Page 342 of The Lies We Play

This is my last season.

I haven’t said it publicly. Not yet. I’ve said it to them. I’ve said it in therapy. I’ve said it to Fitz, who told me not to announce anything until he could manage the contractual consequences, because apparently, retirement is not an emotional event; it’s a multi-page strategy memo.

After this season, I need to decide.

We need to decide.

New York is full of history and ghosts. Florence has pieces of Liv. Halston still has obligations that follow him like men in dark suits. The West Coast could be a good option. Portland. Seattle. Somewhere with rain and coffee and family close enough that our future doesn’t feel like a private island we have to defend.

They have to meet the Lafontaines before I can make my case, though.

Which means I have to play a hockey game against my brothers-in-law, who have decided tonight is a personal attack.

The first goal is theirs.

Of course it is.

Callaway gets it halfway through the first on a net-front scramble that should’ve been cleared twice. I see him before the puck gets to him. I see him slide into the pocket behind our D, stick low, eyes already up. Callaway doesn’t waste motion. He has that quiet, infuriating intelligence, the sort of player who doesn’t look dangerous until the puck is already behind your goalie.

He tips it in.

The Orcas crowd erupts.

Callaway skates past our bench with his mouth completely flat, which is worse than celebrating because he knows I can see him.

I point at him with my stick. “That was ugly.”

He doesn’t turn his head. “Counts the same.”

Mihalik snorts beside me. “Your family is annoying.”

I groan. “You have no idea.”

When I glance toward the box, Liv is on her feet, clapping because she likes Callaway, and apparently, loyalty becomes “nuanced” when my extended family scores on my team.

Halston is still seated.

He looks amused.

Traitor.

The second period is grinding, tight, mean hockey.

We start getting bodies to the net because if Monty can see it, he’ll stop it, and if he can’t see it, he’ll still probably stop it just to make a point. Our D starts shooting low for pads. Monty kicks everything into corners. Their D clears the crease. I take a cross-check to the ribs in front of the net and consider making it a whole legal matter because I’m married to a lawyer and I should use my resources.

Instead, I get up.

Monty taps my shin pad with his stick as the play moves out.

“You good?”

“I hate you.”

“Not an answer.”

“I’m fine.”

“Also not believable.”