Chapter 29
Calder
The arena is loud enough to vibrate through my ribs when the final buzzer sounds. The crowd surges. Music crashes through the speakers. Teammates slam into me from both sides while adrenaline and sweat and exhaustion blur together beneath bright arena lights.
We won. Again. Another important game, another strong performance, another night where commentators will talk about discipline and leadership and intensity like those things exist cleanly outside the body carrying them.
I pull my helmet off breathing hard while guys shout over each other around me.
Somebody grabs the back of my jersey. Another teammate nearly knocks into me hard enough to send us both into the boards.
The energy should feel good. Instead it just feels loud.
"Hell of a game, Hayes." "Yeah." The word comes out flat even to me. Hockey still gives me adrenaline instead of relief.
I skate toward the bench while fans press against the glass holding signs and phones overhead. Somebody yells my name from the crowd. Another voice screams something about playoffs. I barely register any of it. Like I'm doing the movements right and that's all.
The locker room explodes when we get inside.
Music blasting. Guys yelling. Equipment hitting concrete floors.
One of the rookies launches a towel directly at my head while shouting something about my assist during the third period.
I catch it automatically and throw it back harder than necessary.
Laughter erupts. Everything outwardly looks normal. That's the unsettling part.
I sit heavily in front of my locker and start peeling tape slowly from my wrists. Bruised knuckles ache dully beneath the adhesive. My shoulders burn from contact. Sweat cools rapidly against the back of my neck. The physical exhaustion feels familiar. The emptiness underneath it doesn't.
Across the room, Maddox studies me briefly while pulling off his shoulder pads. Not subtle anymore. People keep watching me lately like they're waiting for signs of something. Deterioration maybe. They probably already see it.
Coach walks in with media staff trailing behind him.
"Hayes, media room in five." Of course. I nod once without looking up.
Another win. Another interview. Another performance of composure.
The routine should comfort me. Irritation curls low in my stomach.
Because interviews mean questions, questions mean control, and lately control feels less stable every single time somebody puts a microphone in front of me.
I shower quickly afterward. Cold water pounds hard against the back of my neck while steam fogs the tiled walls around me.
For one brief second, muscle memory hits viciously enough to almost stop me breathing.
Arabella used to wait up after late games sometimes, half-asleep on my couch wrapped in one of my hoodies, looking up the second she heard the apartment door open.
The memory lands physically. Warmth. Softness. Relief. Gone now.
Maddox is already in the corridor when I come out of the shower, jacket on, headed somewhere else. He slows when he sees me.
I keep walking.
"They're going to ask about her," he says.
I don't stop. "I know."
"Okay." He says it like that's not actually the point. "Just figured you should decide what you want to say before somebody else decides for you."
I look at him for a second. He doesn't add anything. Doesn't wait for a response. Just keeps walking in the other direction like he said something ordinary.
He didn't.
The thought stays with me all the way down the hallway toward the media room.
People move around me constantly, staff, camera crews, public relations people, everybody talking about the game, playoffs, performance.
Meanwhile all I can think about is the fact that two months ago, the first thing I would have done after a win like this was text Arabella.
Now my phone stays silent in my pocket while arena lights buzz overhead and exhaustion settles heavily into my bones.
Hockey is still functioning exactly the way it always has.
I'm the thing that no longer fits inside it properly anymore.
The media room smells like stale coffee and overheated equipment.
Bright lights hit the second I step through the door.
Cameras and microphones, reporters already half-standing from their seats while staff shuffle people into position near the backdrop wall.
I settle onto the stool in front of the sponsor logos while somebody clips a microphone pack to the back of my jacket.
My shoulders ache. My jaw still feels tight from the game.
I want this over as quickly as possible.
The first few questions stay predictable.
Playoff positioning. Defensive adjustments.
The third-period assist. I answer automatically, controlled, professional, forgettable, exactly the way these things are supposed to go.
One reporter asks about increased physicality lately.
Another asks whether the pressure heading toward playoffs affects preparation.
I give clean polished answers without really thinking about them.
Then somebody near the back says: "Calder, did you get a chance to watch Arabella Vale at Worlds this week?"
Everything inside my body reacts. Not visibly enough to fully lose composure, still enough.
My spine straightens automatically. Breathing catches briefly.
Pulse kicking harder beneath my ribs before I can stop it.
Cameras subtly reorient, attention sharpening, because apparently everybody notices the reaction except me.
I look toward the reporter finally. Young. Careful expression. Not malicious. That somehow makes it worse.
Another reporter jumps in before I fully answer.
"She's been everywhere this week. Huge performance.
" Someone else: "The overlap between hockey and skating audiences has been interesting since the coverage started.
" Since the coverage started. Not since the breakup.
Not since us. Something heavy settles, because even after everything, Arabella's name still arrives attached to mine publicly without effort.
"Yeah," I say carefully. "She skated well.
" The understatement sounds ridiculous the second it leaves my mouth.
She skated well. As if she didn't just dominate Worlds coverage for days.
As if I didn't watch every clip I could find at two in the morning like something starving.
A couple reporters exchange quick glances.
They hear it too. The restraint. The over-control.
One reporter smiles slightly. "You watched then?
" My chest tightens. Because the honest answer is: obsessively.
I kept finding highlights accidentally on purpose.
Watching interviews. Reading scores before games.
I still know her skate times without checking schedules consciously.
"Some of it," I answer instead. The carefulness tastes bitter.
"Do you still keep in touch?" The question lands softly, still enough to make tension lock through my shoulders.
Reporters stop writing for a second, attention narrowing into something sharper now.
Nobody in this room sees Arabella as disconnected from me.
Not fully. To them she still exists as: Calder Hayes' figure skater, ex-girlfriend, relationship, story.
The association lingers publicly even after I destroyed it privately.
I should answer quickly. That's the rule with media. No hesitation. No visible discomfort. No gap wide enough for speculation to crawl into. Instead I sit there for half a second too long with camera lights burning hot against my face and Arabella's name still hanging in the room.
I draw one controlled breath. "We're keeping things private.
" The answer lands cleanly enough. Professional.
Neutral. And makes me feel sick. Because I hear it, not the words themselves, but the person underneath them.
Polished. Distant. Empty. The same man who stood outside a restaurant and made Arabella feel like loving her openly was something to contain.
My stomach tightens hard beneath the table.
A reporter nods like the answer makes sense.
Of course it does. It sounds respectful.
That almost makes it worse. "We both have a lot going on professionally," I add, because apparently I'm still capable of making it worse.
"She's focused on Worlds. I'm focused on playoffs.
" The sentence curdles. Focused. Professional.
Boundaries. Every word sounds like the vocabulary of someone building distance while pretending it's consideration.
I can practically hear Arabella's voice in my head.
You think being in love is. My jaw locks.
I want to take the words back. They're not technically wrong.
They're just so incomplete they become dishonest. Arabella is not a scheduling conflict.
Not a private matter to be filed neatly beside playoff preparation.
Not some delicate public relations issue I need to talk around until everyone gets bored.
She is the person I loved badly enough to lose.
And I almost erased that again in six careful words.
One of the PR staff near the wall watches me with a faint warning in his expression.
Move on. Answer another question. Stay composed.
That used to feel reassuring. Now it feels unbearable.
Because this is exactly how I did it before.
I hid behind clean answers until there was no room left for anything honest.