Chapter 20
Calder
Idrove with the windows down, cold air slicing through the cab like penance. Didn't matter. My skin still burned where she'd touched me, still felt the phantom press of her body against mine, the locker room metal cold against my palms as I'd held myself back from taking more than I already had.
The cigarette between my fingers had gone out twice. I kept forgetting to smoke it.
It won't happen again.
I'd told myself that last time. And the time before. Every time I saw her on the ice, every time she looked at me with those sharp eyes that saw through every lie I tried to tell myself.
But it did happen. Again. And Christ, it was worse this time—no, better. That was the problem. Better in every way that mattered and none of the ways that should.
I'd promised myself I'd get her out of my system.
One more time and I'd be done, able to look at her without wanting to pull her into every dark corner I could find.
Instead, I was more haunted than before.
Her voice in my ear. The way she'd whispered my name like it meant something, like I meant something.
The guilt slammed into me in waves, each one heavier than the last.
She's my player. The one I'm supposed to be coaching, protecting, pushing toward something greater than a washed-up enforcer's bedroom.
She's Nate's ex. My son's. The kid I failed in every way that counted, and now I'd taken the one thing—the one person—he'd probably still think of as his.
And she's too young. Too good. Too worth more than a man who'd spent the last decade drinking himself stupid and burning every bridge he'd ever built.
The speedometer crept past seventy. I eased off the gas.
You're dangerous, I told myself. You're poison.
But even as I thought it, even as I flicked the dead cigarette out the window and watched it spark against the asphalt, I knew the truth.
I still wanted her.
And that made me worse than dangerous.
It made me selfish enough to ruin her.
The apartment greeted me with the same familiar silence it always did—empty, stale, thick with old choices and new ones I couldn't take back.
I dropped my keys on the counter. Kicked off my shoes. Stood in the center of the room like I'd forgotten what I lived here for.
The bottle of whiskey sat where I'd left it three days ago, cap screwed on tight, amber liquid catching the dim light from the street. A full pour's worth missing from when I'd tested myself last week. Poured it. Stared at it. Dumped it down the sink.
Tonight felt different.
I grabbed a glass from the cabinet. Clean. Unused. The weight of it settled in my palm like an old friend I'd sworn off but never stopped missing.
One drink. Just one. Take the edge off. Dull the burn of her skin under my hands, the sound she'd made when I'd pressed her harder against the lockers, the way she'd looked at me after like I was something other than a mistake.
I poured two fingers. Held it up to the light. Watched it swirl.
Didn't sip.
Set it down.
Picked it up again.
It's over. It has to be.
I said it out loud, voice rough and hollow in the quiet. Said it again, quieter, like repetition would make it true.
It's over.
But I could still hear her. The hitch in her breath. The scrape of her nails against my shoulders. The way she'd said my name—not Coach, not Shaw—just Calder, like it was something sacred she'd been holding onto.
She hadn't said no.
She'd said yes with her whole body, arching into me, pulling me closer when I'd tried to pull away, daring me to be the man she thought I could be instead of the one I knew I was.
I lifted the glass. Stopped halfway to my mouth.
"You're not in control," I muttered. "You never fucking were."
The whiskey burned going down. I stood there, glass empty, chest heaving, and poured another.
Because if I wasn't in control, what was the point of pretending?
The cameras clicked like insects, that dry mechanical chirp I used to ignore when I played. Now every flash felt like an accusation.
I ran them through transition drills, barking corrections I didn't mean, watching everything but the puck. Watching her. Billie cut through the neutral zone like water, clean and sharp, and I forced myself to look away before someone noticed.
The press sat three rows up, notebooks out, phones recording. Open practice. Good for visibility, Gideon had said. Good for the program.
Good for nothing but making me want to clear the stands with a stick.
Then the door banged open, and he walked in.
Nate.
My son. NHL golden boy. Grinning like he owned the building, waving at the cameras like they'd come for him. Maybe they had. He looked the part—expensive jacket, designer stubble, that easy charm he'd learned from everyone but me.
I gripped my whistle hard enough the lanyard cut into my palm.
He didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge me. Just strolled toward the glass, all swagger and spotlight, and leaned against the boards like he was scouting talent.
