Rhys comes down the tunnel still pulling his jersey over his pads, helmet tucked under one arm, not even fully dressed yet. Thirty minutes late and not a trace of urgency anywhere on him. He’s not even on the ice yet and he’s already making my eye twitch.
I lean over the boards as he approaches. “Callahan.” I keep my voice level. “You planning on joining us today or just watching?”
He looks up, clocks me glaring at him, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. “I was in the chem lab. Lost track of time.”
“You always lose track of time. Every practice. That’s the pattern. I hope at some point you find it.” I nod toward the ice. “Finish getting dressed and go straight to drills. You’re already thirty minutes behind.”
“This is fucking bullshit,” he mutters, pulling his helmet on.
Something snaps.
I’m tired. I’m sore. My shoulder has been throbbing, dull and deep, since I woke up and I’ve been on this ice working for thirty minutes. I also come an hour early every time to set up and brainstorm ideas and plan with Coach. And now he’s standing at the tunnel entrance with that look on his face like I’m the irrational one.
“I’m getting tired of the attitude, Callahan. Every single time.”
He ignores me. Starts moving toward the ice like I’m not standing right there, like I’m background noise, and something about that gesture — the casual way he decides the conversation is over, the dismissal of it — makes something in me snap past the point of reason.
It’s like every understanding bone I have in my body withers todust when it comes to Rhys. I can’t see my purpose, my goals—it’s all lost in this rage. All I see is disrespect. He wants to challenge me at every possible turn and I’m sick of it.
I hate how easy it is for him to pull ugliness out of me.
“You know what? Don’t even bother.” The words come out hard and final. “You’re done for today. Go sit in the stands. Maybe you’ll learn something.”
That gets his attention. He stops at the edge and turns around slowly. His gloves hit the ground. He steps right up to the ice so we’re face to face, nothing between us, close enough that I can see the exact moment his eyes go dark, feel his heart beating in his chest.
“Say that again,” he says, looking at me like he's daring me to.
“You heard me.” I hold his gaze without blinking. “Stands. Now.”
His jaw flexes — fury, and something else underneath it I don’t let myself look at too closely. Then he picks up his gloves, turns around, and walks back down the tunnel without another word.
The rink is hushed, and suddenly there's nothing left to drown out the fact that I fucked up.
I turn around and every single player has stopped moving. Sticks down, mouths open, small whispers, everyone just watching. And Coach Fitch is standing at the far end of the boards with his arms folded, frowning at me.
He pulls me into his office after practice. Sits behind his desk with his arms still folded and the expression of a man choosing his next words carefully. The disappointment is quiet but it’s there, settled into the lines around his eyes.
The place is a mess — papers everywhere, half-eaten lunch on the desk, mustard stain on his shirt. But the trophy case behind him doesn't lie. Twenty years of this. He knows exactly what he's doing even when he looks like he doesn't. He’s good atwhat he does. And he trusts me implicitly. But even I know I’m reaching a certain point of overstepping with him.
I start talking before he can.
“Coach, I know how it looked. But he comes late every practice, he talks back constantly, he doesn’t respect the team—”
Fitch holds up one hand and stops me clean.
Silence stretches between us. Then he leans back in his chair and looks at me like he’s deciding how honest to be, the look of a man who has heard all of this before.
“I like you, Jamie. You know that. You make my job easier, which makes my home life easier, which makes my wife happy. And a happy wife—” he points at me, “—is the only stat that actually matters.”
Despite everything I almost smile.
“But here’s the thing.” He leans forward now, elbows on the desk. Takes his cap off and sets it down. “Callahan is unpolished gold. You can see it when he’s actually locked in — and so can I. I need you to get through to him. Pull him in instead of pushing him out. Help him find his place in this team. Get him on your side.” His eyes stay on mine. “I’m counting on you for this.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
A thousand universes. A million possibilities. Every version of what happens next flickers behind my eyes while I search for one valid reason to say no.
