Epilogue
Too early for anyone who didn’t have a death wish or a clipboard.
I sat up on the worn leather couch in my condo, dry-mouthed and sweat-soaked, the sharp burn of last night’s whiskey still clinging to my throat. The knock came again, sharper this time.
“Calder,” came Gideon Strong’s voice from the other side of the door.
I cursed under my breath and stumbled to my feet, knocking over an empty bottle in the process. Figures. I didn’t even remember inviting that ghost in.
When I opened the door, Gideon was there in all his dark-eyed calmness, with Paige Adams beside him, arms crossed and blazer pressed so tight I could see the tension in her shoulders.
This wasn’t social.
“Jesus,” I muttered, stepping back to let them in. “You two always do interventions before coffee?”
Gideon walked in without a word, scanning the disaster zone of my living room. Paige lingered at the threshold, like she wasn’t sure if this place would contaminate her reputation by proximity.
“Sit down,” Gideon said, motioning toward the only clean chair in the place. I stayed standing.
“Let me guess,” I said, rubbing the sleep from my face. “Barrett finally turned in my latest breathalyzer result.”
“You blew a .08 before practice,” Paige said, deadpan. “At 7:30 in the morning.”
“Celebrating a win,” I replied, shrugging. “You should try it sometime.”
Her jaw clenched. Gideon didn’t even flinch.
“You’ve been placed on waivers, Calder,” he said, calm and lethal as a blade to the gut.
That quiet hit harder than any slapshot ever could.
I blinked, letting the words settle, waiting for the punchline that never came.
“What?” I laughed, but it was dry and hollow. “You can’t be serious. I’ve played through worse. Hell, I am worse.”
“You’re right,” Gideon replied. “You are worse. And that’s the problem.”
I paced to the window, staring out at downtown Detroit’s gray skyline. The city looked back with the same tired indifference I’d been living with for years.
“You’re not a bad guy,” Paige added, her voice lower now, less sharp. “But you’re not fit to wear the crest right now.”
I turned, ready to fight, ready to claw back some dignity. “So that’s it? Ten years of blood, broken bones, and loyalty down the drain because I had a couple drinks too many?”
Gideon stood, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. “No. That’s not it.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“There’s a job.”
I barked a laugh. “What kind of job? Mascot? Rink janitor?”
“Crestwood Academy,” Paige cut in. “Girls’ team. Brand new. After the Team USA vs. Team Canada exhibition game this summer, the board’s going all-in. They want a program that develops real prospects.”
“They want you,” Gideon added. “If you can keep your head on straight.”
“Me?” I asked, stunned. “You’re serious?”
Paige’s look turned sharper. “Don’t flatter yourself. They wanted someone with a name. You were just the cheapest one available.”
That stung. Probably why she said it.
I sat down slowly, the weight of it all settling in.
“A college team?” I muttered.
“Not just any college,” Gideon replied. “Crestwood is where the next generation of female players is coming from. If this works, they’ll build a full pipeline to the league. We’re backing it.”
“They’re talented,” Paige added. “Hungry. And they need someone who knows what it’s like to fight every day.”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “They know what I’ve done? The fights? The suspensions?”
Gideon nodded once. “They know everything. And they still said yes — because sometimes broken things can build stronger ones.”
I stared at the floor, throat thick, the silence pressing in.
“And if I say no?” I finally asked.
“Then this is it,” Paige said softly. “Your last jersey already got folded. Your last game already happened.”
I swallowed hard.
Crestwood.
Coaching girls.
Not exactly the redemption arc I’d envisioned.
But it was something. A thread. A maybe.
A future.
“When do I start?” I asked.
Paige and Gideon exchanged a glance.
“You report to Crestwood on Monday,” Paige said, pulling a folded packet from her bag and tossing it onto the coffee table. “Orientation. Meet the team. Get a look at the roster.”
I picked it up. At the top: CRESTWOOD ICE—INAUGURAL GIRLS PROGRAM
Below it, a list of names.
My eyes snagged on one in particular.
Donovan, Billie.
The name meant nothing.
But something told me it would.
Something told me this wasn’t going to be just a job.