girls over the summer. One season of fake humility and suddenly the league couldn’t get enough of his “journey.” Funny how integrity grows when the cameras find the right angle.
I switched lanes hard, cutting between a pickup and a rideshare full of college kids. They honked; I didn’t bother waving. My pulse kept a steady drumbeat behind my ear.
Knox had slept with one of his players—everyone knew it—but the PR machine twisted it into areform narrative.Some quick press conference, a story about star-crossed lovers and how they were truly in love, then boom: endorsement deals, talk-show redemption arc, fan forgiveness. The bastard still walked out smelling like roses, while I couldn’t step inside a rink without some parent whispering my name like a warning.
In fact, supposedly, he had fallen in love with her.
Fuck that noise.
I didn’t believe in second chances. Not for people like us.
Knox cleaned up nice: the suit, the slick hair, the trained grin that saidtrust me.And with his father being his father, he was everyone's favorite redemption story.
Me?
I was the mess they wanted to pretend never existed. The crash dummy for their safety lectures. My face in grainy fight clips on YouTube titledMan Loses Control On Ice.They didn’t care why. They never looked that deep.
Maybe I’d earned some of it. I wasn’t blind. I’d thrown punches when words would’ve done. Turned press interviews into arguments. Broke too many sticks in too many locker rooms. But it wasn’t just rage—it was survival. When you grew up built like a wall, everybody expected you to hit something.
Now I’d been handed a whistle and told to play teacher. A circus act paraded as penance. I could already hear the whispers before I stepped on the ice:Shaw’s here ‘cause he’s unemployable anywhere else.