The girls noticed. Reese elbowed Kira, whispered something that made her laugh. Billie kept her head down, skating harder, pushing through a give-and-go like she could outrun what was coming.
She couldn't.
Nate waited until she circled back, until she had no choice but to skate past him. Then he called her name—loud enough for the mics to catch.
She slowed. Stopped. Her shoulders went rigid.
He said something I couldn't hear. Smiled that same smile he used to flash at draft scouts and disappointed fathers. Then he opened the gate, stepped onto the ice in his street shoes, and grabbed her by the waist.
Pulled her in.
Kissed her.
Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the team. In front of me.
The world went white.
Billie went stiff—I saw it, saw her hands freeze at her sides, saw the way she didn't lean in, didn't kiss him back. But she didn't shove him away either. Didn't scream. Didn't make a scene.
Just stood there and let him claim her like property while the cameras ate it alive.
My vision tunneled. Blood roared in my ears.
Someone skated past me—Kira, maybe, or one of the freshmen—and I snapped.
"Get your head up!" I barked, voice raw and vicious. "You skate like that in a game and you're getting buried. Again. Now."
The girl flinched. Stumbled. Her stick clattered to the ice.
The whole team went quiet.
I didn't care. Couldn't stop. My chest was a furnace, my hands shaking, every muscle coiled tight enough to snap.
Nate finally pulled back, still holding Billie's waist, still grinning at the cameras. She stepped away from him, slow and deliberate, and skated toward the bench without looking at anyone.
Without looking at me.
I blew the whistle so hard it cracked my teeth.
"Line drills. Full speed. No breaks."
The girls moved like spooked horses. I felt their fear, their confusion, the way they kept glancing at each other, at Billie, at the man in the stands who'd just kissed their center like she belonged to him.
She didn't.
She wasn't his.
But she wasn't mine either.
And that was the part that was going to destroy me.
The bottle didn't judge. That was what I'd always liked about it.
I poured the first glass standing at the counter, knocked it back before the burn could warn me off. Poured the second before I'd swallowed the first. By the third, I'd stopped using a glass altogether.
The apartment was dark. I didn't bother with the lights. Sunset bled through the blinds in thin orange slashes that painted the walls like old bruises. I sprawled on the couch, bottle dangling from one hand, and stared at the ceiling until the texture started to move.
She let him kiss her.
The thought circled like a vulture. I tried to drown it. Took another pull. Another.
She didn't kiss him back.
That voice was quieter. Softer. The part of me that wanted to believe she'd stood there frozen because she didn't want him, not because she did.
But it didn't matter what she wanted. The cameras saw what they saw. Nate's hands on her waist. His mouth on hers. His claim, public and permanent, while I stood on the ice with a whistle around my neck and rage burning holes through my ribs.
I closed my eyes. Saw her name instead.
DONOVAN
Written in faded sharpie on the whiteboard in my office. Top line. Center. The best player I had. The one I pushed hardest because she could take it. Because she deserved it.
Because I wanted her to be everything I never was.
The whiskey sloshed when I sat up too fast. My head swam. I blinked hard, tried to focus, but the room kept tilting.
My phone sat on the coffee table. Screen dark. Silent.
I reached for it before I could think better.
Scrolled through my contacts with clumsy thumbs. Found her name—Donovan, B.—buried between a dozen other players I never texted, never called, never thought about past practice.
She was different.
She'd always been different.
I stared at her name until it blurred. Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another.
Why'd you let him touch you?
Deleted.
You're better than that.
Deleted.
I hit the call button before I could stop myself.
It rang three times. Long enough for regret to sink in. Long enough for me to consider hanging up, throwing the phone, drowning the rest of the bottle.
"Hello?" Her voice was quiet. Careful. Like she'd been expecting someone else and got me instead.
"You looked happy out there today." The words came out slurred at the edges, rougher than I meant.
Silence. Then a sharp exhale.
"You're drunk."
"No shit." I took another pull from the bottle, didn't care if she heard it. "Had to be, to watch you kiss him like that."
"It wasn't real." Flat. Defensive. The tone she used when she was lying to herself as much as me.
"Didn't look fake." I pressed the phone harder against my ear, like I could reach through it and shake the truth out of her. "You with him right now?"
"If I was, it's not your business."
