Play Your Way To My Heart

Chapter Two: The Problem with Callum Reid

Callum

“You’re smiling.”

I stopped halfway through pulling my hoodie over my head.

Mason sat on the bench outside the locker room, tying his shoes with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“I’m not.”

He glanced up. “You are.”

“Maybe I’m happy to see you.”

He stared at me, then burst out laughing. “That is genuinely embarrassing, Reid.”

I pulled my hoodie down and threw my towel at him. He caught it, still laughing, while I turned to my locker.

The problem with Mason was that he’d known me too long. He could tell when I was annoyed, when I was lying, and most inconveniently when something had caught my attention.

Especially when that something was a girl I’d met less than an hour ago.

A girl with ginger hair, thick glasses, and absolutely no patience for my nonsense. A girl who’d looked me straight in the face and told me to try harder.

I shoved my towel into my bag.

“Why are you being so quiet?” Mason asked.

“I’m enjoying the peace.”

“You’ve been glaring at your locker for thirty seconds.”

“Maybe it said something offensive.”

He snorted. “You’re thinking about her.”

I slammed the locker shut.

His grin spread. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

“What’s beautiful?”

“You didn’t even ask who I meant.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

“Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?”

“No. It’s one of my best qualities.”

“It’s not even in your top ten.”

“Name ten better ones.”

“Your ability to leave a room.”

He laughed and stood, swinging his bag over one shoulder, and followed me towards the exit.

“So, what’s her name again?”

“Evie.”

The answer came out before I could stop it.

Mason’s eyebrows shot up. “Nice.”

“It’s a name, Mason.”

“I’m aware.”

I should have known better than to let him get started. Once he found something he could use against me, he treated it like a personal mission.

“What do you think of her?” he asked.

“She’s serious. Very organised. Wouldn’t surprise me if she had a colour-coded system for breathing.”

Mason laughed. “And?”

“And what?”

“Was she cute?”

I pushed through the doors into the cold evening air. Students hurried across the car park with their heads bent against the wind.

“She’s fine.”

Mason went quiet. I made it three steps before turning around. He was staring at me with his mouth slightly open.

“What?”

“Fine?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Do you want me to write you a report?”

He shook his head, laughing under his breath, and hurried after me.

“There’s nothing interesting about it,” I said.

“Of course not.”

We crossed the path towards residence. Mason nudged my arm.

“You’re going to be a nightmare.”

“You’ve been saying that since we were fourteen.”

“And I’ve been right since we were fourteen.”

I rolled my eyes, but I could still picture Evie looking up from her papers, her eyes narrowing when I tried to charm my way out of something. She’d almost smiled, then caught herself.

She was pretty, annoyingly so, but she also hadn’t seemed to care whether I liked her. Most people laughed at my jokes. Evie seemed perfectly content to let me make a fool of myself if I earned it.

For some reason, that made me want her attention.

“Earth to Reid,” Mason said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about, try not to look so pleased with yourself.”

“I’m thinking about how much I enjoy your company.”

“Liar.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right.”

He laughed. I decided I wasn’t telling him anything else not about Evie’s eyes, her almost-smile, or the way I’d forgotten what I was going to say when she looked directly at me.

I wasn’t usually the one who forgot what to say.

---

By the time I got home, Mason had sent two messages to the team group chat that I was almost certainly going to regret reading. I ignored both.

My apartment was quiet, which was exactly how I liked it after practice. I dropped my bag beside the couch, kicked off my shoes, and went to the kitchen. There were leftovers in the fridge. Nothing exciting, but I was hungry enough not to care.

While the microwave hummed, I checked my phone.

A message from Coach Mercer sat at the top of my notifications.

Coach Mercer: Reminder: individual performance reviews begin Friday. Be prepared to discuss your development plan and medical clearance.

I read it twice.

Medical clearance.

My appetite disappeared. I locked my phone and set it facedown on the counter.

My shoulder had been bothering me for weeks. At first, it seemed harmless: a dull ache after practice, some stiffness when I woke up. The kind of thing you stretched out, iced, and forgot about. Everyone on the team had something hurting. Hockey wasn’t gentle on the body.

So I’d kept playing.

Then the pain started lingering. Some mornings, lifting my arm above my head took more effort than it should have. Certain movements on the ice sent a sharp sting through the joint, and I’d begun adjusting without thinking_changing the angle of a shot, keeping my arm closer to my body, avoiding the movements that hurt most.

Small adjustments. Nothing anyone needed to know about.

Except Mason had noticed. And Coach might have, too.

I rolled my shoulder carefully. A familiar ache travelled down my arm.

“Shit.”

For a moment, I considered calling the university clinic and booking an appointment. Just getting it checked. If it was minor, I’d have worried over nothing.

But what if it wasn’t?

