Page 93 of Shift Change

I didn’t have to guess how this would end with Chuck because I already knew. He’d given me something I’d always wanted, someone who loved and needed me. I wanted to be better for him, but wanting didn’t mean I could be.

He laughed again, and I kissed the top of his head, then closed my eyes and breathed him in. I loved him so much my chest ached, so I made a decision. I’d try as hard as I could for as long as I could, but when I started hurting him worse than I already was, I would let him go. That would be the only way I’d ever be good for him.

He laughed again, then raised his head and kissed my cheek like nothing in the world could hurt us. But I knew better, and I was already counting down.

30

mad dog

The Toronto Beaversblazed into town with a chip on their shoulder. After years of Toronto owning the rivalry, the Warriors had flipped the script the past two seasons. The Beavs hadn’t managed a single win against us this year, and with both teams already locked into playoff spots, this game was about pride.

It was a war, bloodless but fierce. Both teams played clean, so there were no goons or cheap shots—only blistering, old-school hockey, where every line change felt like flipping the switch on a rocket. We traded goals like haymakers; one team would score, and the other answered within minutes. It was a game of high-speed leapfrog on ice.

At the start of the third period, we were tied 6–6, and our line was up. Harpy won the faceoff and fired the puck back to Richie, who snagged it and flew away toward Toronto’s zone. He shot down center ice like a cannonball, weaving through traffic like it wasn’t there. Two Beavers closed in, cutting him off before he crossed the blue line. Without missing a beat, he spun and snapped a pass to me.

The puck bounced on my blade, not quite locked in. Before I could settle it, one of the Beavs’ wingers swooped in and forced a turnover.

Shit.I pivoted hard, jetting back to neutral ice as Harpy dropped back to cover. Our defense shut the play down when Brody took the puck and fired a pass to Harpy, springing us back on the offensive.

Harpy exploded up the ice, tore through two D-men, and toe-dragged around Toronto’s center like he was playing against cones. The crowd’s roar was a wall of noise behind us, and I trailed Harpy like a shadow.

He cut across the high slot, deked left, and pulled right before—with a tiny flick—ripping a wrister top shelf on the goalie’s right. The goal light flared red as the building went nuclear.

We remained ahead 7–6 for most of the period, and though the Beavs were playing like supermen, they couldn’t catch a break. When the clock had ticked down to three minutes left in the game, Criswell sent out the second line.

Something felt off right away. The ref bumped Nate from the faceoff, and Riley stepped in. The Beavs’ center won the draw and fired the puck to his right wing, and our coverage unraveled like a cheap skate lace.

Nate hesitated a beat too long trying to get in the winger’s lane, and the Beaver blew past him, crossing the blue line and zipping toward our goal. Riley scrambled to rotate over, but it was too late. After Toronto’s winger executed a crisp pass back to one of their D-men, the Beaver fired the puck through Gabe’s five-hole into the back of the net, tying the game at 7–7.

Nate coasted to the bench, jaw tight, eyes locked on the ice as if it had betrayed him. He was two men down from me on the bench but wouldn’t look my way.Where the hell is your head, sweets?

We didn’t have to worry about overtime because thirty seconds later, the Beavs buried another one. We retired from the ice dragging an 8–7 loss behind us.

The mood in the locker room was muted, the kind of silence that settles over a team when a game gets away from you and nobody quite knows what happened. Without Nate doing his usual social manager routine—chirping guys, making dumb jokes, nudging everyone toward beer and wings—it fell to Riley and Logan to come up with a plan for blowing off steam at Revolution Hops.

I hit the showers, trying to shake the loss and hoping the water would wash it away along with the sweat. When I finished, Nate hadn’t moved. He was slumped in his stall with half his gear still on.

“You good?” I asked. He didn’t answer, so I tried again. “Get cleaned up. Everyone’s meeting at the Hops.”

“I’m not feeling it tonight.” His voice was low, rough around the edges. “You should still go.”

“You rode with me, remember?”

“I’ll call a Lyft.”

I sat. “Come on, Nate. Let’s just go home.”

He stood abruptly, peeling off his gear like it was too heavy to wear another second. “Suit yourself, you stubborn ass,” he said, then stalked toward the shower without looking back.

When he returned, he’d gone full ghost and barely said two words as he got dressed. On the drive home, he stared out the window as if the city lights held all the answers he wouldn’t give me. My stomach churned the whole way. I kept glancing over, hoping for something—a joke or sigh, anything to meet me halfway.

The silence seemed final. Had he already made some decision when I hadn’t even figured out what was wrong? Something was cracking beneath us, and I was powerless to stop it because I didn’t understand what it was.

At home, we changed into sweats and PJ pants while our silence stretched to the breaking point. We went to the basement, where I handed him a beer and sat on a couch. He chose the chair beside me.

For too long, he stared at the bottle. Eventually, he looked up, and when he spoke, his voice cracked on the first word. “I’m so fucking sorry. I love you.”

I wanted to feel relief and believe his words fixed things.I love youshould have been enough, but his eyes were stormier than ever. I was sick of spinning in place and second-guessing every look and word. Things couldn’t go on like this, and every time I let him off the hook, the situation got worse.

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