Chapter 10
Calder
The ceiling fan hummed like static, blades slicing through darkness that hadn’t decided to lift yet. My eyes opened before the alarm could start its useless beeping. Three hours of sleep, maybe less. The kind that left you half in a dream and half in a ditch.
I lay there for a second, staring at the water stain creeping across the ceiling. Looked a bit like Michigan if you squinted. Everything in this place was cracked, peeling, honest. No one here expected me to smile for a camera or apologize for existing.
My bones ached like they’d been filled with cement.
The dry rasp in my throat reminded me I’d turned down a drink last night—for the fifth night straight.
The hangover that never came still made itself known in every joint, every twitch of nerve demanding I feed it what it missed. I didn’t. Not today.
The apartment smelled faintly of sweat, paper, and cold air leaking through the window frame.
I sat up, rubbed my face until I saw sparks, and reached for the clipboard on the floor.
Pages of drills, practice notes, scratched-out comments.
My handwriting looked like a man losing a fight with himself.
But there was something in there now that resembled order—systems forming out of chaos. Small victories.
“Fuck,” I muttered, stretching until my back popped. “Progress.”
The fridge hummed in the corner, probably empty.
I didn’t bother checking; I wasn’t hungry and didn’t trust what I’d find in there, anyway.
Instead, I grabbed the pen from behind my ear and studied the roster again.
Donovan. Her name stood out even in my chicken scratch.
I forced the thought away, replaced it with diagrams of zone coverage and forecheck setups.
Focus. This was what breathing felt like when you did it right.
In the bathroom, the light buzzed to life, too bright, catching the crust of fatigue under my eyes.
The mirror gave back a version of me that looked older than forty-two.
Skin rough, jaw shadowed. I found my razor where I’d left it—on the sink, half-rusted but still sharp enough to draw blood if I wasn’t careful.
The first drag scraped more than it shaved. Foam slid down my neck, pink with nicks by the third pass. Didn’t matter. The ritual helped. Made me look less like a ghost, more like a man who had places to be.
Water sluiced over the blade, rust and stubble circling the drain. I wiped my face, dried it with the same towel I’d used all week, and stared back at the stranger blinking at me. The lines around my eyes looked like cracked ice, dangerous if stepped on too hard.
I pulled on a jacket—leather, faded at the seams, the kind that still smelled faintly of rink air and broken promises. Clipboard under one arm, whistle dangling from my fingers. The city outside was barely stirring, pale light bleeding through the blinds like it hadn’t made up its mind either.
I met my reflection again and held its gaze.
“You wanted a shot, Shaw,” I muttered, voice rough. “So fucking take it.”
Then I killed the light and walked out the door.
The rink lights flickered on one by one, spilling cold blue across the ice. I liked being here before anyone else. The stillness cut cleaner than coffee. My skates hissed as I pushed across the surface, tape and cones tucked under one arm, clipboard wedged between my elbow and ribs.
By the time the first assistant showed, half the ice looked like a math problem—cones lined tight, arrows drawn in marker across the boards and on the ice itself. Passing lanes. Angles. Puck routes the girls still couldn’t see yet.
“Morning, Coach,” Sam called, coffee in hand. He stopped short at the sight of the layout. “You, uh, redecorating?”
“Fixing it,” I said, pressing another strip of tape across the blue line.
The other assistant, Jen, hovered at the door, whistle dangling. “You’re early.”
“Right time for once,” I muttered. “They’re the ones late.”
They exchanged a look. Skated around carefully like they weren’t sure what version of me they were getting today. Fair call—half the time, I didn’t know either.
The entrance door clanked open down the tunnel. Voices echoed. Laughter. Stomping blades on concrete. The girls filed in, helmets clipped to bags, breath fogging in front of them. Still half-asleep.
“On the ice,” I barked. “No talk. Gear up.”
Surprise flickered through them. They expected a lazy warmup, slow laps like yesterday. Not today. I picked up the whistle and blew once, sharp enough to gut the chatter.
“Stickhandling serpentine!” I pointed at the first line of cones. “Quick cuts, head up, no lazy hands.”
Skates hit the ice in a staggered rhythm. A few hesitated. One tripped. I didn’t comment. Just reset the cone she’d sent flying and blew again.
“Next—transition chase. Two-on-one pressure. Defense pinches, forwards recover. Move like it’s real or don’t move at all.”
Sam raised his brows from the bench. “You running them through a playoff game, Shaw?”
