Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Monty
Third period starts, and Boston comes out like they got screamed at during intermission.
They forecheck harder. They hit heavier—no, harder. They cycle the puck down low, trying to wear our defenders out and force mistakes in front of me.
I stay locked in.
One shot from the point. Save. Rebound to the corner.
A quick pass to the slot. I drop. Puck hits my pad. Save.
A scramble at the crease. Sticks whacking. Skates digging. Bodies crowding.
I smother the puck with my glove and hold it until the whistle. Their center stands over me after the whistle and says something I can’t hear over the crowd.
I look up at him through the cage and say nothing.
He wants a reaction.
He doesn’t get one.
Callaway skates in immediately, shoving the guy away from my crease like it’s instinct. Like he’s protecting me without thinking.
The ref pulls him back, barking.
Callaway spreads his hands innocently. “I’m just saying hi.”
The guy laughs and chirps back.
Callaway turns slightly, mouth near my cage. “You okay?”
My eyes snap to his.
He means it.
“I’m fine,” I say.
His gaze lingers a beat too long, then he skates away before I can do something stupid, like reach out and grab his jersey and keep him close.
Midway through the third, we get our chance.
Boston’s defense pinches too aggressively, trying to keep the puck in at our blue line. Callaway reads it instantly and picks off the pass like he’s been waiting for it.
Two-on-one the other way.
He pushes the puck ahead to our winger, then drives the middle lane like he’s going to the net.
Boston’s defenseman backs up, trying to play the pass and the shot at once.
Callaway gets the puck back at the right circle with a sliver of space.
He shoots.
Low far side, using the defenseman as partial screen. The puck slips under the goalie’s pad.
Goal.
2-0.
The crowd goes nuclear in the worst way.
Callaway celebrates like he’s making a point, skating past the Blackbirds’ bench with a grin that’s anything but polite.
Then he points at me from the far end of the rink.
A forward pointing at his goalie after scoring.
It’s a statement.
The cameras catch it. Hopefully the commentators will discuss that we’re working as a team. Thankfully, they won’t talk about the way his eyes lock on mine like he’s daring me to admit we fit together on the ice the way we fit everywhere else.
The game continues.
I stay calm.
I read the plays. I swallow rebounds. I control the puck behind the net and feed it to my defense with short, clean passes.
With eight minutes left, Boston gets a power play after one of our guys takes a penalty in the offensive zone.
The crowd wakes up again. They smell blood.
Their power play is fast. Lots of movement. Lots of one-touch passes. They’re trying to pull me out of position.
They set up a play I know by heart. Umbrella. Quick pass to the left circle. Backdoor option.
The puck zips across.
Their shooter winds up for a one-timer.
I push across.
He shoots high glove.
My glove snaps up.
I catch it clean.
The building groans.
I hold it and stare at the shooter for half a second through the cage, letting him know I saw it coming.
Callaway is the first one to my crease when the whistle blows, tapping my pads like he’s checking me for cracks.
“You’re rude,” he murmurs.
“Play better,” I reply.
He grins, bright and pleased. “We are playing better.”
He’s right.
We kill the penalty.
Boston pulls their goalie with two minutes left, and the ice tilts.
Six attackers. Empty net.
They throw everything at me.
One shot from the point through bodies. I block it.
Rebound pops out. A stick jabs.
I seal the ice.
The puck squirts free to the corner. Our defense battles.
Callaway comes all the way back to help, which I will never let him live down. He digs the puck out, looks up, and finds open ice.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He chips it up the boards and then takes off, legs pumping, chasing his own puck.
He gets there first.
He nudges it past the last defender.
He has a clear lane to the empty net from the red line.
He could shoot.
He could take the easy goal.
Instead, he turns his head, finds me, and waits a fraction—like he’s making sure I see it.
Then he snaps the puck into the empty net.
3-0.
The horn blares.
Boston boos so loud it shakes the glass.
I stand in my crease, breathing hard behind my cage, and it hits me—this strange, clean satisfaction.
We did that.
Together—as a team.
Callaway skates past my crease on his way to the bench, and even after sixty minutes of noise, I hear him like he’s the only sound meant for me.
He leans in, voice quiet and wicked. “Shutout, Monty.”
I don’t move. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Good job, babe,” he adds, softer, like he can’t help himself. Like praise is a reflex he can’t shut off.
My body betrays me.
I feel it everywhere—under the pads, under the control, under the persona I wear like armor. A rush in my ribs, heat in my palms, a stupid urge to grab him by the jersey and pull him close just to prove I can.
I hate that I want it.
I hate that part of me wants to smile like I’m not made of barbed wire.
I do neither.
I just stare out at the ice and keep my face blank behind the cage because blank is safe and safe is all I’ve ever trusted.
The Boston’s captain, Jeremy Hollingsworth approaches me, I’m surprised that he says, “Good game.” It sounds respectful. “Enjoy Portland.”
I meet his gaze. I let my mouth do nothing. “I will.”
Callaway waits by the bench gate, watching like he’s gauging whether this is danger or just a clean goodbye.
I skate toward him. When I reach him, he doesn’t offer his hand—he steps in close and bumps his shoulder lightly into mine, casual enough for the cameras, intimate enough to make my pulse jump.
It’s a celebration disguised as nothing.
“Look at us,” he murmurs. “Actually behaving and working as a team.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, voice flat.
He smiles like he plans to.
We skate off the ice together and the tunnel swallows the noise behind us. The roar turns distant, muffled, like the building is finally exhaling.
The world gets smaller.
My skates scrape. My breath fogs the inside of my mask. Sweat cools along my spine.
Callaway’s shoulder brushes mine again—barely there—and my body reacts like it’s been waiting for contact all night. Like I’m too fluent in him. Like I can feel him even through padding and fabric and the rules I keep stacking between us.
He turns his head slightly, mouth close to my ear.
“You know,” he says, quiet and dangerous, “you can’t ignore me forever.”
My grip tightens on my stick.
“I can,” I answer, because lying is easier than admitting the truth.
Callaway laughs, low, warm, and it threads through me in a way I don’t know how to stop.
“You won’t,” he says, like he’s certain. Like he’s already seen the ending. “We’re becoming a family.”
The word hits me so hard I almost stop.
Family.
My throat goes dry. I keep moving because stopping would mean I have to look at him. It would mean I have to face the way that word makes something inside me crack.
We’re becoming a family. Him, Ves, the baby, and . . . well, me.
Can I do it? Family means staying.
Family means you don’t get to disappear when it starts to hurt.
Family means there are expectations and traditions and holidays and people asking questions you don’t know how to answer without bleeding.
It also means having Vesper.
Vesper with her eternal sunshine and the way she jokes like it’s a shield, as if she can laugh her way out of fear. Vesper who is carrying a baby and pretending she’s fine because that’s what she does—she turns panic into punchlines and hopes nobody notices her hands shaking.
And the baby.
A baby I already said I’d be there for, because I meant it, because I can’t stand the thought of her doing this alone, because I can’t stand the thought of anyone touching her life with dirty hands.
Because I love her and the baby being a part of her makes me already love them.
But family?
Family is bigger than protection.
Family is attachment.
Family leaves you. You lose them and then you’re left alone without a compass or a place to call yours.
Callaway says it like it’s inevitable, like it’s already true, like I don’t get a vote. Like he’s claiming us with a single sentence and expecting me not to jet out of this place.
Fuck, can I even do it? I should’ve thought about the implications.
This isn’t the time to think about all that. I keep my eyes forward, because if I look at him, I might see the hope in his face. I might see that bright, reckless devotion he carries so easily. I might see him imagining a future like it won’t terrify me.
What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?