Chapter 31 #2
I hesitated. The smart move would be to ice my ribs, take some anti-inflammatories, and get some rest. And there was Lila.
“I should probably—”
“No excuses,” Sawyer cut in, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Team tradition. We suffered together, we celebrate together.”
He had a point. Hockey teams lived and died by their rituals and their unity. I’d only been with the Fusion for a few months after being traded from Toronto. These bonding moments mattered.
“Yeah, I’ll be there.” I made my way to my stall, stripping off my gear methodically, each movement sending fresh jolts of pain through my side.
I reached for my phone, tucked away in the inside pocket of my jacket. A missed call from my agent, two texts from my sister, and one from Gideon sent less than an hour ago.
Gideon: Had to leave early. Talk later.
That was it. No explanation, no mention of Lila. My thumbs hovered over the screen, a knot forming in my stomach that had nothing to do with my bruised ribs. Gideon was never this vague. His texts were typically novels, complete with emojis and exclamation points. This terse message felt wrong.
I typed back quickly.
Me: Why did you leave so early? Where’s Lila? Going to the Sin Bin with the team, but call me ASAP.
I stared at my text after sending it, willing a response to appear. Nothing.
On impulse, I navigated to Lila’s contact and sent a separate text.
Me: Great game tonight. Missed seeing you at the end. Everything okay?
I waited a full minute, watching for the typing bubble. The message remained unread. My stomach twisted tighter.
“Callahan! Shower or we’re leaving without you!” Sawyer called from the doorway to the shower room.
“Yeah, just a second,” I muttered, still staring at my phone.
I tried calling Gideon directly, but it went straight to voicemail after two rings. Either his phone was off or he was declining my calls. Neither option eased my growing concern.
Before I could dwell on it further, the team doctor appeared at my stall.
“Let’s take a look at those ribs, Callahan,” he said, all business.
I lifted my shirt, revealing a bruise already painting my right side in blues and purples. The doctor’s fingers probed the area, his touch clinical and precise.
“Take a deep breath,” he instructed.
I complied, then hissed when a sharp pain lanced through my side as my ribcage expanded.
“Any crunching or popping sensations during the impact?” he asked.
“No.”
“Breathing difficulty? Sharp pain rather than dull?”
“Just sore,” I said, downplaying it. I’d played through worse.
He studied me for a second, then moved on. “Likely bruised, not fractured. Ice it twenty minutes on, twenty off. Anti-inflammatories for pain and swelling. Limited contact in practice tomorrow. We’ll reassess if it gets worse or doesn’t improve in forty-eight hours.”
It was the diagnosis I expected, the hockey equivalent of “rub some dirt on it.” I’d been collecting these kinds of injuries since I was fourteen.
“Thanks, Doc,” I said, lowering my shirt.
I went through the motions of showering, dressing, and minimal grooming, while my phone sat on the bench within reach.
I checked it too often, hoping something would change.
Still nothing from Gideon or Lila. The locker room gradually emptied as guys headed out to keep the celebration going, leaving me alone with my thoughts and that gnawing sense that something was off.
Sawyer poked his head back in. “You riding with us or taking your own car to the Sin Bin?”
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring at my phone again. “I’ll take my own. Might need to leave early.”
Sawyer gave me a knowing look. “Ribs bothering you that much? Or is this about blondie?”
I forced a noncommittal shrug. “Just keeping my options open.”
“Well, don’t think you’re skipping out on the victory shot,” Sawyer warned, punching my good side lightly. “It’s bad luck.”
I followed him toward the exit. The throbbing in my side pulsed in time with the unease in my head. One victory shot, I decided. I’d show up, do the team ritual, then track down Gideon and Lila if they still weren’t answering.
As we stepped into the cool night air, I checked my phone one more time before getting into my car.
Read receipts: none. Responses: none. The silence hit harder than the puck.
The Sin Bin was packed, bodies pressed close, fans high-fiving as I walked past. Wayne spotted me from behind the bar and raised a triumphant fist. My phone stayed dead in my pocket, no matter how many times I texted Lila and Gideon.
“Callahan! Get your ass over here!”
I looked up to see Dex waving from our usual corner, where Wayne had blocked off a section for the team. I wove through the bar, nodding at fans who recognized me. A few clapped my shoulder as I passed, shouting about the block. I mumbled thanks without slowing down.
