Chapter 6
FOWLER
There’s a real specific smell to the firehouse first thing in the morning: burnt bacon left out to cool on a steel countertop.
I’m sitting on the battered sectional in the rec room, mug in my hands, reading the label of the creamer as if it might offer up something more meaningful than the back of a hockey card ever did.
“Hey, Murphy!” That’s Jones, our ex-Marine slash local fire-fighting legend. His voice has a low timbre and the subtlety of a minor gas explosion. “Do you mind not looking so fucking tragic this early? You’re making the eggs wilt.”
I glance up. “It’s just the existential despair. It’s chronic.”
Jones is in his usual getup: standard-issue bottoms with suspenders and a firehouse T-shirt. His right arm bears a dense tattoo sleeve of vines and thorns. “Take a vitamin.” He slaps my back as he breezes by.
I have to hand it to Jones, and the other guys at this station.
They’ve taken my presence as the resident reclamation project—the busted-up once-pro desperate for a second shot at relevance—with a kind of bemused patience.
They needle me about the games they never watched (“Is it true you puked on Gretzky’s shoes?
”), about the modeling contracts I never had (“You’re telling me nobody paid you to pose in underpants?
”), and about the way I move, which they say is “like a cartoon wolf on a treadmill.” At first I bristled and wanted to assert dominance, but there’s no pack order here—just a bunch of guys who run into burning buildings because they’re either braver or dumber than the average bear.
I’m still figuring out where I land on that scale.
The TV in the rec room blares out the local morning news.
It’s muted, but the weather guy’s lips move with the choreography of a professional liar.
Someone’s left the closed captions on. “UNSEASONABLE HEAT EXPECTED TO PERSIST.” The TV doesn’t say, but everybody in Boston knows what that means: busy season for the firehouse, with the added bonus of power-grid brownouts and cranky retirees lighting candles at the first sign of a flicker. I rub at my forearm.
The news cuts to a commercial: a car dealership offering “End-of-Summer Blowout!” deals, the words floating across the bottom of the screen like a threat.
I stare at the TV, thinking about the last time I had to car-shop—how I spent the whole hour on my phone, reading trade rumors about myself, then let the salesman upsell me on a luxury truck I never learned to parallel park.
The firehouse door opens and Captain Vega steps in, radiating authority like a radioactive isotope.
He was in the military too once upon a time and maintains the proper posture of a man who’s never lost a fight and never intends to.
His uniform is crisp beneath salt-and-pepper hair, and he carries a mug with the department seal like it’s a medal of honor.
“Briefing in five.” Captain Vega surveys the room and the guys within it. Jones is now catching up with Sanchez, and the others nurse strong coffee. His eyes land on me, narrow for a second, and move on.
We shuffle into the briefing room, a windowless cube with a dry-erase board and even more coffee. Vega waits until everyone’s seated, then launches into the day’s agenda: routine checks, engine maintenance, a warning about the heat, and—most important of all—reminders about proper hydration.
Standard stuff, except for the way he peppers in the possibility of disaster with every sentence.
“Murphy,” he says, not looking at me, “I want you on inspection with Wallace. Get the gear cages organized. Last thing we need is a rookie tripping over his own boots when the shit hits the fan.”
There’s a laugh, but I can’t tell if it’s with me or at me. Doesn’t matter. I nod, “Yes, sir,” and jot it down in my mental notepad.
“And when you’re done,” Vega adds, “see me in my office.”
My insides twist. Either I’m in trouble, or there’s an unfilled quota for awkward father-son moments this week. I finish my coffee, dump the mug, and follow Wallace down the hall to the gear cages.
Wallace is older than God and has the skin of a man who’s never met sunscreen.
He doesn’t say much, just grunts and points.
We do the rounds, checking for frayed straps and expired filters.
I fall into a rhythm, hands busy while my mind wanders.
I think about Zev, about what he’d say if he saw me internally freaking out like this.
Probably something snarky, but he’d mean it as encouragement.
I think about Connor, too—still skating, probably, still dazzling the world despite having to skate opposite our pack’s worst fucking mistake.
It’s only natural, then, that my thoughts spiral out to Grace. We could have had the perfect scent-matched omega. Instead, we didn’t just let her get away, we shunned her.
The memory hits like a slap: her roses scent cutting through the sweat and stale air of a rented locker room. I remember the way Zev and I both fought it and pretended it was nothing even as the pack attraction snapped taut between us. We were so fucking stupid. And terrified.
Now I can’t go a day without wanting to howl at the fucking moon.
I finish with the cages and report to Vega’s office. He’s at his desk, reading something on a battered laptop. He gestures for me to sit. I do, and try not to fidget.
He glances up at me. “Murphy. Do you know why I brought you in?”
I shake my head.
He closes the laptop. “You’re reckless.”
I wait for the punchline.
“I’ve read your file. I know what you’re capable of. But this isn’t a game. You make one wrong move, you’re not just benching yourself—you’re putting lives on the line.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He studies me. There’s a long pause, the kind that used to make me want to fill the air with jokes or trash talk. Now, I just let it happen. “Why’d you leave the NHL?”
The question is so blunt it nearly knocks me over. Most people tiptoe around it, like if they say the wrong thing I’ll shatter.
I shrug. “Didn’t have a choice. Got kicked.”
His expression shifts from neutral to lethally unamused. “That’s the version for the press. Give me the real one.”
I hesitate. “I stopped caring. About the team, the game. About myself.” All of that fell away to the pure chase of adrenaline. Scoring a point, winning a fight on the ice. That was more important.
Not that I’ll be voicing that out loud.
Vega leans back, steeples his fingers. “Have you thought about why?”
I do, all the fucking time. But I’m not sure how to explain to a guy like Vega that it’s about more than winning or losing.
That it’s about the way your soul gets hollowed out, piece by piece, until nothing fits anymore.
“Not really.” Sometimes it’s easier to just play dumb rather than pour your heart out first thing in the morning.
He eyes me for a long beat. “You need to find something worth caring about, Murphy. Otherwise, this place will eat you alive.”
I nod again. “Understood.”
He dismisses me, and I head back to the rec room. The morning news is off now, replaced by a low hum of voices and the clatter of dishes. I plant myself on the couch, stare at the ceiling, and try to imagine a world where I’m not haunted by all the shit I can’t fix.
That world feels a long way off.