Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Callaway
I do okay with change.
That sentence sounds like bullshit coming from a man who’s spent fifteen years wearing the same colors, sleeping in the same city, living inside rituals so specific they border on religion—same pregame meal, same sock order, same way I lace my skates like the game depends on it.
Still.
Change doesn’t scare me. Hell, I learned how to blend in before I could spell “Winthrop” without fucking it up.
Adaptation’s easy when you know no one’s coming back for you.
I was six when my parents sent me away. Six—old enough to understand I was being left, young enough to be told it was a gift.
They called it an opportunity. Education. Structure.
They handed me a trunk, a hug that lasted three seconds too long, and a smile that tried very hard to sell the lie.
So I learned to be easy. Charming. Good enough that no one would regret sending me away. I learned how to need very little even when I had everything. That’s the trick with money—people think it fills holes. It doesn’t. It just decorates them.
I found family where kids like me always do. As I got older, the places changed. Locker rooms. Late nights. Teammates who turn into brothers because they see you fail and still tell you to get the fuck up.
And then there was her.
My Vesper.
She’s the constant I’ve orbited since I was sixteen. No matter the city, the era, or the version of myself I’m pretending to be. She’s home even when she won’t choose me. Home when she’s loud and reckless and enjoying life. Home when she’s quiet, brave, and pretending she doesn’t need anyone.
I would do anything for her.
Always.
Which is how I ended up in the back seat of an SUV, three feet from the one man on earth who makes me want to commit a felony with my bare hands—or do something far more confusing. The jury’s still out.
Alberto Montoya Navarro Wade.
Fucking Monty.
He’s infuriating. He’s closed off until you get close enough to feel the heat under it. He’s a challenge with shoulders too broad for his jacket and a stare that never blinks first. He’s a problem I used to enjoy from a distance.
It was easier when we only saw each other a few times a year. A handful of games where I could push his buttons, make him react, make him crack. Rivalry inside the rivalry. Clean lines. Clear rules.
Now?
Now we’re teammates.
Now we’re supposed to function like adults who don’t want the same woman. Like two men who won’t circle her when she’s bleeding herself dry trying to hold everything together. Like we won’t both try to save her from becoming her mother—running a camp until it runs her into the ground.
I hate how fast that instinct settles in me.
Protect her. Keep her safe. Even from herself.
The hospital parking lot comes into view, and Vesper changes. Her shoulders lift. Her fingers tighten around her cup. Her breath goes thin, controlled.
I see it.
I always see it.
Grief taught her this place means danger. Medical buildings took her mother and rewired the way she walks into places like this.
“Hey,” I say softly. “I’m here. We’ve got this.”
She doesn’t look at me, just nods once, like she’s accepting the words without leaning on them.
Monty’s out of the car before the engine fully cuts off, opening her door like it’s instinct. His hand hovers—careful. He helps her down without pulling her close, like he’s obeying her rules.
It should make me grateful, but instead, it makes my jaw lock.
Vesper steps out too fast and wobbles for half a breath. Both of us move out of instinct. His hand. My arm.
She catches herself and shoots us a look sharp enough to cut.
“I’m fine.”
“Sure,” I say lightly. “You’re glowing.”
“That’s sleep deprivation,” she fires back. “Don’t romanticize it.”
Monty’s mouth does a small thing—barely a curve, gone instantly. I see it anyway. I file it away like a petty little trophy.
Inside, the hospital smells like disinfectant and burnt coffee. Vesper moves quicker, like speed might protect her from the answers waiting down the hall.
Philippe Lafontaine sits on the edge of an exam bed, a gown hanging wrong on him.
Vesper’s father is supposed to be in flannel and work boots, barking orders at teenage boys and arguing with coaches about ice time.
He’s supposed to be indestructible because that’s how daughters survive their childhood: believing their dad can’t break.
He looks up when we enter.
“Kiddo,” he says, trying to smile.
And just like that, the room tilts and Vesper’s face changes so fast it nearly takes my breath away. The sarcasm drops. The guard thins. She goes to him and wraps her arms around his shoulders like she’s holding on so she doesn’t fall.
Philippe pats her back awkwardly, gently. His hand hovers for a moment before landing. Like he’s scared one wrong touch will shatter her.
Monty stays by the door, his posture tense. Hands in his pockets, jaw set, watching everything with a quiet, unreadable focus that makes me want to hit something. Or him.