The jealousy roared up so fast it choked me. I surged to my feet, the room spinning, whiskey sloshing over my hand.
"You're back with him now? That what this is? PR move? Safe choice? Let the NHL pretty boy claim you for the cameras while I'm standing there like some washed-up piece of shit who—"
"I'm trying to protect you."
The words hit like a slap. I went still.
"What?"
"It's clear you and Nate have issues." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I don't know what he has on you, what leverage, what—" She stopped. Breathed. "You're good for the team. And honestly? The team is good for you."
I sank back onto the couch. The bottle dangled from my fingers, forgotten.
"Billie—"
"You think I wanted that?" Her voice rose, sharp and wounded. "You think I wanted his hands on me in front of everyone? To smile for those cameras like I'm some prop in his redemption story after what he did to me?"
"Then why—"
"Because you said this couldn't happen again." The break in her voice was louder now, unmistakable. "You said we were done. You said it was a mistake. So I made sure it wouldn't happen again."
My throat closed. The words I wanted to say died somewhere between my chest and my mouth.
"You needed this job," she continued, quieter now. Raw. "You needed to prove you could stay clean, stay professional, not screw everything up. And I—" Another breath, shaky and small. "I wasn't going to be the reason you lost that."
"So you let him use you."
"I made a choice." Steel returned to her voice, hard and bright. "Don't you dare make me the victim in this."
"You think protecting me is worth destroying yourself?"
"I think one of us has to be smart." A bitter laugh. "And it sure as hell wasn't going to be you."
That cut deeper than anything. Because she was right. Because I'd kissed her in that locker room knowing exactly what it would cost, and I'd done it, anyway. Selfish. Reckless. Everything I'd sworn I wouldn't be.
"Billie—"
"Don't." Her voice broke completely. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
"I never wanted—"
"Yes, you did. We both did. But we don't get to have what we want." She exhaled, long and shuddering. "Not when it ruins everything."
The line went quiet. Not dead—I could still hear her breathing, shallow and uneven, like she was fighting tears she wouldn't let fall.
"You still there?" I whispered.
"Yeah."
"Don't go back to him."
Silence stretched between us, heavy and aching.
Then she spoke, so soft I almost missed it.
"Goodbye, Calder."
The line went dead.
I sat there in the dark, phone pressed to my ear long after the dial tone faded, whiskey pooling warm and useless in my lap.
She'd hung up.
And I'd let her.
I stared at the phone until the screen went dark. My thumb hovered over her name—Donovan, B.—like I could undo it. Call back. Say something that mattered instead of slurred accusations and jealous bullshit.
I didn't.
The bottle sat between my knees, half-empty now. Or half-full. Depended on how optimistic you wanted to be about a man drinking alone in the dark because the one person who made him feel like something other than a failure just told him goodbye.
I wasn't feeling optimistic.
The first swallow after she hung up went down easier than it should have. So did the second. By the third, I couldn't taste it anymore. Just heat. Just numbness spreading through my chest like frost.
She's protecting you, I thought. And you called her drunk to yell at her for it.
Father of the year. Coach of the year. Man of the goddamn century.
I set the bottle on the floor before I finished it. Not out of discipline—I just didn't have the energy to lift it anymore. My arm felt like dead weight. My whole body did.
The couch cushions smelled like old smoke and regret. I sank into them, let my head fall back, stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like a fist or a flower depending on how drunk I was.
Tonight it looked like her.
Billie.
I said her name out loud. Quiet. Barely a whisper. Like if I said it soft enough, the universe wouldn't hear me wanting something I had no right to.
She was gone. Not just off the phone—gone. Back to Nate, or back to herself, or back to whatever life she'd had before I stumbled into it and wrecked everything I touched.
I closed my eyes. Saw her anyway.
The way she looked at me in that locker room. The way she'd pulled me closer when I tried to pull away. The way she'd whispered my name like it was something sacred instead of something cursed.
You ruined her, the voice in my head said. Just like you ruin everything.
I didn't argue.
My phone buzzed once—probably Gideon, probably asking why I wasn't answering emails or returning calls or pretending to give a shit about anything that wasn't her.
I let it buzz. Let it go silent.
Lay there in the dark with her name on my lips and whiskey in my veins and nothing—no one—left to hold onto.
She was gone.
And it was my fault.