Rain thickened, tapping the roof like coins dropped one after another. I slowed near the river bend, headlights flashing across the wet guardrail.
You either play by their rules or they bury you.Gideon’s words again. Maybe he believed them; maybe that’s why he stayed on their payroll.
I gripped the wheel tighter.Well, guess what? I’m not done fighting.They could send me to coach a backyard pond team for all I cared—I’d still lace up tomorrow and remind every smug executive exactly who taught Knox Callaghan to swing first.
The Pour Housesign flickered up ahead, sputtering amber against the dark. I turned the wheel, engine growling low, and aimed straight for it.
The bar hit me like muscle memory. Same grime on the floorboards, same reek of spilled whiskey welded into the wood, same jukebox guitar screaming about bad luck. I’d lost whole winters in this place. Maybe part of my twenties too. The noise wrapped around me like an old bruise—familiar, ugly, almost comforting.
Mack behind the bar caught my eye before I even sat down. He gave me that two-finger nod—no smile, no small talk. He knew better.
“Double rye,” I told him.
He didn’t ask which brand. Just poured until the glass looked almost kind. The first swallow went down like a dare, heat slashing through the bitter taste in my mouth. I didn’t slow down for the second. No chaser. Hadn’t used one since my rookie year.
A couple tables over, someone muttered my name like it was a secret they weren’t supposed to say. Another voice followed, younger, louder.
“Holy shit, that’s Calder Shaw.”
A scrape of chair legs. A phone camera flash that didn’t quite dare to rise above shoulder level.
I kept my back to them, traced the rim of my glass with a thumb that used to bleed every game. Let them whisper. Fans,haters—same difference. They all wanted a story. Something ugly enough to tell their buddies.
Mack slid another drink across without being asked. I dropped a bill that could’ve covered it twice. Didn’t matter. Money was easier to give away than explanation.
The pool cues lined the wall like ribs under dim light. I took one, felt the weight settle right in my palm. The felt table near the jukebox was half-lit and empty, just waiting to prove my coordination hadn’t gone soft. Balls clattered at the break—sharp crack echoing above the music. Couple heads turned. None stepped closer.
I circled the table slow, glass in one hand, cue in the other. Chalk dust smeared on my thumb. Corner pocket, clean shot. The eight kissed the rail, spun off, disappeared into the hole like it knew better than to argue.
That small sound—the rattle, the finish—did something I didn’t expect. Quieted the world for half a breath.
“Still got it,” someone murmured.
I looked up, held his stare long enough for him to look away. “Of course I do.”
The whiskey burned smoother now—third glass, maybe fourth. Hard to keep track. The clink of ice in the glass sounded like applause from a crowd that had long stopped cheering my name. The lights above the bar blurred into thin halos. My reflection stared back from the mirror behind the bottles, face cracked by streaks of amber, wrinkles deep as skate marks on old ice.
My career had gone the same way—fast, messy, loud. One suspension, two trades, three wrists broken by my hands. Every headline called it “anger issues.” They should’ve just said “Calder Shaw finally lived up to his purpose.” The Gulls cut me loose before I hit thirty. Too old to be a tough guy, too young todisappear. That was when the silence started creeping in, louder than a full arena.
Sara couldn’t stand it. The quiet, the bruises, me walking around like a live grenade. She packed up Nate’s things with her own, left the key on the counter. Didn’t even shut the door behind her. Guess she didn’t need to; I never followed.
Now the kid’s calling, probably thinking I’d say the right thing for once. Maybe congratulate him on whatever shiny title he’d been chasing this month. I couldn’t. The number sat there in my missed calls list like something alive, pulsing under the surface. I took another swallow instead.
I wasn't the villain they thought I was. I was worse.
The thought drifted up heavy, sticks in my chest like a puck to the ribs. They built villains to make heroes look brighter. I never gave anybody that satisfaction.
That game in Calgary still flashed sometimes—three minutes left, penalty kill, crowd pounding on the glass while my temper cracked open. I remembered the rookie winger mouthing off, calling me washed, and I remembered my glove coming off before I even thought about it. One punch. Two. Blood on the ice, mine and his. Ejection. We lost. Coach wouldn’t look me in the eye after. That was the start of the end.
Another memory slid in right behind it—Nate, maybe nine, asking for a stick at a sporting goods store. I snapped at him for touching the good ones. He didn’t talk to me the whole ride home. Little bastard just stared out the window while I tried to find words that didn’t sound like excuses.
The guilt should’ve faded by now. It hadn’t. Didn’t stop me either. I finished the glass, gesture for another. The night stretched out long and empty, same as every one before it.
Chapter 3
Billie
The Pour Housebuzzed like someone had turned life up half a notch too loud. A jukebox wheezed out classic rock, cheap neon signs threw sickly color across cracked leather booths, and everything smelled faintly of spilled beer and memory.