“Trying to.”
The players cycled through, sweat building, voices thinning to heavy breaths. Not one complaint. Not yet. Good.
By the third rotation, passes started snapping tighter. Boots dug harder into the turns. I caught Reese—fast, cocky—throwing a grin at me after she threaded one past the cone goal. Confidence, not attitude. A difference worth keeping alive.
Billie was out near the far circle, wrist shot cracking off the post like thunder. Controlled. Angry. I pretended not to notice how precise she’d become.
“This isn’t babysitting,” I called out, pacing the boards. “This is hockey. You want to play in a league? Earn the right.”
Heads lifted. Shoulders squared. The tempo jumped another notch.
Sam leaned over beside me, voice barely above the scrape of skates. “They’re actually listening to you.”
“About time someone did.”
The whistle hung between my teeth. I blew again, sharp, and the drill reset like a well-tuned machine. For the first time since taking the job, it sounded like a team and not a punishment.
Maybe even something worth staying sober for.
The whistle split through the cold again, echoing off the empty upper seats. They moved as one—mostly. But one skater kept cutting cleaner than the rest, her posture sharp enough to slice air. Billie Donovan.
The girl was on. Every stride rang with intent, shoulders square, stick low, eyes scanning ahead before anyone else caught up.
She threaded a pass between two defenders, clean as a scalpel.
Reese nearly missed it, surprise flashing across her face before catching the puck on reflex. That alone made me smirk.
“Run it again,” I called.
No groans this time. They’d learned better. The puck dropped, and Billie drove the pace before the others even hit stride. She didn’t wait for permission. Probably never had, not really.
I followed the movement up and down the sheet—hips pivoting, blades digging. Pure mechanics. She had that rhythm every elite player got once in a while when body and instinct lined up and the ice stopped fighting back.
Sam drifted over beside me, hands stuffed in his jacket. “You see this? Girl’s got a motor.”
“Motor, brain, and guts,” I muttered. “Keep watching.”
Billie gathered in another pass and spun through traffic, heel cutting snow. Her backhand lift found the top corner, just under the net padding. Post clanged. She didn’t celebrate. Just reset for the next rep.
Discipline. Focus. Fire. Made my skin crawl in the best way.
When she slowed on the backcheck drill, even for a blink, I pounced before the others did.
“Don’t coast, Donovan. Again.”
Her head snapped around, eyes narrowed under the cage. No flare of defiance, no groan. Just a brief set of her jaw before she spun back. She hit the line again, faster, drive low and relentless.
The puck hit her blade mid-stride. She didn’t stumble. She muscled it forward, chased her own play down the length of the rink, and forced a shot that smacked the goalie’s pads dead center. Perfect recovery. She coasted to a stop in front of me, breathing hard, sweat frosting the edge of her hair.
Good. That was the fight I wanted.
Most players gave up by the third lap. She pushed until her chest heaved like she’d swallowed fire. Still, she waited for the next cue.
“You want me to run it again?” she asked, voice rough.
“No need. You got the point.”
She nodded once and skated back to the line with nothing but the hiss of blades to mark her passing. No chatter. No flex. Just focus.
Sam whistled low beside me. “You ride her harder than the others.”
“She can take it.”
He gave me a side-eye, half-meaning something else. I ignored it.
“She needs it,” I added, eyes tracking her as she bent into another drill. “You don’t cool a torch by letting it idle. You aim the heat.”
Billie hit another pass, redirected flawlessly. Reese whooped as the puck slid between cones like it belonged there. Laughter followed, brief, surprised—then they reset quick once I gave a look.
The tempo spread like current. No one dared fall behind her lead. She pulled her whole line along by gravity alone.
She played like she had something to prove, like every second on the ice was borrowed time she’d have to pay back double later. Maybe it was. I knew that hunger too well—the sense the game could disappear if you blinked wrong. That if you didn’t earn every inch, you were done.
She wasn’t the flashiest, but damn if she wasn’t the one I’d bet on in a real fight.
When the set ended, I blew the whistle once, long and final. Sticks dropped, bodies eased. Billie stayed upright longer than anyone. I caught her eye through the cage—brief, steady, unreadable.
Respect lived there, quiet and mutual, though neither of us would call it that out loud.
“Good skate,” I called. “Hit the showers.”
She didn’t grin. Just nodded once and skated off, shoulders squared like every step meant something.
And maybe it did.