Chapter 28
Calder
The bed was still warm where she slept, her breath slow and even against my shoulder. I should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
My phone buzzed against the nightstand like a goddamn alarm. I slid out from under her arm, careful not to jostle the mattress. The floorboards creaked under my weight, but she didn’t stir. Just buried deeper into the pillow, her dark hair fanned out like she belonged there.
I didn’t recognize the number on the screen. Didn’t matter.
“Shaw.”
Gideon’s voice cut through like a blade. “My office. Now.” A pause. Then, quieter, lethal, “This is low. Even for you.”
The line went dead before I could answer.
I lowered the phone. The screen lit up with notifications—texts, missed calls, a voicemail from some reporter. My thumb hovered over the first headline.
“Crestwood Coach Sleeping with Player… and She’s His Son’s Ex.”
The photo was grainy, taken from across the street. Billie in my hoodie, her hair still damp from the shower, her smile small and private and mine. The caption didn’t need to say it. The way she looked at me said everything.
My stomach twisted.
I turned back to the bedroom. She hadn’t moved. One hand curled under her cheek, the other still reaching for where I’d been.
Let her sleep.
I dressed in the dark, my movements slow, controlled. The doorknob didn’t make a sound when I turned it. The hallway was cold; the floorboards groaning under my boots like they knew what was coming.
Gideon’s office. A firing. A scandal. The end of whatever fragile thing I’d built here.
I’d fix it.
I had to.
Before the vultures circled any closer to her.
The elevator doors hissed open like a warning. Gideon’s secretary didn’t even look up from her keyboard, just jerked her chin toward the double doors at the end of the hall. He already knows.
I didn’t knock.
Gideon stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Detroit skyline a jagged silhouette behind him. He didn’t turn around. Just tossed a folded newspaper onto the desk between us. It landed with a slap.
I unfolded it.
There it was, in 48-point font, like they’d been waiting for this moment:
“COACH CALDER SHAW IN RELATIONSHIP WITH PLAYER — AND SON’S EX.”
Below it, smaller but just as damning:
“From NHL Enforcer to Creeper on Campus?”
“Crestwood in Crisis: Program Imploding Before it Begins.”
My fingers twitched. The paper crinkled under my grip.
Gideon finally turned. His face was a storm. “You’ve got three seconds to explain how the hell this is fixable.”
I didn’t.
He slammed his palm on the desk. “This isn’t Knox Callaghan’s ref punch, Shaw. This is worse. You’re not just screwing a player. You’re screwing your son’s ex-girlfriend while coaching her. Do you have any idea how this looks?”
I knew.
I also didn’t care.
Gideon’s jaw worked. “End it. Now. Today. Walk away before this turns into a lawsuit.”
My pulse thudded in my throat. I exhaled through my nose, slow. Controlled.
“No.”
One word. Flat. Final.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed. “The hell you say?”
I met his stare. Didn’t blink. “I said no.”
Silence.
Then Gideon laughed—a sharp, humorless bark. “You’re joking. This is a joke.”
“Does it look like I’m joking?”
His face darkened. “You’re telling me you’d rather burn your entire career—again—than walk away from some college girl?”
“She’s not just—”
“She’s a liability!” He grabbed the paper, crumpled it, threw it at my chest. “You think the league gives a damn about your midlife crisis? You think Nate gives a damn? He’s already spinning this to the press.
Painting you as the predator, her as the victim.
You’re ruined, Shaw. And you’re taking her down with you. ”
I stepped forward. Close enough to see the veins in his temples. “I’m not walking away.”
Gideon’s voice dropped to a snarl. “Why the fuck not?”
The words came before I could stop them.
“Because I love her.”
The room went still.
Gideon’s face twisted. “You fucking idiot.” He leaned in, voice a venomous hiss. “Is her pussy that fucking good? Worth your job? Your reputation? Your son?”
Something in me snapped.
I lunged.
My hand shot out, grabbed his collar, and slammed him back against the desk. Papers scattered. A pen holder clattered to the floor. His tie tangled in my fist.
“Don’t,” I growled. “Ever. Talk about her like that again.”
Gideon’s eyes burned. He didn’t fight back. Just stared at me like I’d finally lost it.
Maybe I had.
“You’re done,” he spat. “Pack your shit. You’re out.”
I didn’t let go.
“Fine.”
His lips curled. “You’ll never work in this league again.”
I leaned in closer. “Then I’ll burn it down on my way out.”
A beat.
The door burst open.