I move across the room, leaning against the counter like I’m not vibrating out of my skin. Close enough to be there. Far enough not to crowd her.
Philippe’s gaze finds mine.
“Callaway,” he says, voice frayed. “Didn’t expect you. Don’t you have a game tonight?”
I flash a grin that doesn’t reach my ribs. “Didn’t expect you to be here either. Bit of a health hiccup, huh?”
He gives a dry chuckle. “Old bastard’s body is finally revolting.”
“What did the doctor say?” Vesper’s voice comes out too bright.
The door opens before Philippe can answer.
“You must be Vesper. I’m his doctor. Blaire Aldridge.” She walks in with a tablet in one hand. Then she looks at Monty and me. “And you are?”
“Friends,” Vesper responds, then amends, “family. They’re family.”
We’re family? If she chose me, maybe we’d be something close to it. But right now we’re in fucking limbo pretending we’re friends and I don’t love her.
Dr. Aldridge nods once, accepting it without curiosity. “Okay. I’m glad you’re here. Philippe, seems like you’ve got a very protective crew. He’s going to need all the backup he can get.”
“Stubborn,” Philippe mutters, earning himself a look from the doctor.
“Your father had a syncope episode,” Dr. Aldridge explains. “Fainting, brought on by a combination of dehydration, low caloric intake, and likely orthostatic hypotension. Nothing catastrophic on the scans, but enough to raise alarms.”
Vesper goes very still. Her eyes fix on the doctor like she’s memorizing every syllable.
I can see her trying to stay upright. I can feel her unraveling by degrees.
“Why wasn’t this caught before?” she asks, voice deceptively calm.
“That’s what we’re sorting out,” Dr. Aldridge says. “The good news is, his neurologic exam is normal. Our team has done a thorough job. There are no signs of stroke. No acute red flags on imaging.”
Vesper exhales like she’s been holding her lungs hostage.
Dr. Aldridge gives him a look that could bench a grown man. “Eating once a day is not a strategy, Philippe. It’s self-sabotage.”
Vesper makes a sound in her throat. “He does that. He gets busy and—”
“I know,” Dr. Aldridge says, not unkindly. “A lot of people do. Especially people who are used to pushing through discomfort and ignoring their bodies.”
Philippe mutters something that sounds like hockey players don’t complain.
The doctor doesn’t bite. She taps her tablet.
“His labs show vitamin deficiencies—B12 and D are both low. Mild anemia. Electrolytes are a little off. Nothing catastrophic, but enough to make him more vulnerable to dizziness and fainting. Add in stress, lack of sleep, working long hours, and it creates the perfect conditions for an episode—or two.”
Vesper’s eyes narrow. “Stress.”
Dr. Aldridge meets her gaze. “Stress matters. It affects appetite, blood pressure, sleep, and recovery. I understand your dad’s been carrying the camp and pretending he’s fine. That has a cost.”
Vesper’s jaw flexes like she wants to fight the universe.
The doctor turns to Philippe. “We’re also being cautious because of your age and your history. Sixty-five is not old, but it’s old enough that we don’t shrug off syncope.”
Philippe grunts.
Dr. Aldridge gestures to a small device clipped under his gown. “You’ll be wearing a Holter monitor. It’s going to record your heart rhythm for the next couple of weeks so we can rule out an arrhythmia.”
“Great,” Philippe mutters. “I’m a science project.”
“You’re alive,” Vesper says. “Be grateful. What happens now?”
“He’ll come back next week for more tests,” Dr. Aldridge says. “An echocardiogram. Follow-up labs. We’ll also do a stress test once we’re confident he’s stable. For now, he needs hydration, regular meals, supplements, and he needs to reduce physical strain until his body recovers.”
Philippe opens his mouth.
The doctor cuts him off with one raised finger. “That means no pretending you’re twenty-five. No hauling heavy equipment. No skipping meals because you’re busy. No working twelve-hour days because you’re stubborn.”
“And if he does it anyway?” Vesper asks.
Dr. Aldridge looks at her, and the answer is firm. “Then he risks another episode. He risks falling and injuring himself. He risks something worse if there’s an underlying rhythm issue. We’re not catastrophizing. We’re being responsible.”
Vesper nods, swallowing hard. “Okay.”
