Chapter 24 Playing Safe
Playing Safe
Liam
My pulse was still hammering from what I’d seen on the printer, proof she was already planning her exit.
I can’t stay here.
Not with the thought of her leaving me playing on a loop.
I didn’t stop moving once I hit the hallway. The door clicked behind me, and suddenly the walls felt miles away.
The air was sharp in my lungs.
I’m outside?
I walked, letting the city move under my feet. Block after block. If the light was green I crossed the street. Turned when they were red. A horn blared somewhere behind me, a couple argued outside a deli. I walked past restaurants, bars, subway stairs, buskers, policemen.
Cold needled at my ears. Now, they were burning.
I need to warm up.
When I finally stopped walking, I was standing in front of a bookstore. Figures. Of all places I could end up, it had to be here.
Reading had always been my thing, and lately, it had become ours. Me and Claire, side by side after dinner, books open, silence comfortable. Now just the sight of the storefront felt like someone had pressed a bruise.
Inside, the smell of paper and coffee wrapped around me.
I drifted through the aisles, pulling random titles, not really seeing them until I found myself in the cooking section.
My fingers traced over a book of recipes, bright photographs of dishes I would cook if I had someone to share my meals with.
At the register, something caught my eye, a display stacked high with books on stars, stargazing, dark sky parks. I picked one up, then another. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. I bought two.
My stomach growled. I checked my watch, seven.
We’d usually be finishing dinner by now, clearing the plates, pulling out books.
Instead, I crossed to the diner on the corner, neon light flickering above the door.
The thought of food didn’t pull me; the noise and the bodies did. A place to disappear.
I slid into a booth, opened the constellation book, and let the noise swallow me.
I pulled out my phone.
Won’t be home for dinner.
She hadn’t said a word.
I stared at the phone screen until the words blurred.
We talked so easily, about coffee, about books, about childhood stuff that neither of us shared with just anyone. She knew I didn’t let people in.
So why hadn’t she told me?
If we were becoming something…
Wouldn’t she have said something?
I ate slowly, chewing without tasting, and opened the constellation book, turning pages I barely registered.
The cook’s voice rang out from the pass-through. “Nineteen up,” as a stack of plates clattered into a bussing tray. A burst of laughter followed from the counter, then died back into the low hum.
I kept my eyes on the page, but the words slipped away.
My eyes drifted to the empty side of the booth.
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. Her laugh from the other night still echoed, about Maeve body checking a guy nearly twice her weight.
The clatter and voices pressed in from every side, but none of it quieted the noise already running in my head.
No one looked at me, no one asked questions. Invisible. That was the point. I stayed until I was sure Claire would be asleep before heading back.
The next morning, I left early, travel mug in hand, shirt pressed stiff under a team sweater our PR rep insisted I wear.
Typically, I avoid this kind of setup, forced small talk, cameras waiting for me to trip over words.
But the schedule said I was reading to a group of four- and five-year-olds at a library downtown.
A goalie doing story time. I almost laughed.
I kept telling myself I could stop by, read the words, get out. But when I walked in, the kids were already buzzing, voices bouncing off the walls, questions spilling over one another. Full volume. No filter. It made my chest tighten.
The sponsor must’ve noticed the way I froze, book heavy in my hand. “Just read it like you’d read to a niece or nephew. Point to the pictures. Let them react.”
So I started. First page slow, my voice stiff. Halfway through a sentence, a boy in the front row yelled, “The bunny finds his family at the end!” The whole group burst into giggles, one kid tipping sideways on the carpet.
They weren’t quiet, polite listeners. They filled every corner with noise.
Their racket left me no choice but to match their volume.
I raised my voice over theirs, tried a silly sound for a character, and the whole row erupted.
My throat loosened, my shoulders dropped.
When the last page closed, the kids cheered like I’d won a game in overtime.
A little girl raised her hand halfway, then just blurted it out. “Do goalies ever get scared?” My mouth opened, then shut. I searched their faces, a dozen eyes waiting. My throat clicked before I found words. Finally, I said, “Yeah. All the time.”
“So why do you do it?” she asked me with a puzzled face. I had to laugh. How do I explain to a four-year-old that things that matter are scary? “Well, I like playing hockey, so I just try to focus on that.”
Another boy piped up before I could move on. “Is it lonely in the net?”
I hesitated, thumb pressing against the book’s spine. “Sometimes,” I admitted. “But I’m not really alone. My team’s always out there with me. I just have to remember to look for them.”
Their laughter and chatter clung to me as I walked out.
For a second, I saw Emma tugging Sophie’s braid, Sophie shrieking with giggles, toys scattered across the floor, and pizza toppings sliding off the counter.