“There he is! Man of the hour!” Dex threw his arm around my shoulders as I reached the team’s corner. “Finally, dude. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Sawyer launched into a play-by-play breakdown of King’s second-period goal, gesturing wildly as the others jumped in with their own versions. It was the same rhythm as always. Loud. Easy. Familiar. I nodded in the right places, offered a comment here and there, but my attention kept drifting.
Wayne appeared with a tray of shots, each glass filled with amber liquor topped with a reddish tinge. The team gathered around, reaching for the shots. My fingers closed around one automatically, and as the guys started their usual pre-shot chirping, I caught myself checking my messages again.
Nothing.
“To the best damn defense in the league!” Sawyer called out.
“To the playoffs!” Brody shouted, and everyone cheered.
I raised my glass with them and knocked it back, the familiar burn sliding down my throat. The shot didn’t faze me anymore. Apparently, neither did drinking during the season, because I didn’t even feel a pang of remorse. It was for the hockey gods. You didn’t mess with luck.
Cade snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Jesus, Callahan. Put the phone away for five minutes, man.”
I shoved it into my pocket, fighting the itch to look again. “Sorry. Just waiting on something important.”
Brody waggled his eyebrows. “From the blonde? What was her name, Lila? Dude’s got it bad already,” he added to Cade, who smirked.
I tried to pay attention, but the next half hour crawled.
Roman turned King’s goal into a film session with a salt shaker and a lime wedge, tracing the lane with ruthless precision while the guys argued around him.
I switched to water, mindful of the drive home and early practice tomorrow.
I sent two more texts to Lila and another to Gideon, each one more direct than the last.
Me: Seriously worried now. Please let me know you’re okay.
Me: Gideon, call me. Not kidding.
Just as I was about to make my excuses and leave, my phone buzzed with a new text. Relief flashed when I saw Gideon’s name, only to vanish when I read what he sent:
Gideon: Mase. We have a big problem. Meet me outside.
The message sent a jolt straight through me. I stood so fast my chair scraped the floor.
“I’ve gotta go.” I didn’t wait for an answer, already moving toward the exit.
King intercepted me, all business. “Everything alright? You’ve been checked out all night.”
“Family emergency,” I lied, because I wasn’t about to explain what I didn’t even understand yet. “Gideon just texted.”
Whatever he saw on my face, it must have been enough. King’s stern look eased. “Keep me posted if you need anything.”
I nodded and shoved my way through the crowd toward the door, my thoughts grinding. Worry that I’d been carrying all night cinched tighter in my chest.
Cool night air hit me as I stepped outside, sharp after the bar’s heat.
The unease wasn’t background noise anymore.
It was blaring. Something was very wrong, and somehow, I knew it involved Lila.
I scanned the parking lot and found Gideon’s car under a streetlight near the edge.
He stood beside it, his hair a mess and phone clenched in one hand.
“Gideon!” I called, striding toward him. “What the hell’s going on? Where’s Lila?”
He turned, and the look on his face stopped me cold. My ribs throbbed, but it barely registered beside the dread pooling low in my gut.
“It’s not good, Mase. It’s about Lila.” Gideon’s voice was quiet, stripped of his usual theatrics.
“What happened?” I demanded, closing the distance in three long strides. “Is she okay?”
He dragged a hand through his wrecked hair. “Physically? Yeah, I think so. But, Mason…” He swallowed, and for once he didn’t have a quip ready. “I didn’t know. She didn’t want to come tonight. I shouldn’t have pushed her.”
“Just tell me what happened,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous tone I rarely used off the ice.
“It’ll be easier if I show you.” Gideon hit play on his phone and handed it to me.
The video opened on a stage, brightly lit for a competition or show.
My confusion lasted only a second before I recognized the woman walking confidently to center stage, Lila, but not as I knew her.
This Lila had dark hair cascading around her shoulders, wore a sparkling evening gown, and moved with the practiced grace of someone used to being watched.
She was much younger, but those blue eyes were the same ones I’d gotten lost in countless times.
“I don’t understand,” I started, watching as she smiled and waved to the audience. “What’s the big—”
Gideon cut me off. “Keep watching.”
On the screen, Lila took her position in front of a microphone, her smile dazzling. Her voice was beautiful, clear and controlled. For a moment, I couldn’t figure out why she’d be upset about this video resurfacing. She looked poised. Talented.
Then everything went wrong.
A small dog darted onto the stage, heading straight for Lila. She kept singing, trying to ignore the interruption even as it lifted its leg.