Dr. Aldridge’s gaze softens slightly. “I also want him to have someone with him for the next few days. No driving long distances alone.”
“We’re taking him back to Juniper Ridge,” I say, as I pull out my phone to text Harvey. “I’ll hire a couple of nurses and make sure there’s a team helping him with the camp.”
Dr. Aldridge glances at me. “Good.”
Philippe looks at me—more like glares—then nods once. “Fine. But I’m not lying in bed like I’m dying.”
“You’re not dying,” the doctor says. “You’re adjusting.
There’s a difference.” She turns back to Vesper.
“We’ll schedule follow-ups in the clinic after we get the results from the Holter monitor.
If he experiences chest pain, shortness of breath, severe dizziness, or another fainting episode, you come back immediately. ”
Vesper nods again, absorbing it like it’s a language she has to learn fast.
Dr. Aldridge looks at us. “Questions?”
I clear my throat. “Should we take him back to Portland instead until he’s good to go?”
The doctor considers. “Altitude shouldn’t be an issue. The bigger issue is exertion and hydration. If he’s at a higher elevation, dehydration can hit harder. Regular meals, fluids, rest.”
Monty asks, blunt and direct, “Can he keep running the camp?”
The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly. “He can oversee. He cannot do everything. He needs help.”
“Which I’m getting,” I say, though it’s more like assuring Vesper before she decides to change her life drastically when we can just hire people.
“I can stay with him.” Ves glares at me, as if offering help is bad.
Philippe reaches for her hand. “I don’t want you giving up your life.”
Vesper’s laugh comes out brittle. “My life is currently . . . editing footage in airports and pretending I’m fine. This is not exactly a sacrifice.”
Philippe watches her like he knows that’s a lie.
Dr. Aldridge turns toward the door. “I’ll send in the nurse with instructions and supplements. And Philippe?”
“Yes, Doc,” he grumbles.
“Eat breakfast,” she says. “Every day.”
Philippe grunts again.
Vesper squeezes his hand. “You heard her.”
The doctor leaves.
Philippe takes a deep breath. “Well,” he says, “apparently I’m not invincible.”
Vesper’s eyes shine. “No, you’re not.” Her voice breaks on the word.
Philippe reaches up and touches her cheek with two fingers, like he’s grounding her. “I’m okay, kiddo.”
Vesper nods too fast. “You’re not allowed to do the thing Mom did.”
Philippe’s face tightens. “I’m not your mother.”
“I know,” she whispers, and her voice is wrecked. “You’re worse. When did you stop eating breakfast? I bet since she left us.”
Monty moves closer, not touching her, but close enough that she can lean on him if she wants to. It’s subtle. It’s him offering support without forcing it.
I hate him for being good at that.
I also respect it, because Vesper needs every option right now.
Philippe clears his throat, forcing the mood lighter because that’s what fathers do when their daughters start cracking. “Who’s driving me back?”
“The same guy I hired to drive you here,” Monty answers. “We need to see what the camp needs to pass inspection.”
“Harvey will be here tomorrow with a crew,” I let them know.
“Thank you for doing this,” he says in a low voice. “For looking after my girl.”
Monty and I nod instead of saying that he doesn’t need to ask. We’re here to serve her. Not that I would say that out loud to him or anyone, but I live for her. Though I’m not exactly sure how this works or if it’ll work at all.
The nurse arrives with a list of supplements and recommendations. We leave the room so he can get dressed.
“So . . . when were you two going to tell me that you were traded to the Orcas?” Philippe says as we’re heading to the exit.
“You know?” I arch an eyebrow because this man might have a hand in what just happened to us.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Mills Aldridge came to ask if I had any good rookies for the team. I always have a guy or two in my camp that has a chance to become a star—like you two boys.”
I notice Monty cursing under his breath. Me? I have to ask, “Did you tell him to put us on the same team?”
Philippe smiles proud of himself. “Of course I did. You two will accomplish what they need. While they were recruiting you, I tried to have you on the same team but it didn’t work out back then.” He shrugs as if satisfied with his choice. “Now we can.”
Monty mutters something that sounds like fucking perfect under his breath. I’m torn between laughing and slamming my fist into a wall.
Philippe clasps Vesper’s shoulder with one hand, then adds, “Figure it out, boys. Just don’t fuck it up for her.”