And that made me worse than dangerous.
It made me selfish enough to ruin her.
The apartment greeted me with the same familiar silence it always did—empty, stale, thick with old choices and new ones I couldn't take back.
I dropped my keys on the counter. Kicked off my shoes. Stood in the center of the room like I'd forgotten what I lived here for.
The bottle of whiskey sat where I'd left it three days ago, cap screwed on tight, amber liquid catching the dim light from the street. A full pour's worth missing from when I'd tested myself last week. Poured it. Stared at it. Dumped it down the sink.
Tonight felt different.
I grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Clean. Unused. The weight of it settled in my palm like an old friend I'd sworn off but never stopped missing.
One drink. Just one. Take the edge off. Dull the burn of her skin under my hands, the sound she'd made when I'd pressed her harder against the lockers, the way she'd looked at me after like I was something other than a mistake.
I poured two fingers. Held it up to the light. Watched it swirl.
Didn't sip.
Set it down.
Picked it up again.
It's over. It has to be.
I said it out loud, voice rough and hollow in the quiet. Said it again, quieter, like repetition would make it true.
It's over.
But I could still hear her. The hitch in her breath. The scrape of her nails against my shoulders. The way she'd said my name—notCoach, notShaw—justCalder, like it was something sacred she'd been holding onto.
She hadn't said no.
She'd saidyeswith her whole body, arching into me, pulling me closer when I'd tried to pull away, daring me to be the man she thought I could be instead of the one I knew I was.
I lifted the glass. Stopped halfway to my mouth.
"You're not in control," I muttered. "You never fucking were."
The whiskey burned going down. I stood there, glass empty, chest heaving, and poured another.
Because if I wasn't in control, what was the point of pretending?
The cameras clicked like insects,that dry mechanical chirp I used to ignore when I played. Now every flash felt like an accusation.
I ran them through transition drills, barking corrections I didn't mean, watching everything but the puck. Watchingher. Billie cut through the neutral zone like water, clean and sharp, and I forced myself to look away before someone noticed.
The press sat three rows up, notebooks out, phones recording. Open practice. Good for visibility, Gideon had said. Good for the program.
Good for nothing but making me want to clear the stands with a stick.
Then the door banged open, and he walked in.
Nate.
My son. NHL golden boy. Grinning like he owned the building, waving at the cameras like they'd come for him. Maybe they had. He looked the part—expensive jacket, designer stubble, that easy charm he'd learned from everyone but me.
I gripped my whistle hard enough the lanyard cut into my palm.
