Page 13 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
“What’d I miss?” Matt asks, running a hand through his damp hair.
“Nothing,” I replied quickly. Matt narrows his eyes but does not push it.
As I towel off, one of the guys calls out from the doorway. “Hey, Callahan, Coach wants to see you in his office.”
“Perfect,” I mutter under my breath. “Don’t wait for me, guys.”
I finish dressing, grab my hoodie, and make my way out of the bathroom, the post-practice exhaustion starting to settle in my muscles. Coach’s office is at the far end of the hallway, tucked away from the chaos of the locker room. I knock once and push the door open when I hear his gruff, “Come in.”
“Take a seat,” Coach says, barely looking up from the papers on his desk. His desk is a cluttered mess - lineups, game strategies, sponsorship notes - but it is controlled chaos, just like him.
“I will keep this very brief. So, the upcoming season,” he starts, leaning back in his chair. “You are in good shape, Callahan. But we need more constructive interaction on the forward line. I want you to work closely with Matt, Drew, and Andy during drills. Their chemistry with you is solid, but I want it flawless. Understood?”
“Understood,” I replied.
“The pace is going to be brutal this season.”
“Got it,” I replied, leaning back in the chair. “Anything specific you want me to work on?”
“Just keep up the intensity,” he says, giving me a pointed look. “You are the backbone of this team, Liam. They look at you. No slacking.”
I nod.
“Alright. Now get out of here. Rest up.”
****
By the time I make it home, exhaustion has fully set in. I pour myself a glass of scotch, the amber liquid catching the light. Sinking into the couch, I take a long sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest. The silence is a welcome relief.
The soft glow from recessed lighting highlights the sleek, modern lines of the room. Dark leather furniture, a glass coffee table, and muted gray walls give the space the masculine, minimalist feel I like. Across from me, built-in shelves display a neat row of vintage hockey pucks, each one tagged with a year and a memory - my first goal, our championship win, the first game I ever watched with my dad.
I grab the remote on the coffee table and dim the lights. The room shifts to a cozy ambiance, the only other light coming fromthe fireplace flickering against the stone wall. I adjust the ceiling fan with the remote, the air immediately turns crisp and cool.
My eyes drift to the corner of the room where the massage chair sits, calling my name. My body aches from the long day, and I consider sinking into it for a bit. But before I can make up my mind, my thoughts are shattered by the sudden blare of music.
“What the hell?” I mutter, sitting upright.
It takes me a moment to figure out where the unmistakable beat ofMacarenais coming from. My head jerks toward the window. It is coming from the guest house. That is right, I remember Richard telling me someone moved in today.
I set the glass down hard enough to rattle the table, my jaw tightening.
Does this person think it’s okay to blast music at this hour?
The song blares on, the bass vibrating through my windows. It is loud enough to rattle the walls, which means inside the guest house, it must be deafening. My teeth clench as the song continues, every beat grating on my nerves. It does not help that the song brings back memories I’d rather not revisit. She loved that song. Just hearing it now feels like a deliberate provocation.
Grabbing my phone, I scroll through my contacts until I find Richard, my property manager. I hit the call and wait, pacing the room as it rings.
He answers groggily. “Mr. Callahan? It is late, what’s…”
“Richard,” I cut in, keeping my voice steady but sharp. “What kind of rowdy lunatic did you rent the guest house to? A DJ? A rave organizer? Because the music’s loud enough to wake the dead. Tell whoever is there to turn down the music unless they want me to pay a not-so-welcoming visit and want to be homeless by 4.00am.”
“What?” He asks, sounding disoriented.
“The guest house,” I snapped. “Music. Off. Now.”
“Okay, okay,” he stammers. “I’ll call them.”
The next few minutes drag by with each second punctuated by that maddening beat. Then, mercifully, the music cuts off. The lights in the guest house go dark, and silence settles over the property again.
