Breakaway

Chapter 3 – The Interview

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Breakaway

I didn't sleep.

Not because I was waiting for him to call again. Not because I was replaying that okay in my head like a song I hated.

I didn't sleep because I was angry.

At Sloane. At Marcus. At his father.

At myself most of all.

Because he was right. I hadn't stayed. I'd left. And no amount of NDAs or threats or dying fathers changed the fact that I'd cashed that check and walked away.

But what was I supposed to do?

I was twenty-five. My dad was in chemo. The only person who could help me was the one person I couldn't ask.

I pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars.

The ceiling didn't have answers.

Neither did the morning.

---

7:00 AM – The hallway outside his room.

I didn't plan to be here.

My feet just… walked.

The coffee in my hand was for me. That's what I told myself. Two cups. One for me. The other was… extra.

I knocked before I could change my mind.

The door opened.

He was shirtless. Again. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair sticking up in the back.

"You're early," he said.

"You're awake."

"Didn't sleep."

"Me neither."

We stood there. The coffee was getting cold.

"I brought you this," I said, holding out the extra cup. "It's probably garbage by now."

He took it. Our fingers touched. Neither of us pulled away fast.

"You want to come in?" he asked.

"I shouldn't."

"Probably not."

I went in anyway.

---

His room was a mess.

Not dirty — disordered. Sticks leaned against the wall. Tape wrapped around a chair leg. His laptop was open to a frozen frame of himself checking a player into the boards.

"You watch that every night?" I asked.

"I told you. I study."

"You study the same fights over and over?"

"I study what I did wrong." He sat on the edge of the bed. Didn't offer me a seat. "That's how you get better."

"That's how you punish yourself."

He looked at me.

"Yeah. Maybe."

The silence stretched.

I sat on the desk chair across from him. Put my coffee on the floor.

"We need to talk about Sloane," I said.

"We need to talk about a lot of things."

"Then let's start with Sloane."

He shrugged. "She works for my father. She gave us the drive because she wants to take him down. That doesn't make her safe."

"She threatened me yesterday."

His eyes went sharp. "What?"

"After practice. She said legacies are fragile. Said one wrong word and everything crumbles." I wrapped my arms around myself. "She knows, Caleb. She knows about us."

"Of course she knows. She's been watching me for a year." He set his coffee down. "What exactly did she say?"

"That I should be careful."

"That's not a threat. That's a warning."

"It felt like both."

He was quiet for a minute. Then: "I'll talk to her."

"No. That'll make it worse."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

I didn't know.

That was the problem.

---

The morning skate was at 9.

I sat in the press box, pretending to take notes. My notebook was full of scribbles that didn't mean anything.

Caleb was on the ice.

He was good today. Really good. Sharp passes. Clean shots. He scored twice in the scrimmage and didn't celebrate either goal.

His teammates bumped fists with him anyway.

I watched him skate to the bench, grab his water bottle, stare at the ice.

Then his head turned.

He looked up at the press box.

At me.

One second. Two.

Then he looked away.

My phone buzzed.

Marcus: Reeves playing angry today. You notice?

I typed back: He's not angry. He's focused.

Marcus: Same thing in this league. Get me an interview. Tonight.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to say he's not a story, he's a person.

Instead I wrote: Fine.

---

12:30 PM – The media lunchroom.

Sandwiches. Chips. Stale cookies.

I was poking at a pickle when Marcus slid into the seat across from me.

"You look worse than this morning," he said.

"Thanks."

"Did you sleep?"

"Does staring at the ceiling count?"

He laughed, but it wasn't funny. "I talked to Sloane Vance again. She's pushing for a feature piece. Wants you to shadow Reeves for a day."

"Shadow him?"

"Home. Practice. Maybe a road trip." He raised an eyebrow. "That's unprecedented access, Lena. The kind of access that wins awards."

"She's not doing it to help me."

"I don't care why she's doing it. I care that you say yes."

I stared at my pickle.

"If I say yes, I'm under her thumb."

"If you say no, I'm sending someone else."

I looked up. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

He meant it.

I could see it in his face.

"Fine," I said. "Set it up."

---

2:00 PM – The locker room.

Sloane had approved the interview.

Caleb hadn't.

I stood outside the locker room, waiting. Players filed past. Some nodded. Some ignored me. A rookie tripped over his own feet when he saw me, then pretended he hadn't.

The door opened.

Caleb came out in a dark suit. Tie loose. Hair still damp.

"Marcus said you agreed to a shadow piece," I said.

"Sloane agreed. I didn't."

"Then tell her no."

"I did." He walked past me. "She doesn't listen."

