Epilogue #3
“So, Tara Collins, who knows more about hockey strategy than most of my teammates—have dinner with me. Not breakfast,” I add quickly, seeing her about to protest. “Just dinner. We can talk about hockey. I’ll even let you tell me everything else I’m doing wrong.”
“I don’t date players. Period.” But she says it softer this time, less like a hard rule and more like she’s reminding herself.
“Why not?”
“Because—” She pauses, seeming to wrestle with how much to say. “It's hard enough getting taken seriously as a female sports journalist without that kind of reputation.”
Yeah, I can see that. The sports world is brutal for women trying to break in. “Okay, fair. But what if I promise it’s not a date? Just two people who love hockey, talking shop.”
“Nothing you do is ‘just’ anything, Callahan. I’ve seen you play. You don’t do subtle.”
“True,” I admit. “But I also rarely have to work this hard for a ‘yes’. You’re making me earn it, and I respect that.”
She studies me for a long moment, and I feel like I’m being scouted—evaluated for more than just my stats. “You really want to talk hockey strategy? That’s your angle?”
“My angle is that you’re smart as hell, you know the game, and you’re not impressed by the fact that I can put a puck in the net.
That’s rare.” I lean in closer, lowering my voice.
“And yeah, you’re gorgeous, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking about what’s under that Red Sox jersey.
But mostly? I want to know what else you think I’m doing wrong, because something tells me you’ve got opinions. ”
“Oh, I’ve got opinions.” The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Your transition game needs work. You’re a half-second slow reading the rush, which is why you take so many stick penalties.”
“Jesus. You got any compliments in there, or is this just a complete takedown?”
“You want compliments?” She leans back, considering. “Fine. Your board work is some of the best I’ve seen. You protect the puck as if it’s your firstborn. And that backhand sauce pass you did in Game Five against Montreal? That was pure art.”
The fact that she remembers a specific pass from months ago does something to me. “You remember that play?”
“I remember good hockey when I see it.” She finishes her whiskey, and I can see her preparing to leave. “Look, this has been fun, but—”
“Coffee.” The word comes out more desperate than I intended. “Not dinner. Not a date. Just coffee. Tomorrow morning. I promise I won’t even try to charm you.”
“That you think you’ve been charming is adorable.”
“So, is that a yes?”
Before she can answer, Marcus swoops in. “Collins! Looking fine as ever. Are you cruising for stories? Because I’ve got a few stories that are definitely off-the-record...”
She cuts him down even faster than she did me. “O’Sullivan, that line didn’t work the last time, and it’s not working now. But hey, maybe try it on the next girl. Third time’s the charm, right?”
The blonde sitting next to her snorts into her cocktail. Marcus raises his hands in surrender and retreats, shooting me an ‘I’m going to win this challenge’ look.
Tara turns back to me, and there’s something softer in her expression now. “You put him up to that?”
“What? No. That’s just Marcus being Marcus.” I shake my head. “Though I’m realizing how that looked—two players hitting on you back-to-back. I’m sorry. That’s exactly the shit you were talking about.”
She blinks, as if she wasn’t expecting the apology. “Most guys don’t get it.”
“I’m trying to.” And I mean it. Something about her makes me want to be better than my reputation. “Look, forget coffee. Forget everything. But answer me one question?”
“What?”
“If I weren’t Jack Callahan, captain of the Bruisers, would you say yes?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and I see the conflict in her eyes. “That’s not a fair question.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are Jack Callahan. And I am trying to be taken seriously in sports journalism. Those aren’t things we can just set aside.”
“But if we could?”
She looks at me for a long moment, and something passes between us—recognition, maybe, of two people who understand what it means to fight for respect, to prove yourself every single day. “If we could? Then yeah. Maybe I would.”
It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either, and it’s more than I usually get from someone who sees past the surface.
“I’ll take the maybe.” I pull out my phone. “Can I at least get your number? Strictly professional. If I have questions about my neutral zone game, I’ll know who to call.”
“Nice try.” But she’s smiling again as she slides off her barstool. “But I have a feeling you know exactly where to find me if you really want to talk hockey.”
“At your paper?”
“Now you’re catching on, Captain.” She grabs her jacket, her friend standing up beside her. “Good luck with training camp. Work on those defensive zone exits.”
“I will. And Tara?” I catch her wrist gently, just for a second. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re going to make it. The pros, I mean. You’re too good not to.”
Something vulnerable flashes in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or hope—before that professional mask slides back into place. “Thanks. That actually means something, coming from you.”
She walks away with her friend, and I watch that perfect ass disappear into the crowd. But this time, I’m not just turned on. I’m completely fascinated by the woman who just schooled me on hockey and turned me down flat while somehow making me want to be a better player and a better man.
Yeah, I can see why this is unsettling. I don’t do intrigued.
“Crash and burn?” Marcus appears at my shoulder, grinning like the asshole he is as I walk back to the team table.
“Something like that.” But I can’t stop watching the spot where Tara disappeared. “She thinks my defensive zone exits are sloppy.”
“She’s not wrong.” Marcus claps me on the shoulder. “You gonna see her again?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.” I take a long pull from my beer. “She doesn’t date players.”
“Smart woman.”
“Yeah.” I nod slowly, still thinking about the way she’d analyzed my game, the passion in her voice when she talked about hockey. “Yeah, she really is.”
Marcus studies me with those too-knowing eyes. “You actually like her. Like, like her.”
“Shut up.”
“Face it, Beast. She rattled you. Doesn’t happen often, does it?”
He’s right, and I hate it. Twenty minutes later, I’m chatting up a leggy redhead who’s making it very clear she’d love to give me a private tour of her condo.
She’s hot, she’s willing, and best of all, she won’t expect a call tomorrow.
That’s how I like it—clean, simple, no messy feelings or complicated promises.
But as I lead the redhead toward the door, I catch Tara watching from her booth.
Our eyes meet across the crowded bar, and I see something in her expression—not jealousy exactly, but maybe disappointment?
Or recognition? Like I’m proving something she already believed about me, and she’s sad to be right.
That hits me in a weird spot. Like maybe the perfect order of my life feels...hollow.
I almost turned back. Almost. Because in that brief conversation, Tara Collins made me feel like someone who could be more than just the Beast, more than just another player with commitment issues and a rotation of one-night stands.
She made me feel seen in a way that’s both exhilarating and terrifying.
But I’ve seen what happens when you let someone matter.
Seen my mom hit the bottle after Dad left, seen the way each of Dad’s new marriages made the last one seem like a fucking joke.
No thanks. Jack Callahan doesn’t chase women.
They chase me; we have fun, and everyone knows exactly what they’re getting.
Still, as I flag down a cab, I can’t shake the feeling that I just lost something more interesting than a bar bet. So, I put the red-haired beauty in the cab and send her home—alone.
Training camp’s going to be a bitch, but for some reason, all I can think about is Tara Collins telling me my power play setup is too predictable and that backhand pass was “pure art.”
Game on, reporter. Game fucking on.