Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Callaway
Headquarters features all-new paint, glass walls, and bright lights, designed to make a franchise look hopeful on television. The hallway smells like printer ink and expensive cologne and the faint desperation of people who believe two big names can change a team’s fate overnight.
Someone from PR presses a water bottle into my hand with the Orcas logo. It’s cold enough to bite my palm.
Monty doesn’t look at her.
Doesn’t look at me, either.
He’s in full goalie mode—contained, disciplined—built out of control and refusal. A stillness that makes people think he’s calm when I know he’s burning inside. Hands clasped behind his back like he’s afraid they might betray him if left loose.
His suit is charcoal, lean-cut. The shoulders are tailored, but tight enough to whisper about the muscle underneath, the tension in his arms. I know how those arms feel braced beside my head. How they tremble when I push inside him.
I shouldn’t be thinking about that.
Not here. Not now—or ever.
But the fabric shifts as he moves and all I see is the stretch of it across his chest. That ridiculous chest that’s soft to lay on and brutal to take a hit from.
His tie is straight. His shirt collar crisp.
But there’s something too careful about it all—like armor, like he needed this version of himself to keep from becoming the one I almost kissed in the car.
His hair is neat. Too neat. Like he combed it with intention instead of fingers, like he needed the order to keep from unraveling. Jaw tight. Mouth set in that flat, neutral line he uses when he’s bracing for impact. The face of a man who knows cameras are coming and feelings are not allowed.
He looks like control.
He smells like a bad decision I already made.
God, I hate that he looks this good. Hate the flush of heat that rolls through my gut when I take him in. Because my mind isn’t playing fair. It doesn’t just give me this version. It gives me all of them.
Monty in gear—pads and mask, commanding the ice, breath fogging in his helmet while he watches the play like a god planning judgment.
Monty in a hoodie and sweatpants—sprawled out on a hotel bed post-game, eating terrible takeout, laughing with Vesper over the phone, and . . . fuck, wouldn’t it be a dream that the three of us were sharing the same bed?
Then there’s the image of Monty in nothing—mouth open, lashes clumped from sweat, the head of his cock wet against his stomach as he begs me without words to keep going.
To not stop. To take him all the way until we both forgot who we were supposed to be.
His skin warm, breath shaking, hands gripping the sheets like he’s trying not to beg.
Like he’s trying not to love.
He shifts his weight slightly, just enough to remind me he’s human. The movement pulls the jacket tighter across his back, traces the line of his spine, the strength there. I feel it in my gut like a reflex.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t be thinking about this.
Not now.
The rivalry was never just about Vesper.
It was about this—about wanting the same impossible thing and never admitting it out loud.
About fighting over her because it was safer than fighting for each other.
Because no one would accept what we were if we tried it.
Because men like us weren’t supposed to want like this—weren’t supposed to ache for another man and still crave the woman who stood between us like a blessing and a shield.
Monty finally lifts his chin, signaling that he’s ready. Ready to disappear behind the version of himself the world understands.
And I feel it again—that stupid, reckless urge to reach out. To grab his tie, pull him close, press my mouth to his and remind him he doesn’t belong to the cameras. Or the team. Or the lie.
He should belong to us—Ves and me.
“Okay,” the PR woman says, cheerful in a way that makes my teeth ache. “After the GM speaks, we’ll do jersey photos, then we head to the ice for media B-roll and stills. Then questions. Keep answers short and positive. Emphasize teamwork. Respect. New chapter.”
Monty’s eyes shift to me for half a second, asking without words, Can you stay in your lane?
Normally? Sure. Boundaries. Respect. All that good adult behavior.
Right now, he’s standing too close, smelling like clean soap and expensive woodsy cologne and his dark personality.
Honestly, right now I want to burn down every camera in this building and lock the doors somewhere where it’s just the two of us. Maybe drive to the apartment and be with her.
I make my smile arrive on cue. It feels too bright on my face, like I’m putting on a costume in a room full of people who think they own me.
Usually it’s not that hard, but I didn’t sleep.
I kept seeing Vesper’s face in that bathroom light.
Kept hearing Dr. Ruiz’s voice saying positive, pregnant, supplements .
. . all sorts of things that Ves needed like it was a simple fact and not a total rewrite.
