Chapter 6
Calder
Steam drifted from the bathroom, curling around the mirror like smoke that didn’t want to leave. I dragged the towel off the rack and wrapped it around my waist. My skin still burned from the too-hot water, from trying to scrub away a sleepless night.
The room sat quiet beyond the cracked door. Too quiet.
I stepped out, hair dripping, feet cold against the warped wood floor. The sheets were tangled, half on the bed, half hanging over the side. No note. No trace. Just that faint smell of her—something clean under cigarette smoke, winter air maybe, as if she carried frost in her lungs.
“Didn’t even catch her name.” The words landed heavy in the air. Truth was, she hadn’t asked for mine either.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Probably for the best.”
It came out easy, automatic. But it stung like a bad hit.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under me, still faintly warm from where she’d been. My towel clung damp against my legs. The room smelled like her shampoo and whiskey, and something inside me tightened before I could shove it down.
It wasn’t attraction—at least not the kind that used to drive me. It had been something cleaner, quieter. She’d looked at me like she recognized the wreckage, not like she wanted to fix it. That was new.
I pulled open the nightstand, half expecting her to have left something stupid—lip balm, a receipt, a hair tie. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. My reflection in the dark TV screen looked tired beyond reason.
“Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered.
Usually, I could clear my head after a night like that. Smoke a cigarette, pour coffee, move on. But the image of her kept cutting in—hair brushed across her cheek, the small pause before she spoke, the way her laugh cracked through the low music like light through ice.
Stupid to think I’d like to hear it again.
Maybe buy her a coffee, push a mug across a counter, see what silence between us sounded like without the dark wrapped around it. Maybe that laugh again, softer this time. Maybe nothing.
I stood, towel slipping, caught it just before it hit the floor. “You’re losing it, old man.”
The mirror across the room reflected a scarred body that had taken too many hits and still couldn’t learn. I pulled on a pair of jeans, not bothering with underwear. The day waited—orientation, redemption, or whatever Gideon wanted to call it.
Still, as I shoved my wallet into my pocket, I pictured her walking away in the early light. No name. No goodbye. Only the print of her shoulder against the pillow, already fading.
And yeah—different didn’t even start to cover it.
The phone buzzed across the nightstand like it had something to prove. I stared at the caller ID—Gideon Strong—and almost laughed. Of course. The universe had a mean sense of timing.
I let it ring twice before hitting speaker.
“Morning to you too,” I muttered.
Gideon’s voice came through tinny and clipped, same as always, all edges and caffeine. “Tell me you’re not still in a bar.”
I glanced around at the mess of my room. “Not anymore.”
He ignored that. “You start at Crestwood in an hour. Locker room’s yours. Media’s already sniffing around, so keep your head down.”
“Wouldn’t know how to take a headline even if I wanted one.”
“That’s the problem.” He took a long drag of silence before adding, “Stay sober, Shaw. I mean really sober. No whiskey in your coffee, no whatever-the-hell you think counts as coping.”
I rubbed the side of my neck. “You calling to hold my hand?”
“I’m calling because I’ve got owners breathing down my neck, and your name still sets off fire alarms. You get through this semester without a fight or a DUI, maybe we talk about you coming back. Not on the ice—you’re done—but as development staff.”
That word—development—stuck like grit in my teeth. Still, something in me twitched. “So, I get to train kids how not to end up like me. Hell of a pitch.”
Gideon didn’t rise to it. He rarely did. “You don’t get many second chances, Calder. You sure you’re not gonna piss on this one too?”
I leaned back against the headboard, towel still damp around my waist. “What if it’s already halfway down my leg?”
He sighed, something between annoyance and old loyalty. “You’re not funny.”
“No, but I used to be dangerous.”
“That used to mean something.” His voice softened then, like he almost felt sorry for saying it.
“Listen. You’ve got four rules, and they’re not negotiable.
One—stay sober. Two—no altercations with players or parents.
Three—no bad press. And four—no sleeping with anyone remotely connected to the program. ”
The silence stretched, heavy enough to choke on.
Gideon caught it quick. “Christ, tell me you didn’t already—”
I cut him off with a laugh I didn’t quite feel. “Relax. My halo’s shiny and intact.”
“Don’t test me, Shaw. You so much as look at someone the wrong way, and I’ll bury you so deep the worms will need GPS.”
