Chapter 9 Garrett
Garrett
Tonight, all five of us made it. Phil Santos is holding court about his daughter's hockey practice.
Marcus Webb's laughing so hard beer nearly comes out his nose.
Taylor's already two deep and getting louder.
And Easton McKenzie—my best friend, my goalie, the brick wall who's kept us in games we had no business winning—is shaking his head at all of them.
"Tell me the tutu story isn't true," Easton says as I slide into the booth.
"Pink tulle over full gear." Phil grins. "Coach didn't know what to do with her. I told him if she can skate in a tutu, she can skate in anything."
"That's because you're soft," Taylor cuts in. "You're raising a mini tyrant."
"I'm raising a girl who knows her own mind." Phil's voice carries that easy confidence of a man who's figured out what matters. "When she's sixteen and some junior hockey asshole tries to tell her what to do, she's gonna tell him exactly where to shove it."
"Spoken like a terrified father," Webb says.
Easton raises his glass. "To terrified fathers. May our future daughters never date hockey players."
"Amen," Phil and Webb say in unison, clinking glasses.
"Tank." Easton leans back, beer in hand. "That hit you threw on Torres in the second period—beauty. Daniels owes you."
"Kid needs to keep his head up."
"Kid needs a veteran defenseman watching his back," Easton corrects. "Which he's got. You're good with the young guys. They trust you."
Something warm settles in my chest. Easton doesn't throw compliments around carelessly. When he says something, he means it.
"Speaking of young guys," Taylor jumps in, "Mitchell tried to fight that Chicago enforcer. Dumb kid's lucky he didn't get murdered."
"Mitchell's twenty-one and thinks he's invincible," Webb says. "We were all that stupid once."
"Some of us still are." Phil looks pointedly at Taylor
The conversation flows—game breakdown, playoff positioning, the usual chirping about Taylor's dating disasters and Webb's expanding family. Easton leans back, beer in hand, looking relaxed in a way he never does on game days.
"You know what the worst part about being a goalie is?" Easton says.
"The crippling anxiety?" Phil offers.
"The fact that you're all clinically insane?" Webb adds.
"No." Easton grins. "It's that I have to watch you idiots throw yourselves in front of hundred-mile-an-hour shots and pretend it's normal."
"That's called playing defense," I say.
"That's called a death wish," Easton shoots back. "I get paid to be crazy. What's your excuse?"
"We're protecting you," Taylor says. "You're welcome."
"You're giving me premature gray hair is what you're doing." Easton runs a hand through his hair. "Tank, that hit you threw in the second? My heart rate monitor thought I was having a cardiac event."
"You wear a heart rate monitor during games?" Phil asks.
"My therapist suggested it. Said it might help with the anxiety."
"And does it?"
"No. Just gives me data on exactly how stressed I am. Turns out it's very."
This is what I came for—not the beer or the wings, but this. The rhythm of men who've bled together enough times that the distinctions between friendship and family stopped mattering.
Easton's phone rings. He glances at it, silences it, then drains the rest of his beer. "Early practice tomorrow. I'm out."
"Disciplined," Phil says with mock reverence.
"Someone has to be." Easton stands, throws cash on the table. "See you guys at practice."
He claps my shoulder as he passes, solid and sure.
The door closes behind him. For a moment, there's just the comfortable noise of the bar—someone's terrible karaoke attempt at Don't Stop Believin', the crack of pool balls, the low murmur of a dozen other conversations happening around us.
Taylor signals for another round of wings. "So Phil, when's your kid's next game? I want to see this tutu situation in person."
"Saturday morning. Eight a.m."
"That's barbaric. Who schedules children's hockey for eight a.m.?"
"People who hate parents," Phil says. "But you're welcome to come suffer with me. Rachel would love the company."
"I'll be there," Webb says. "My wife's been on me about getting out of the house more anyway. Says I'm hovering."
"You are hovering," Phil confirms. "You texted me yesterday asking if it was normal for pregnant women to cry at insurance commercials."
"It was a very moving commercial about life insurance."
Taylor's already crying laughing. "What was she insuring? Her feelings?"
"Tank, you coming Saturday?" Phil asks. "Fair warning, the coffee is terrible and the rink smells like a locker room had a baby with a wet dog."
"Wouldn't miss it."
Phil pauses mid-drink. "Really?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Because last time we invited you somewhere, you showed up for thirty-seven minutes and then claimed you had 'a thing.'"
"I did have a thing."
"You had 'being around humans makes me uncomfortable' thing," Taylor cuts in. "But sure, 'a thing.'"
Webb nods. "My kid's birthday. You arrived, ate exactly one slice of pizza, and then vanished like a vampire at sunrise."