Claire laughing softly in the elevator while I told her I hadn’t expected to enjoy myself so much.
Maybe Megan was right. Maybe hiding at half volume wasn’t living at all.
The ice never changes.
It was still the same stretch of polished surface, bracketed by boards, lit by the harsh glow of fluorescents overhead. Still smelled like sweat and old tape. Still echoed with the clatter of blades and the bark of coaches. Still held its steady rhythm.
I was the one who felt off.
I crouched in the crease, weight centered, glove up, blocker low. My posture was perfect. Technically. But I could feel it in my shoulders, the tension that hadn't left me since last night. Since the pages in the printer said everything and nothing at once.
Did I make her feel like she had to go?
The puck snapped across the blue line. I dropped lower, reading the angle, tracking the stick. Easy save. Textbook. My glove flashed up and caught it with a satisfying thunk.
“Atta boy, Callahan!” Mac shouted from the hash marks.
“Glove’s hot today,” Croc called, tapping his stick on the ice.
“Someone tell the shooter he owes us lunch,” one of the D-men laughed.
My glove dropped to my side as I skated back to position, tossing the puck to the next shooter before resetting.
"You on mute today, Callahan?" Grady called from the circle.
"Saving it for game day," I said, tone tight.
They laughed. They didn’t notice.
Coach blew the whistle and sent them into a two-on-one drill. I tracked the forwards, reading the play. They were fast, but I was faster, until I wasn’t. I slid too far on the initial push and had to snap my pad back to recover. I made the save, but it was tight. Sloppy.
"Bit jumpy," Grady muttered as he skated past.
I didn’t answer.
I wasn’t jumpy. I was bracing.
Waiting for the hit that might not come. Preparing for the loss before it happened. Playing safe. Too safe. My angles were tighter, my stance deeper, like I was trying to shrink inside my own armor.
The next shot came high and clean. I didn’t challenge it. Just let it come to me. Safe. Contained. Controlled.
But it wasn’t how I played when I was on.
I used to trust the reads. Trust the rhythm. Now I was trying to out-think everything, and I was tired.
Coach skated over. "You're getting the job done, but you're not loose. You alright?"
I gave him a nod. "Yeah. I just have to dial it in more."
Coach’s eyes narrowed, just a touch. His mouth stayed flat, unreadable. The pause was long enough to say he didn’t buy it. "Cool down after the last drill. Then hit the showers."
The guys ran a passing sequence. I tracked, reset, tracked again. Then Mac fired a ridiculous no-look backhand. It had zero business being on net.
It went in. Clean.
The bench howled.
"Big-Mac delivers again! " someone shouted. "You gonna sign that puck for him?"
I forced a smirk. Raised my glove in mock surrender and tossed the puck to Mac.
“Guess I’m just here to make you look good, Mac.”
A couple of guys laughed. Mac grinned.
Croc barked a laugh, “Look at Callahan, handing out compliments.”
Someone thumped the boards.
The laughter echoed, then thinned. Sticks scraped. Skates turned. The guys were still chirping, still loud.
I reset in the crease, eyes on the next shooter.
But my gut twisted.
Not because I missed it. Because I knew exactly why I did.
I was expecting the logical shot, the structured one. The one that made sense. I wasn’t ready for improvisation.
Just like with Claire.
Megan was right. I was living at half volume.
I want more. I need to stop holding everything at arm’s length.
Why did the apartment listings feel like a slap? Why was I bracing? What was I bracing for?
I crouched again as the next drill started. Blocker low. Glove up. Pads square. But it wasn’t instinctual, it was mechanical.
My body moved like it remembered. But my mind kept trying to predict the hit.
Not the puck. The hurt.
Something mattered, and I couldn’t stop it from leaving.
A shot rang off the boards behind me. Another skittered wide. I didn’t flinch.
I was holding tension in places that should’ve been fluid. Ankles locked. Glove too tight. My shoulders were riding too high. I knew it, and I couldn’t seem to stop it.
Bracing was costing me more than I realized.
The guys were winding down, chirping, loosening up. One of the rookies snapped a puck toward me just for fun. I batted it away, automatic.
But I didn’t leave the ice.
I stayed crouched in the crease, watching the cuts in the ice glitter under the overhead lights. Breathing through the burn in my legs.
I looked down at the cuts in the ice, the rubber smudges, the familiar chaos.
I used to find clarity here. Now all I could hear was “live at full volume.” I reached up and pulled off my mask. Let the cold air sting my face. Closed my eyes.
Maybe I need to follow my own advice for when things get scary. Remember what you like.
Time to stop playing safe.