It’s like he didn’t exist before he was drafted.
I search for “Banks Callahan family” and get nothing relevant. “Banks Callahan hometown” brings up a single article that mentions he was “raised in the Midwest” with no further details. “Banks Callahan parents” yields zero results.
Who is this guy?
Everyone has a past. Everyone has a story—where they grew up, who raised them, what made them who they are. But Banks is a blank page. A ghost with a Wikipedia entry and eight hundredpenalty minutes.
Maybe he’s hiding something. Or hiding from something.
I dig deeper, searching through old interviews. Most of them are useless—generic questions about games, teammates, and playoff hopes. Banks gives the same non-answers every time: short sentences, no elaboration. “We played well.” “The team is focused.” “I just try to do my job.”
Then I find one from three years ago, right after he was traded to New York. A reporter asked about his background, and for once, the question made it into print.
Reporter: You’ve been traded twice now. Do you feel like New York could be home?
Callahan: I don’t really think about it that way.
Reporter: What about your life before hockey? Where did you grow up? Family?
Callahan: [long pause] I’d rather talk about the game.
That’s it. That’s all he gave them. And somehow, even in print, I can feel the walls going up—the door slamming closed.
I’d rather talk about the game.
Who says that? Who refuses to mention their family, their childhood, anything personal at all? Someone with something to hide.
I close my laptop and stare at the ceiling, processing everything I’ve learned.
Banks Callahan. The Wall. Eight hundred penalty minutes and a reputation for violence.
But with me, he’s… gentle.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t knowwhat we’re doing. But as I finally drift off to sleep, I can’t stop thinking about the man behind the stats.
And I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve barely scratched the surface.
Chapter Eleven
Out of My Depth
Banks
I hate team dinners.
The noise, the small talk, the expectation that I’ll sit there for two hours making conversation like a normal human being when I could be home, alone, eating leftovers in silence.
Usually, I have a system. Arrive late. Sit at the end of the table—preferably near an exit—eat fast, and leave before dessert. Minimal interaction, maximum efficiency.
Tonight, that’s not an option.
Tonight, I have a fake girlfriend to parade around.
The steakhouse is one of those upscale places with dim lighting, leather booths, and prices that would make my teenage self pass out. The team has a private room in the back, reserved for post-win celebrations. We beat Boston 4-2, and apparently that warrants a hundred-dollar steak and mediocre conversation.
For once, I’m early—fifteen minutes early, which might be a personal record. I wanted to gethere before Winnie to scope out the seating situation and figure out the best strategic position.
Instead, I’m standing near the entrance like an idiot, nursing a beer I don’t really want, watching the door.