"I stayed appropriate amount of time."
"You missed the cake," Phil says. "Who leaves before cake?"
"Someone who hates fun," Taylor adds helpfully.
I take a long drink instead of responding.
Phil's still watching me though. "So what's changed?"
"Nothing's changed."
"Something's changed." Taylor leans forward. "You smiled at practice yesterday. Unsettling."
"I smile."
All three of them look at me.
"You really don't," Webb says.
"You do this thing—" Taylor makes a face like a constipated robot "—that's technically a smile but mostly terrifying."
"Anyway," Phil cuts back in, "whatever's going on with you, keep it up. Less corpse energy is good for team morale."
The wings arrive. Taylor immediately burns his mouth, swears, drinks beer too fast, swears again. Webb shakes his head. Phil's already telling a story about some guy from his Boston days.
"Hendricks started hooking up with someone in PR. Went bad, messy breakup, she still had to coordinate all his media stuff. Kid requested a trade within a month."
"Miller in Tampa married the GM's daughter," Webb adds. "Divorced a year later, couldn't get ice time. Coincidence, sure."
"Front office stuff gets messy," Taylor says through a mouthful of wings. "That's why I keep it simple. Tinder, bad decisions, no workplace entanglements."
"That's not a strategy, that's chaos," Phil says.
"It's sustainable chaos."
I'm only half-listening. Across the bar, Mitchell's waving down the waitress for another round, already slurring. I catch Daniels' eye, give him a look. The kid immediately intervenes, smooth enough that Mitchell doesn't notice his beer getting swapped for water.
"You just did it again," Phil says.
"Did what?"
"That thing. Taking care of people when they don't even know they need it."
"Kid's twenty-one and hammered. Someone needs to."
"Most people would let him make his own mistakes."
"Yeah, well." I shrug. "He's got practice tomorrow."
The check comes. We split it without discussion—same as always.
Phil catches my arm on the way out. "Saturday. Eight a.m."
"I'll be there."
"Good." He squeezes once, lets go. "Rachel's making her breakfast burritos after. You're staying for those."
"That a request or an order?"
"That's me telling you that if you pull your disappearing act, my wife will hunt you down. And she's scarier than I am."
Taylor and Webb are already arguing about the Uber route. Phil herds them toward the car.
I watch them go—Taylor still talking, Webb tolerating it, Phil making sure everyone gets home.
The scrape of my blades carving into fresh ice is a sound I’ve known my whole life, but this morning, it’s background noise. I glide backward, pivot loose, and then it hits me—sandalwood and wine.
The cellar. Her eyes. The dim gold light on her cheekbone.
I miss the edge on my turn. My skates stutter against the ice before I recover.
A slow smile starts to form—and then my phone buzzes on the bench. Once. Again. A third time. Urgent.
I coast over, the vibration rattling against the boards. A mass text alert.
Coach Kowalski
MANDATORY all-hands meeting: team and staff.
Conference Room C.
10 minutes.
The smile is gone. Ten-minute notice means someone’s in the crosshairs.
The walk from the rink to the conference hall is a pressure drop. The usual chirps from the equipment guys are replaced by tight jaws and low murmurs. In the hall, the air is stale, recycled. I find a seat with the other vets. My eyes scan the room automatically. I find her—three rows up.
Sloane.
She glances back, just once. Her posture is military-rigid, eyes unreadable. But I feel it—the same tightness cinching my chest is written all over her.
Then Kowalski steps to the podium.
The hum in the room cuts to silence.
He grips the mic with white knuckles. “There are rumblings,” he says, voice gravel over steel. “Distractions.”
I go still.
“My philosophy has always been to protect this team. From now on, it’s not a philosophy.”
I brace myself, expecting a hit from the blind side.
“It’s a zero-tolerance mandate.”
Behind me, whispers start up. Low, sharp. Taylor's voice.
“Heard it’s Miller and one of the interns.”
"Rookies," Parks mutters. "Don't know what they're risking."
"What do you mean?"
"Careers, man," Taylor answers. "Seen it happen. Player gets involved with someone on staff, chemistry goes to shit, everything falls apart."
Kowalski's voice drones on—chemistry, distractions, accountability—but all I hear is the conversation behind me.
"It burns everything down," Taylor mutters.
And that phrase—it slices clean.
You let it burn everything down, Sullivan. The GM's voice from ten years ago. The cold office. The C stripped from my jersey.
"Burns everything around it," Taylor adds.
I look back up. Look at her. Sloane. Her story about Sarah. She lost everything. He lost nothing.
This isn't about me anymore. It's about her.