I followed him down the hallway. "Caleb. Wait."

He stopped. Turned.

"Why are you following me?"

"Because I need this interview."

"For the story?"

"For my career."

He stared at me. "That's honest, at least."

"I'm trying to be honest."

"Are you?" He stepped closer. "Then answer my question from last night. Why did you come back?"

My throat went dry.

"I came back because Marcus sent me."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I have."

He looked at me for a long time. Then he shook his head.

"Fine. Tomorrow. My apartment. Ten AM. Sloane will send you the address."

He walked away.

I stood in the hallway, heart pounding, wondering what I'd just agreed to.

---

I thought about not going.

I thought about calling Marcus and telling him I was sick.

I thought about getting on a plane and going back to New York and pretending the last three days never happened.

But I didn't.

Because running was what I did.

And I was tired of being that person.

---

8:00 AM – Caleb's apartment.

The building was downtown. Glass and steel. A doorman who looked like he could break me in half.

He let me in anyway.

The elevator was fast. Silent.

I knocked on door 1402.

Caleb opened it.

He was wearing gray sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. No shoes. His hair was messy.

"You're early," he said.

"You said ten."

"It's 8:15."

"I know."

He stared at me. Then stepped aside.

"Come in."

---

His apartment was too clean.

Not lived-in. Sterile. White walls. Gray furniture. A single photo on the shelf — his mother, maybe. No family. No friends.

"How long have you lived here?" I asked.

"Three years."

"You haven't unpacked."

"I'm not staying."

"You're retiring."

He went still.

"I haven't decided."

"Everyone says you have."

"Everyone doesn't know me."

He walked to the kitchen. Started making coffee. I followed.

"Why did you invite me here?" I asked.

"Sloane's idea."

"That's not what I asked."

He turned. Leaned against the counter.

"Because I wanted to see if you'd come."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're scared of me."

"I'm not scared of you."

"You should be." He poured coffee into two mugs. Handed me one. "I'm not safe, Lena. I haven't been safe in a long time."

"I don't need you to be safe."

"What do you need?"

I looked at the coffee in my hands.

"I need to know what happened to you. After I left."

He was quiet for a minute.

Then: "Sit down. It's a long story."

---

We sat on his gray couch.

He didn't look at me. Just stared at the wall.

"The first year was the hardest," he said. "I called you every night. Left voicemails. Begged you to call back. You never did."

"I never got them."

"I know that now." He rubbed his face. "But at the time, I thought you just didn't care. So I stopped caring too."

"About what?"

"About everything. Hockey. My health. The people who actually stayed." He laughed, but it was hollow. "I started fighting. Not because I was good at it — because I wanted to feel something."

"How long did that last?"

"It never stopped." He finally looked at me. "I've been suspended twice. Fined more times than I can count. My agent — the old one — he tried to clean me up. But I didn't want to be clean. I wanted to be numb."

"And your father?"

"Watched the whole thing. Probably enjoyed it." His jaw tightened. "He always said I was too soft. Too emotional. Guess he was right."

"He wasn't right."

"He wasn't wrong either."

I set my coffee down.

"That's not true."

"You don't know me anymore, Lena."

"Then let me."

He stared at me.

"Why?"

"Because I still—"

I stopped.

Because I was about to say something I couldn't take back.

He waited.

I didn't finish.

---

I left an hour later.

We didn't talk about the past anymore. Didn't talk about the future. He showed me the view from his balcony — the river, the bridges, the skyline gray and cold.

"It's not home," he said.

"Where's home?"

"I don't know anymore."

I wanted to say me. I wanted to say you were home.

But I didn't.

Because we weren't there yet.

Maybe we'd never be there.

---

2:00 PM – The practice rink.

I sat in the stands, watching him skate.

He was good today. Really good. His shots were harder. His checks were cleaner.

A scout from the league office sat two rows behind me, taking notes.

"He's playing like he wants a contract," the scout said to his partner.

"He's playing like he's got something to prove."

They didn't know the half of it.

---

That night, I went back to his apartment.

I didn't knock this time.

He left the door unlocked.

He was sitting on the couch, watching game tape. Same fights. Same mistakes.

"You don't have to do this alone," I said.

"Who says I'm alone?"

"Me." I sat down next to him. "I'm saying it."

He didn't answer.

Just hit play.

We watched in silence.

---

Two hours later, his head was on my shoulder.

He was asleep.

I didn't move.

Because this was the first time in five years that being still felt like the right thing to do.

---

I thought the hardest part was forgiving him.

But he hadn't done anything wrong.

The hardest part was forgiving myself.

And I wasn't there yet.

Not even close.

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End of Chapter 3

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