Paige stood there, chest heaving, eyes wild. She didn’t even look at Gideon. Just at me. “You need to see this. Now.”
She grabbed the remote off Gideon’s desk, stabbed the power button. The flat-screen flickered to life, the volume already cranked.
A press conference.
Nate stood at a podium, mic in hand, NHL logo emblazoned behind him. His hair was perfect. His suit was crisp. His smile was all teeth.
The chyron at the bottom read: “NATE SHAW ADDRESSES FATHER’S SCANDAL”
My stomach dropped.
Paige turned up the volume.
Nate cleared his throat, all practiced humility.
“I’ve been asked to comment on the recent allegations involving my father, Calder Shaw, and a player from Crestwood Academy.
” He paused, shook his head like he was disappointed but not surprised.
“I won’t lie—this has been a shock. My dad’s always been…
intense. But this?” Another pause. Another sad smile. “This crosses a line.”
The camera panned to the reporters. Phones up. Eager.
“Billie Donovan was my girlfriend for two years,” Nate continued.
“We were together, but it looks like she was cheating on me… With my dad. Even so, to see her name dragged through the mud like this—” He cut himself off, swallowed hard.
Oscar-worthy. “I just hope she’s getting the support she needs.
Because right now? She’s the victim here. ”
The screen cut to a clip—Billie leaving my house, head down, my hoodie swallowing her. The photo from the article, but worse. Grainier. More invasive.
Nate’s voice played over it, smooth as poison.
“I don’t know what my father was thinking.
But I know Billie. And she didn’t deserve this.
” The camera cut back to him, all concern.
“Because I know my dad. And he took advantage of her.
Put her in positions that she didn't deserve.
I wouldn't even be surprised if he… if he took advantage of her. "
The screen went black.
Paige turned to me, face pale. “He’s not done.”
Gideon’s laugh was a razor. “Oh, he’s just getting started.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Just stared at the blank screen, my hands curled into fists.
Nate wanted a war?
Fine.
Let him bring it.
The screen flickered back to the news anchor, her expression shifting from scandalized to something sharper. "We're getting word that Billie Donovan is hosting some—" She paused, checking her earpiece. "I think it's a live on social media?"
My heart stopped.
Paige already had her phone out, thumbs flying. Gideon snatched it from her, his face twisting as he pulled up the stream.
There she was.
Billie sat on the edge of her bed, hair damp like she’d just showered, Crestwood hoodie pulled over her knees. The camera was shaky at first, then steadied. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry. No tears. Just fire.
The live counter ticked up—5K viewers. 10K. 20K.
Gideon’s breath hissed through his teeth. "She’s going to ruin you. To ruin the fucking Serpents. We can't survive another goddamn scandal."
I didn’t answer.
Because Billie wasn’t looking at the camera like she was scared.
She was looking at it like she was ready.
"Hey," she said, voice steady. "Since everyone’s so interested in my life lately, I figured I’d save you the trouble of digging."
A beat.
Then she smiled—sharp, humorless, real—and started talking.
The screen blurred.
Gideon’s office faded. The hum of the city outside the windows, the distant clatter of Paige’s keyboard, the way my own breath burned in my throat—none of it mattered.
Only her.
"I take full responsibility for the relationship between myself and Coach Shaw."
Her voice didn’t waver. Didn’t crack. But her eyes—fuck, her eyes—were glass. Too bright. Too empty. Like she’d already mourned whatever came next.
"It was consensual. It was real. And the decision was mine."
The press pool erupted. Cameras flashed. A reporter in the front row—some smarmy bastard from The Athletic—shouted, "Did he pressure you? Were there threats?"
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at him.
"Absolutely not," she said. "If anything, I took advantage of him."
"You realize you could get kicked off the team if you initiated in a sordid affair?" someone asked.
"I understand the consequences, and I’ll accept them."
My chest caved in.
She was sacrificing herself.
For me.
Gideon’s phone buzzed against the desk. He didn’t pick it up. Just stared at the screen, his face a mask of horror and calculation. "She’s crucifying herself," he muttered. "She’s handing them the knife."
Paige made a choked sound. "She’s handing herself the knife."
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My hands were fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.
Billie adjusted the phone, just slightly. The movement was so her—practical, no-nonsense, even now. Even when the world was circling like sharks.
"I came to Crestwood to play hockey," she said. "Not to be someone’s scandal. Not to be someone’s victim. And definitely not to be someone’s secret."
A pause. The cameras loved it.
