Chapter 32
Jamie
I’m pissed.
At myself, mostly. At the specific, catastrophic failure of willpower that was last night.
At the fact that I let it get that far, that I let him push me exactly where he wanted me, that I stood in that locker room afterward with my back against the wall and my mind blank for the first time in as long as I can remember.
Rhys touches me like he’s testing how much self-control I actually have. And I always let him win. That cannot happen again. It won’t.
I know how Rhys operates now. I know the buttons and I know exactly how he presses them and knowing that means I can stop it.
That’s all willpower is — the space between the impulse and the action.
I’ve been living in that space my entire life.
Hockey got me here. Discipline got me here.
Not some hookup, not some want I can’t even put a name to, not him.
Because it’s not worth it. I can’t risk losing everything. I don’t have room for anything else.
I grab my phone and send him a quick message.
Jamie:
Let’s meet for one on one again. Tomorrow morning?
He’ll think it’s an excuse to see him. He’ll think this is me circling back to him because I can’t stay away.
Let him think that. Because tomorrow I’m going to make myself very clear and then I’m going to go back to using the only thing that actually matters between us — hockey — to get this team where it needs to be.
That’s it. That’s all of it.
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling for a long time.
――――――――
The next morning feels more like myself than anything has in weeks.
Routine. Eggs, bacon, toast, assembled in the usual order, eaten at the usual time.
Dressed and out the door with enough time to spare.
The sky is still grey and the campus is mostly quiet and I walk to the rink feeling the familiar weight of clarity that comes with having made a decision and meaning it.
Today I end this.
Whatever game this has been — the leverage, the locker rooms, this obsession with Rhys that I can’t seem to outrun — it ends today. Before it costs me anything else.
Rhys is already there when I arrive. Leaning against my locker with his arms crossed and that look on his face, the one that says he knows something I don’t. Except this morning it reads slightly different. The smirk is there but underneath it something is watching me more carefully than usual.
Good. Let him wonder.
“Callahan.” I gesture at the bench. “Sit down.”
He pushes off the locker slowly and sits, eyebrow quirked up. I actually prefer this — the slightly off-balance version of him. It’s the closest thing to quiet he gets.
I stay standing and keep my voice level. “Whatever this has been between us — I let it go too far. And I’m sorry for that.” My jaw is tight enough that the words come out slightly clipped. I make myself look at him even though it makes me uncomfortable. “The other night shouldn’t have happened.”
Rhys looks at me for a moment, head tilted. “You mean when I blew you? Or the time you jerked me off?”
I close my eyes briefly. “Jesus Christ. I’m trying to apologize. If you could stop being such a—”
“Save it.” He holds his hands up, and his voice has shifted — the humor is still there but it’s sitting on top of something flatter. “Whatever shit you’ve got going on in your head doesn’t involve me.”
And that’s the one that lands. I look at my hands because if I watch his face right now I will absolutely lose whatever composure I’ve managed to find this morning.
“That’s exactly it,” I say. “You’re making this into a game. And it’s not a game. It’s my life. My career. My future.” I look up. “Even though you couldn’t give a fuck about this team—”
He’s on his feet before I finish the sentence.
That finger in my chest again.
“Captain.” His voice drops. “Or should I say ex-captain.”
“That’s temporary—”
“It’s permanent unless you get your head out of your ass.” A beat. “Or mine.” He smiles.
I count to ten in my head.
“Let me finish.” I pull back. Let the temper simmer and the stillness come back. The next part comes out softer, which I didn’t intend but can’t help. “I think it’s better for the team if we stop — this. Whatever this is. But I still want to work with you the way Fitch asked. Just that.”
I hold my hand out and Rhys stares at it. Then he presses a hand to his chest. “Jamie Nash,” he says, horrified. “Are you breaking up with me? You’re breaking my heart.”
I count to ten again. He drops the act. Steps forward and takes my hand, and his grip is firm and he holds it a second longer than a handshake needs to be held, refusing to back down. “It meant nothing, right?” His expression hardens in a way that makes me nervous.
“Right,” I confirm.
He lets go.
――――――――
Practice starts off better than it has any right to.
