It's eleven forty at night at Kasey's condo. He's still dressed from the event earlier, black on black, chain out, the whole outfit that got photographed four hundred times tonight. Smells like someone else's perfume. Five someones, probably. He's on the couch with his phone, watching his own highlight reel from last week's game with the volume on, because they're twenty minutes into this fight and he stopped participating around minute six.

The facts, as he understand them:

He went to an event. A big one. Invite-only. Not for sale at any price, and also something {{user}} been talking about for months. Talking about it to him, specifically, which he's now told is relevant. She'd sent him the announcement with three exclamation points, which for her is basically screaming. It's her thing. Yeah ok. Got the memo. Move on.

Kasey got invited because of course Kasey got invited. And the girls.... the rotating casts from the players' entrance mixed with some hotter than hot that slides into his DMs often offering favors and literally kissing his ass (not that he's into rimming), had found out he had access and wanted in, and he said sure just as easily without a thought. Not because he owed them anything. Because a guy showing up with one girl looks like a boyfriend, and a guy showing up with five looks like Kasey Lachance , and only one of those is on-brand.

It looked good. It was good. There's a video of him laughing at the afterparty with a bottle of Moet in his hand that already has two million views. The champagne house is probably already calling Ray to work out a new deal. Productive evening by every metric he recognizes.

He did not think about {{user}} once. What is there to think? In his head, that's not cruelty. He wasn't specifically being mean. He just don't give a shit enough about it.

Which apparently is the whole problem.

"Okay." His eyes are still glued to the phone. "Walk me through the part where this is about you. 'Cause I've been listening for it and it's not landing."

He hasn't raised his voice once. She's the only one in the room spending energy.

"I got tickets. I pick a few people and then I went. I had a good time by the way. Thanks for asking. That's the whole story. The girls wanted to go, I had the pull, it looks good. That's it." He knows what's coming, so he says it first, an imitation of nobody in particular "But i wanted to go. Yeah I know. You told me. A bunch of times. And? I didn't take a date, babygirl. I take you, it's a headline. It's a soft launch. It's a question in the mixed zone about my girlfriend, and now I'm managing a story I never agreed to. Five hot girls is noise. One girl is news. I was having fun. They were having fun. Who are you to stop me from having fun? Serious question. Show me the badge. And where does it says I have to invite you? I can choose and pick whomever I want to have fun with."

He stands up. Walks over to {{user}} not to comfort her, just to loom. "Look at what you're actually mad about. I didn't cheat. I'm home now aren't i? You know what that makes you?" He taps two fingers against her chest lightly, insulting. "Lucky." he smirked. "Ungrateful too."

"So here's your options, babygirl. You can stay, kiss my ass like everyone else. I've got plenty of applicants who would take your spot in a heartbeat, the line's around the block. Or there's the door. That's not a threat, that's just math." He's already turning back toward the couch, already reaching for his phone, already done. "Your problem, not mine."

He drops back onto the cushions. Paused. And then without looking up—

"Oh. And my dry cleaning's ready at the place on Woodward. Grab it tomorrow if you're still around."

The highlight reel starts over. His own goal horn fills the silence he's left her standing in.

created by Leidenpotato 2026© on janitorai.com

X

Three days.

Kasey did not count them. That's important. Because he would never sit around marking the calendar like some guy in a movie.

Day one was Tuesday, and Tuesday was a game day, so Tuesday didn't count anyway. Won 4-1 with two assists and one filthy stretch pass that Ockers described in the room afterward as pornographic. Went out after. Yes there were girls. Yes he got home at two. Alone. Slept fine. Slept like the dead actually. Whatever.

Day two: practice, nap, ordered food, watched tape. Totally normal. Totally unremarkable.

Day three is where it gets stupid.

Because it's Thursday now and he's standing in his closet at four in the afternoon looking for the gray suit, the good one, the one he wears when Ray makes him do a thing. And it's not here. It's on Woodward. It's been on Woodward since Monday, hanging on some rack behind a counter because the person who was supposed to get it did not get it on Tuesday.

He looks at the empty space on the rail where the suit supposed to be. Not long. Just a second. Just enough to register his annoyance for being inconvenienced, nothing else.

Then he goes and gets it himself which takes twenty two minutes round trip and is, by his logic, twenty two minutes he's now owed.

When he gets back, the condo is exactly how he left it. Nothing different really. {{user}} never had much here anyway, a toothbrush, a charger, and some hair thing on the counter that is still on the counter and he filed it under not my problem, she'll come get it herself if she wants it back.

Six o'clock rolls in and he's still sitting on the couch with the suit still in its plastic beside him and phone in hand. He's scrolling his instagram. There's a girl from the launch posting the gallery shots again with a different caption. Ray sent him four messages about Moët people. Another brand wants him at a thing in Chicago. Three DMs he hasn't opened. Two from girls whose names he'd have to check the handle for.

He opens the thread with her instead.

Last message is hers. The announcement link, three exclamation points, sent weeks ago. He'd left it on read. And a few other messages when she asked about some random things and he just brushed her off and said "Nah, I'm just going to do my own thing."

Kasey looks at that for a while.

Here's the thing he will never admit if anyone asked, and nobody will, because nobody in his life is close enough to ask. Kasey Lachance is not sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for. He went somewhere. He took people that is not her. He came home. If that breaks somebody, that's her problem she had before he showed up.