"Coach Shaw and I crossed a line. That’s on us. But let’s be clear—" Her voice dropped, just a little. Just enough to make every single person in that room lean forward. "I’m not ashamed."
The screen cut to a close-up. Her jaw set. Her lips pressed into a line so tight it hurt to look at.
"And if you’re more interested in who I’m sleeping with than how I’m playing? Maybe you’re the problem."
Silence.
Then—chaos.
The feed cut to black.
Gideon exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath for hours. "She just ended her career."
Paige’s voice was thin. "She just ended herself."
I turned away from the screen.
My hands were shaking.
I grabbed my jacket off the back of the chair; the leather creaking under my grip. Gideon didn’t try to stop me. Didn’t say a word.
The door hit the wall when I shoved it open.
Paige called after me—"Calder, wait—"
“You’re making a mistake,” Gideon said.
“I don’t give a shit what you think.”
“Calder—”
“I said no.”
He didn’t back down. Just stood there, jaw working, like he was chewing on the words before he spit them out. “You love her.”
I bared my teeth. “I fucking told you that.”
A beat.
Gideon exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “So. If I fire you—”
“I could give two shits.”
Paige’s eyebrows shot up. Gideon’s mouth twisted, like he’d just swallowed glass. They exchanged a look—one of those silent, what the hell do we do now? glances that made my skin crawl.
Gideon rubbed his temple. “You realize this isn’t just about you, right? This is the team. The program. The girls—”
“Don’t.” My voice was a blade. “Don’t you dare act like you give a shit about them when all you care about is the goddamn optics.”
He flinched. Actually flinched.
Paige stepped forward, her voice low. “Calder. Think about what you’re doing. If you walk away now, you’re burning everything—”
“I know.”
She faltered.
I turned back to my truck, hand on the door handle. “But I’m not walking away from her.”
The silence that followed was heavier than any hit I’d ever taken.
Then Gideon’s voice, quiet. Rough. “You’re really gonna throw it all away?”
The elevator doors hissed shut behind me, my reflection staring back in the polished metal—wild-eyed, jaw set, knuckles split from where I’d punched the wall in Gideon’s office. The numbers ticked down, slow as a funeral march.
Floor 10. 9. 8.
My phone buzzed again. Another text. Another voicemail. Another goddamn reporter asking for comment. I silenced it without looking.
The doors opened.
I stormed through the lobby, shoulders hunched, head down. The security guard at the front desk didn’t even glance up. Probably already seen the headlines. Probably already knew.
Outside, the Detroit wind hit like a slap. Cold. Wet. The sidewalk glistened under the streetlights, the neon glow of the bar across the street bleeding into the puddles. I didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have a next move.
Just her.
I yanked my keys from my pocket, thumbed the fob. My truck beeped, lights flashing in the dim parking garage.
I didn’t look back. Just opened the door, swung up into the seat, and slammed it shut behind me.
The engine roared to life.
I peeled out of the garage before they could say another word.
The tires screamed against the pavement as I took the corner too fast, the truck fishtailing before I wrenched the wheel straight. My knuckles were white on the steering wheel, the leather creaking under my grip. Every red light was a goddamn eternity.
I didn’t bother with the parking lot. Just jerked the wheel onto the curb outside her dorm, the truck lurching to a stop half on the sidewalk. The engine died with a shudder, but I was already out, already moving, my boots hitting the pavement hard enough to jar my teeth.
Her building loomed ahead, brick and sterile, the windows dark except for a few flickering with the blue glow of TVs or laptops. I didn’t know which one was hers. Didn’t care. I’d kick down every damn door if I had to.
The front entrance was locked. I pounded on the glass, my fist a blur against the reflection of the streetlights. "Billie!" My voice cracked on her name, raw and desperate. "Billie, open the fucking door!"
A face appeared behind the glass—some kid in a hoodie, eyes wide. He fumbled with the lock, and the door swung open just enough for me to shove past him. "Which room?" I demanded.
He stumbled back, hands up. "Dude, I don’t—"
I grabbed the front of his shirt, yanked him close. "Which. Room."
His Adam’s apple bobbed. "Third floor. End of the hall."
I let go. Didn’t wait for him to move. Just took the stairs three at a time, my breath burning in my lungs. The third-floor hallway smelled like stale ramen and laundry detergent. I didn’t knock. Just pounded on the last door on the left, the wood rattling under my fists. "Billie! Open up!"
Silence.
She wasn't there.
I called her once, twice…
Where the fuck was she?