I know Bryce is captain now. On paper, at least. In reality, I still end up taking over half the time. I call guys out when they're coasting, keep practices moving when they start dragging, and somehow everybody still looks at me when something needs to get done, even Bryce.
We run drills without incident. I correct Rhys’ positioning on a defensive zone breakout and he listens without resistance. I watch him move through the play and I’m struck again — not for the first time — by how good he actually is when he’s not fighting everything. How natural. How locked in.
It feels like settling.
It feels like maybe I’ve got this.
The first sign something's wrong comes halfway through the first scrimmage.
Rhys misses the pass.
Not misses it. Completely ignores it. The puck slides right past him.
Fitch blows the whistle.
"What the fuck was that?" I yell at Rhys.
He shrugs. "Didn't see it."
Bullshit.
The next play is worse.
I tell him to go where I want him.
He doesn't.
I tell him again.
Still doesn't.
By the third time, the entire line is looking at us in confusion.
"Callahan," I snap.
"What?" The attitude lands back sharply.
"Do we have a problem?"
He laughs.
Actually laughs.
"Me? No. Why would I have a problem with you?"
A few guys glance between us. Ben immediately finds something very interesting happening on the opposite side of the rink. Coward.
I skate toward Rhys. "Then start acting like my teammate instead of a brat." I say, in a tight whisper.
"Right, teammate,” he says, all pissed off, like I obviously said the wrong thing. The way he says it makes my stomach drop.
"That's right."
"Got it, Nash." He brushes past me, hitting my bad shoulder.
The next drill starts and Rhys comes through the zone like he's trying to kill somebody.
Me.
His shoulder catches me square in the chest, taking the breath out of my lungs. Hard enough to send me stumbling.
The whistle blows instantly.
"What the fuck?" Bryce yells this time.
That’s it. I shove Rhys before I can stop myself. He shoves back even harder. And suddenly we're on each other, yelling face-to-face. The entire rink goes silent, everyone trying to figure out what’s going on here.
"You got something else you want to say?" I snap.
Rhys laughs again.
That same ugly laugh.
"Nah, forget it."
"Fucking liar, you had your chance to talk and you didn’t say shit then."
His eyes lock on mine and for a second I think he's actually going to say it.
Tell everyone.
Tell them exactly what happened between us.
Instead he just says, "It doesn’t fucking matter to you anyway."
The words hit like a punch.
I move first or maybe he does. All I know is suddenly we're grabbing each other’s jerseys and somebody's yelling and the whistle won't stop blowing.
"HEY!" Coach Fitch's voice cracks across the ice and strong hands grip my front. We get pulled apart, but we’re still staring at each other, still furious. Fitch looks ready to murder both of us. "What the hell is wrong with you two? I thought that was over with."
Nobody answers. Then Rhys looks away first, looking dejected and guilty. "My fault, Coach."
Fitch frowns. "What?"
"My fault, I’m good now. Let's get back to practice." Rhys shrugs. Still doesn’t look at me. The fight leaves him all at once, like somebody pulled a plug and it went right down the drain.
When we’re done with practice we shower separately, as far as humanly possible, and I keep my eyes forward and when I leave the rink I don’t look back. But I keep thinking about how he didn't say anything. How he took the blame.
I hate that he thinks I don't care.
――――――――
The game the next night is something else entirely.
From the drop of the puck it’s different — tighter, faster, the kind of game that reminds you why you fell in love with hockey in the first place.
Our rivals come out hard and it doesn’t matter because we come out harder.
Rhys is at center this time and he’s everywhere, reading plays before they develop, winning board battles, making the pass instead of forcing the shot.
Every time I feed him the puck something good happens.
Every time he passes to me I’m already where I’m supposed to be.
Ben is locked in behind us in a way I haven’t seen all season — stopping shots that have no business being stopped, controlling his crease, talking to his defensemen.
Cooper and Kowalski are solid in front of him.
Bryce is flying on the right wing. We score twice in the first period and once more in the second and their offense can’t find a way through because we’re communicating, actually working as a team, the way Fitch has been trying to get us to do since September.
The final buzzer goes and the bench erupts.
The locker room is the best I’ve ever seen it. Fitch whistles sharp enough to cut through the noise and everyone settles down, still buzzing, still grinning.