Page 5 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO (Second Chance Hockey Players #1)

Chapter four

Liam

T he sting of the puck hitting my stick reverberates up my arm as I dig in, racing toward the goal. My skates carve hard into the ice; my focus lasered on the movement ahead. McAllister’s got the puck, zigzagging through the defense, but he hesitates. He is holding too long.

“Move it!” I shout, my voice sharp, demanding.

Startled, he flicks the puck my way. Too late. The defense sweeps in, stealing it with ease.

“Dammit, Mac!”

I am already skating back, fast, and furious, closing the gap to block the shot. My stick meets the puck with a satisfying crack, sending it toward Matt on the left wing. He pivots but gets swarmed by the defense.

I call for the pass, slapping my stick against the ice. Matt hesitates for half a second because there is no opening, so he passes it to Sam, who sends it my way, and I’m already in motion.

My skates slice through the surface, the rhythm of my strides pounding in sync with the pulse in my ears. The puck glides ahead of me, my stick guiding it like a magnet. A player closes in, and I twist, dragging the puck back before flicking it between his legs. He curses, spinning too late.

There is no time to think, no room for error. Just instinct.

Another defender blocks my path to the net. I fake left, shifting my weight to trick him, then cut right. He falls for it, lunging in the wrong direction.

“Finish it, Liam!” Ryker shouts from behind me.

My stick finds the puck again, and with a sharp wrist flick, I send it flying. The slap of the puck hitting the top corner of the net is like music to my ears.

The horn blares, echoing through the empty arena.

“Hell yeah!” Ryker whoops, clapping me hard on the shoulder as we circle back.

The coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of the session.

My chest heaves as I peel off my helmet, the frigid air biting at my sweat-soaked hair.

With the way I am playing, one would doubt if this was practice.

Yes, it is, but to me, every pass, every shot, every pivot has weight.

The bottom line is that I like to win, during practice and in real games.

A few minutes later, we are all huddled in the center of the rink, sweat dripping, breathing hard. Coach Mark stands before us, arms crossed, his clipboard tucked under one arm like he is holding back from throwing it.

“Now, I do not know what happened to you folks at first. If you want to play like a bunch of amateurs, that is fine. But do not expect me to put up with it.”

“We’re sorry, Coach,” we chorus.

He moves on to yelling at the defense. “On the plus side, you did good. That’s what I wanna see - speed, precision, aggression! Your timing on the breakaway has to be on point. Well played.”

“Thanks Coach,” we chorus.

Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “All right, that is enough for today! Hit the showers! Y’all stink.”

I roll my eyes but cannot suppress a small smirk as I unbuckle my helmet and skate toward the bench. Matt and Logan fall into step beside me, their sticks slung over their shoulders.

I roll my eyes, already removing my gloves. The laughter ripples through the team as we shuffle off the ice. My legs feel like lead, but it is a satisfying kind of ache, the kind that says you’ve earned your rest.

Matt and Logan fall into step beside me, their sticks slung over their shoulders.

“Hey, when’s the last time you guys talked to Ethan?” Matt asks as he pulls off his gloves, flexing his fingers.

“Last night,” Logan says, pulling his gloves off and stuffing them into his bag. “Man, I miss him. Cannot wait for him to be back.”

I snort, cutting Logan a sideways glance. “Dude, you have been missing people a lot lately. Are you in your clingy ‘I need attention’ phase again?”

Logan flips me off, dragging a hand through his sweat-matted brown hair. “Just because you’ve got the emotional range of a brick doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t feel things.”

Matt jumps in, smirking. “Nah, you are definitely clingy. Remember three months ago? You practically moved into Liam’s house when he was going to leave for that Europe gig.”

“That’s called being a supportive friend,” Logan retorts, puffing out his chest like he is proud of it.

“Sure, sure,” I say, smirking. “Supportive, clingy - same thing when it’s you.”

“But then, Liam, you’d probably miss us too if we were not around for a bit, right?” Matt says with a grin.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” I deadpan, slinging my gear bag over my shoulder. “Besides, Logan’s idea of missing someone usually involves blowing up their phone and leaving a trail of emojis that make no sense.”

Logan groans, throwing his hands up. “You send one - okay, maybe five - crying face emojis, and you never live it down.”

“Five?” Matt laughs. “Try fifty. Ethan probably had to put you on mute.”

“Why is this just about me? What about Matt?” Logan fires back, quick on the draw. “He literally FaceTimes his girlfriend whenever he has a little free time. Talk about clingy.”

“That is different,” Matt defends, his cheeks coloring.

“Uh-huh,” I chime in, smirking. “And you’re totally not whipped, right?”

“Not whipped,” Matt insists, but his defensive tone only fuels our laughter.

“You both need girlfriends,” he mutters, making us burst out laughing.

The teasing continues until we step into the bathroom, a sprawling space lined with twenty-four stalls, half of them already occupied judging by the muffled sounds of running water and occasional voices, and the familiar hum of flickering fluorescent lights.

The air carries that faint mixture of chlorine and soap.

Logan grabs a towel from the rack by the entrance, slinging it over his shoulder as he steps toward an empty stall. I take the one beside him, with Matt a couple over.

As I turn the faucet, chilly water hits my hands, and the icy shock is a welcoming feeling. I am halfway through washing my hair when Logan starts talking again.

“Dude, how are your parents? They finalize the divorce yet?” He says casually, but there’s a weight to his tone.

The room seems to shrink around me for a moment, the noise of the guys fading into the background. I rinse the shampoo from my hair, buying myself a second to respond. “Dad’s ready to finalize it,” I say, my voice flat. “Mom’s the one who’s dragging her feet.”

“Do you want them to stay together?”

I shrug. “It’s not my concern what they do with their lives or their relationship.”

“But if you had to pick?”

I exhale, turning off the faucet and reaching for my towel.

“I wish they would just get it over with. It has been over for a long time. The relationship, the marriage…, it is all done. Dragging it out like this…,” I trail off, shaking my head.

“It is pointless. Dad’s already halfway out the door.

Mum’s just… It is like watching a slow car crash, and honestly? I am done watching.”

Logan lowers his voice as he leaves the shower stall. “You think your mom’s scared to let go?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I say, wrapping the towel around me and following Logan to the lockers to get dressed. “You know how she is. Always finding ways to make things difficult for everyone around her.”

Logan exhales deeply, nodding. “That’s rough, man.”

I shrug. “It is what it is. Not my problem, really. Their marriage, their mess.”

He studies me for a moment like he wants to say more, but Matt bursts out of a stall, cutting through the tension.

“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 from the 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 of Macarena is 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.

“Finally,” I mutter, leaning back on the couch. Some peace and quiet at last. But the thought of her invaded my mind thanks to a stupid person who played the damn song.