“Motivating as always.”
“Just get through the season. That’s it. One clean run and you earn a foot back in the door.” He paused. “You still love it, don’t you? The game.”
I didn’t answer right away. The sound of skates against ice flashed through my head—the cut, the scrape, the echo that used to calm everything down.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Still do.”
“Then act like it.”
A beat.
“Still there?” Gideon’s voice cracked through the speaker, a dry rasp of impatience.
“Where else would I be?” I stood, pulled a wrinkled shirt over my head. Buttons didn’t line up, but it’d do.
He didn’t bother to laugh. “Heard something this morning. Your kid’s in the news cycle again.”
I reached for my jeans. “Meaning what? Another headline about his power play?”
“Not this time.” Papers shuffled on his end, that sound he made when lining up facts to punch me with. “Word is, Nate broke up with his girlfriend. Or she walked out. Depends who you ask.”
For a second, the noise went thin. “Didn’t even know he was seeing anyone.”
“That right there’s the problem.”
I paused, belt half-looped. “The problem?”
“Maybe, I don’t know, take five minutes to find out what your kid’s doing when he’s not on a scoresheet.”
I stared at the phone like I could burn it through the plastic. My voice dropped low. “You can lecture me all you want about being a player, Gideon. But you don’t get to tell me how to be a father.”
The silence swelled, heavy as the air before a brawl.
Outside, a truck rolled past the house, headlights cutting through the curtain. I waited for him to fire back, already braced.
Nothing. Just a sharp sigh, softer than I expected.
When he spoke again, the edge in his tone dulled to something colder. “Orientation’s at ten. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
I tossed the phone onto the bed, the screen face down. My hands stayed clenched longer than they needed to. A pulse throbbed behind my jaw.
Gideon always knew where to aim. Mention Nate, and he hit the soft tissue. Couldn’t say I didn’t deserve it; I’d been missing from that kid’s life by choice. Still, hearing about him through other people felt like getting benched from my own bloodline.
“Walked out, huh?” I muttered.
The phrase kept gnawing. Walked out meant she’d had enough of him—his temper, maybe his ego. The mirror didn’t bother denying where Nate learned those habits.
I jammed my arms through the jacket sleeves. The place reeked of last night’s smoke. I needed air, coffee, something that didn’t taste like regret.
Outside, the cold bit sharp against my cheeks. Snowmelt tracked down the gutter, thin as spit. I flicked a cigarette out of the pack, stared at it, then shoved it back.
Gideon’s order repeated in my head—orientation’s at ten. I checked the time. I’d have to move if I wanted to be something other than a mistake walking into that rink.
Still, my feet kept hesitating, like they had their own idea. Phone buzzed again, a notification I didn’t bother checking. Probably news about Nate, a photo, some crack about heartbreak on skates.
I crushed the thought.
Whatever story he was writing for himself, he didn’t need me ghosting through the margins.
I started the truck. The engine growled low, steady. Just noise, no meaning.
“Don’t be late,” I echoed, then gunned it toward Crestwood, leaving the motel glow behind.
Campus hit like a slap of fresh paint—clean brick buildings, banners flapping in the wind, students everywhere moving with purpose.
Crestwood looked new, too new, like no one here had ever lost anything.
I parked behind the athletic complex, shut the truck door harder than I needed to, and yanked the collar of my jacket up against the wind.
The glass doors of the rink gleamed. Someone had polished them this morning, probably for me. Ridiculous. The place smelled like detergent and ambition. Posters of smiling athletes lined the entryway—no blood, no bruises, not a single scar between them.
I caught my reflection in the glass on the way in—old, out of place. Perfect.
Inside, the noise hit—music echoing off the rafters, puck smacks, blades carving ice. It should’ve felt like home, but everything here was too bright, too clean. I shoved my hands in my pockets as a woman appeared from one of the side offices, clipboard in hand, smile locked in place.
“Calder,” she said, voice crisp as a cold drink. She offered her hand—steady, professional.
I took it. “I'm sorry, do I know you?"
“Paige Adams,” she said. “I’m the team liaison for the Serpents and administrative coordinator for athletics. Welcome to Crestwood.”
I arched a brow.
She sighed. "I'm dating Ryker."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about that."
She rolled her eyes.
I bit back a reply about not being much for welcomes. “You run this circus?”