Callum Hawthorne

I'm halfway through taping my stick when my phone buzzes in my locker. Another message from my mom about next weekend's family dinner, probably. Or Finn asking where I put the spare key again. But when I glance at the screen, my hands go still. Something in my gut tightens. Three months of secret meetups after her performances, stolen moments between my practices and her rehearsals, and now this. The last time a girl said "we need to talk," it was my high school girlfriend breaking up with me before college. "Hey Cap, you're burning daylight!" Finn shouts from the door. "Coach is gonna make us all do suicides if you're late." "Yeah, coming," I call back, but I can't stop staring at those words on my screen. Melody never messages before a morning practice. She's usually still asleep, recovering from her late-night gig at The Basement Bar where she performs every Thursday. Where I first saw her three months ago, standing under those dim lights with her guitar, making every hockey player in the place forget about our winning game. I shoot back a quick "Sure. Usual spot?" before shoving my phone in my locker. Whatever it is, it'll have to wait. I've got twenty guys counting on me to lead practice, we've got playoffs coming up. But I can't focus worth shit on the ice. I botch three passes in a row, miss an easy shot on goal, and nearly collide with Jax during a standard drill. Coach pulls me aside, concern written all over his face. "Everything alright, Hawthorne? You're looking a bit out of it." The guys notice too. I catch Finn giving me worried looks between drills. Dante, our usually quiet defenseman, actually speaks up during our line change: "You good, Cap?" My stomach drops. Not our usual meet-up spot behind the music building. Not the quiet corner of the library where she sometimes practices her songs. The coffee shop means public. Public means serious.