I’d spent years working towards playing professionally: early mornings, brutal training sessions, weekends in arenas while other people went out and lived their lives. I couldn’t afford to have all of that questioned now, not when I was so close to finding out whether I had a real chance.

The microwave beeped. I took out my food and tried to concentrate on eating.

My phone buzzed.

Mason: Don’t forget Friday.

Me: I can read a calendar.

Mason: And yet you couldn’t read Evie’s email.

A short laugh escaped before I could stop it.

Me: Get a hobby.

Mason: I have one. It’s watching you embarrass yourself.

I tossed my phone onto the couch.

I hated him.

Mostly.

---

The next morning, I woke before my alarm, my shoulder aching before I’d even opened my eyes.

I lay still, staring at the ceiling, hoping it would settle if I gave it a minute. It didn’t. When I rolled onto my back, I moved carefully, trying not to put too much pressure on the joint.

It wasn’t unbearable.

That was the phrase I’d been using lately. Not bad enough to stop. Not bad enough to tell anyone.

I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over my face. A bottle of painkillers sat on the bedside table. I picked it up, turned it over, then put it down again.

I didn’t want to start relying on them just to get through practice.

By the time I reached the arena, I’d convinced myself I was fine.

The rink was already loud. Pucks cracked against the boards, skates hissed across the ice, and Coach’s voice carried through the cold air.

“Reid! You’re late.”

I checked the clock above the entrance. Two minutes early.

“That’s a new one,” I said.

“Save the jokes for after practice.”

“Wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

Coach Mercer gave me a look that suggested he absolutely would dream of it, then turned away.

I headed to the bench to get my gear on. Lately, I’d felt his attention on me more than usual, especially whenever I came off the ice rubbing my shoulder. Maybe he was just doing his job. Either way, I wasn’t giving him a reason to look closer.

For the next hour, I pushed through drills, chased down passes, and took shots even when my shoulder started to burn. When a pass came awkwardly across my body, I adjusted at the last second, hiding the movement so smoothly that I almost convinced myself it hadn’t hurt.

Almost.

By the time Coach called practice, my shoulder was throbbing beneath my gear. I was taking off my helmet when Mason skated up beside me.

“You good?”

“Fine.”

He looked at my shoulder, then at my face. “You’ve been saying that a lot.”

“Maybe I’m a fine person.”

“You’re an irritating person.”

“Yet you keep following me around.”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t die of your own stupidity.”

I laughed and gave him a light shove with my good arm. He didn’t laugh back.

“Seriously, Callum.”

Something in his voice made me look at him properly. He glanced towards the coaches’ office before lowering his voice.

“Get it checked.”

My jaw tightened. “I’m handling it.”

“Are you?”

I looked away. Around us, the other guys were talking over one another, banging their sticks against the boards and complaining about the next day’s schedule. Mason waited. He knew when to joke, but he also knew when to stop.

“I said I’m handling it,” I repeated.

His expression shifted, not quite anger and not quite disappointment.

“Okay.”

He didn’t sound convinced.

“Don’t make a thing out of it.”

“I’m not making anything out of it, man. I’m asking you to look after yourself.”

For a second, I nearly told him. Not everything, maybe, but enough to explain why I’d been avoiding the clinic. Enough to admit I was scared of what someone might find.

Instead, I forced a smile.

“Don’t worry about me.”

Mason held my gaze, then shook his head and moved away.

I watched him go, guilt settling beneath my ribs. I was grateful he’d let it go.

I was also ashamed of how grateful I felt.

---

That afternoon, I thought about Evie when I passed the research rooms and when I spotted a girl with ginger hair bent over a notebook in the library. Not every redhead in Kingston was her, I reminded myself.

Evie hadn’t been impressed by the jersey or the jokes. I wanted to make her smile again.

Which was ridiculous. I had enough to think about without adding a girl to the list.

My phone buzzed as I headed back towards residence.

A notification from the university research portal appeared on the screen.

Upcoming participant session: Callum Reid — scheduled follow-up.

I opened it. The next appointment had already been added to my calendar.

Thursday, 3:30 p.m.

Of course Evie had organised everything.

I could picture her sitting at that little table, papers arranged in neat piles, checking the time and preparing to give me that look if I was even a minute late.

The thought made me smile.

Then another one followed, even more ridiculous.

What if I showed up early?

Not ridiculously early. I wasn’t about to sit outside the research room for half an hour like some desperate i***t. Just early enough to see her expression when she realised I could manage to arrive on time.

Maybe even early.

I shook my head at myself and locked my phone.

I had a medical review to worry about, a season to get through, and a future I wasn’t entirely sure I could hold on to.

The last thing I needed was a girl who made me want to turn up early.

And yet, as I walked into the cold evening, I found myself checking the time.

Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.