I kept thinking about Philippe and the camp and how Vesper will try to carry everything because she was taught that love means you help your family.
Also, she learned to please her parents so they would see her just as they saw her brothers.
She couldn’t be a hockey star so . . . she had to be the best daughter.
And my brain kept building.
Hire a doctor who will be by Vesper’s side twenty-four-seven. Put her somewhere no one can find her. Wrap her life in safety until nothing bad can reach her.
As if I can buy her peace.
As if peace is something I’m allowed to give.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t check it. I already know what it’ll be—Harvey with updates. He’s probably confirming what I fear: my parents found a way to pressure me. It could be Vesper, or . . . I need to shut everything out.
“You good?” Monty asks, voice low, like he’s speaking to a teammate instead of a man he nearly kissed in a car.
Like I didn’t provoke him.
As if I didn’t want him to lose control with me.
I tilt my head. “You asking because you care, or because you don’t want me to say something that gets us fined?”
He looks at me fully this time, eyes flat and cold and too honest. “Yes to both.”
A laugh slips out of me, rough around the edges. “I’m fine.”
His stare says liar, but he doesn’t call me on it. At least he’s holding back.
Stacy, the PR director, reappears, clapping her hands like she’s herding cats and not two grown men with contracts the size of small nations.
“Alright,” she says. “Let’s go.”
Monty and I start walking.
Two steps in sync like this is normal. Like we didn’t spend years trying to erase each other from our bodies. Like we didn’t leave Vesper with a blanket and a bucket and a future that just rewrote itself in her bloodstream.
The doors to the press area swing open and the sound hits—voices layered over each other, camera shutters, the greedy hum of people who came here for a story, not a sport.
Monty’s gaze fixes forward. Mine does too.
It’s ridiculous how quickly the room quiets.
Every head turns. Every camera lifts. There’s a split second where the whole place holds its breath, waiting to see if we’ll give them what they came for—a fist fight, blood . . . some sign that our rivalry is still alive.
They want the rivals who are now forced to cooperate.
It’s a cliché with a significant ad revenue.
In fact, our situation could be very profitable. It’s a headline that writes itself, even if the truth is uglier and stranger and tied to a woman with a river-view apartment and a positive test on a marble counter.
The stage is set with the Orcas backdrop—logos on repeat, sponsor names lined up like everyone’s bought a piece of our faces. A long table. Microphones. Name placards. The GM is front and center, coach beside him, Monty and I placed just off to the side like we’re exhibits.
I sit.
Monty’s close—too close—and my skin registers him before my brain can argue. His body radiates heat like it remembers mine. Like it knows things we never said out loud.
It shouldn’t matter, but it does.
It calms something I didn’t know was screaming. And fuck, it makes me want. To be touched. To be told this isn’t a mistake. That changing teams doesn’t mean losing myself. That I’m not alone. And it’s him. He’s the one giving me that.
This is the first time in my career I’ve had to start over, and somehow the only reason I believe I’ll survive it is because he’s here. Not saying anything. Not even looking at me.
Just existing.
And I swear I could fall apart from that alone.
The GM clears his throat and starts talking about vision, culture, and leadership. He says my name and it hits the room like a match. Flashbulbs pop. Pens scribble. He says Monty’s and the cameras go rabid, like they’ve been starving for his scowl.
“A tandem that will change the trajectory of this franchise,” the GM says, smiling widely.
My mouth almost betrays me with a laugh.
Sure, if by trajectory he means emotional homicide, then yes. Absolutely. Congratulations to everyone involved.
“Callaway,” he says, turning toward me like we’re friends. “Welcome to Portland.”
I lean into the mic. “Happy to be here.”
Then, the questions begin. Someone asks what it means to leave Colorado.
“My time with them ended on a perfect note.” I give them what they want. “Portland has a passionate fan base. This organization is building something exciting. I’m ready to contribute and do what it takes.”
A chorus of approval in the room. Everyone loves commitment when it’s packaged neatly.
Then they turn to Monty. They ask him if he’s staying, if he’s settled, if he’s finally decided to stop being a lone wolf and pick a den.
The GM laughs and says he’s here to stay. The room laughs with him, like people can joke away the truth.
Monty doesn’t smile. He obviously hates the question, but he sits there like a man who could stare down a firing squad and make them feel awkward about it.