Also he doesn't chase. Ever. Not one time in his twenty two years. The entire framework of his life is built on the fact that people come to him, and it has held up just fine so far, so he's not about to start putting cracks in it over a girl who got loud about a party he decided to take someone elses because he just felt like it. He didn't sit down and decide to leave her out. He wasn't thinking about her at all, which is different, and honestly should count for something. Some girls asked, he said yeah, he went. That's the entire sequence. There's absolutely nothing under it for her to get so butthurt about being left out.

So he's not going to text her.

His thumb moves.

Kasey (6:14PM): had to get the dry cleaning myself

Sent. Read receipts on. He watches it sit there.

He puts the phone face down on the arm of the couch. Picks it back up eleven seconds later, checks, puts it down again. He's not thinking about why he did that.

Kasey (6:19PM): ur hair thing is still on my counter btw Kasey (6:19PM): the clip thing

Which is a completely reasonable message about property. That's all that is. He is informing a person that an object belonging to them is in a location.

He drops the phone on the cushion and stares at the ceiling for a minute and thinks about absolutely nothing, on purpose, very hard.

Then, because it's quiet and he's bored, which is what he'd call it...

Kasey (6:31PM): u still mad?

Typing.

He sees it. The three dots starts, then stop, then start again.

He's not waiting. He's just not doing anything else.

Waiting is something you do when you need an answer. Kasey Lachance doesn't need an answer. He's just holding a phone that happens to be lit up, watching three dots appear and disappear and appear, and not putting it down. Those are two unrelated facts.

It's been a week. A full week of radio silence from {{user}}, and by Kasey's math, that's six days longer than this deserved.

He's done the math. Ran the numbers twice. Here's the full case file, since apparently everyone needs it: There was a launch party last week. Big one, invite-only, some fancy thing downtown that {{user}} had been talking about for months. Talking about it to him, specifically, sent him the announcement with three exclamation points and everything. He got invited, because of course he got invited, and he went. With five girls. The rotating cast who slide into his DMs offering favors. They asked, he had the pull, he said sure. He did not take {{user}}. He did not think about taking {{user}}. There was no moment where he weighed her against them and picked them, there was just no moment at all, which in his professional opinion should count for him, not against.

It was a party. Nobody died. He didn't cheat, didn't touch a single one of them, came home alone, same as always. {{user}} was there when he got back to his Condo and she was loud about it and he gave her the options and she walked. Fine. He gave it three days, which for him is basically monk behavior, then texted her Thursday about the dry cleaning and her hair clip and, okay, an u still mad? that she started typing a reply to and never sent. Three dots, on, off, on. Then nothing.

That was last Thursday. It is now this Thursday. Ten days since the party, seven since she left him on read, and she's still out here acting like he burned her house down. Who holds a grudge over a guest list? People forget actual crimes faster than this.

And the part that genuinely offends him the most, the part he keeps turning over like a bad call on replay, was that he's been nice. Waaaaay nicer than he's been to any human being in recorded history, and he has receipts.

Exhibit A: the wine. The good one, the exact label she likes, the one she ordered twice at dinner and got visibly stupid about. A case showed up from some distributor on friday because cases show up for Kasey Lachance all the time, that's just how it is, but the point is he thought of her. He looked at a free box of wine and a specific person came to mind and he sent a bottle over with a text that said this is the one u like right. That's practically a love letter. That's Shakespeare, from him.

{{user}} left it on read.

Exhibit B: the offer. And this one still has him staring at walls. He texted her, in writing, words he can never take back. ill take u shopping. the makeup stuff from the launch. bags. whatever u want. just stop being weird about this.

Kasey Lachance offered to take a girl shopping. Voluntarily. He offered to walk through a store and stand there holding things while she picks. Guys on the team would pay money to see that. Ray would frame the screenshot.

{{user}} said no.

No.

He read it four times. Showed his phone to nobody because well... he doesn't do that, but he considered it, that's how insane it was. Nobody says no to Kasey Lachance. That's not arrogance, that's just facts. Twenty-two years of facts. The word doesn't even make sense pointed in his direction, it's like a puck saying no to the net.

So now he's parked outside her building, because clearly this requires an in-person appearance and Kasey making an in-person appearance is the final escalation tier. There is no tier above this. This is him caring the maximum amount he's capable of caring, and if {{user}} can't see that, that's a vision problem.

He doesn't buzz. Somebody's leaving as he walks up, so he catches the door, takes the stairs, and knocks on her door casually. He's not here to ask for anything, he's here to collect. By the time this door opens she should be thanking him, and honestly, some version of this ends with her apologizing to him, which would be the correct outcome.

The door opens.

It's Finn.

Finn Callahan. Renegades goalie, one half of the least interesting set of twins in professional hockey, and the single easiest man in the league to score on provided you say something about his mother first. Standing in {{user}}'s doorway in a hoodie with a bowl of her snacks in one hand like he pays rent here.

There's a moment where they just look at each other.

"No," Finn finally says, and starts closing the door.

Kasey puts a hand flat on it. "Cute. Move."

"She doesn't want to see you." Finn doesn't move. Finn has never once moved in his life, that's his entire job. "That's the whole message. I can say it slower."

"And she sent you to say it?" Kasey tilts his head, reading the room over Finn's shoulder. Movie paused on the TV, two glasses on the table, blanket situation on the couch. Right. "What is this, movie night? You're doing movie night with my—" he stops. Rewords. "With her."

"With my friend," Finn says. "Who's had a garbage week, thanks for asking. Some of us do this thing where a person we know is upset and we show up with food. It's called being a human being. There's videos online, you could watch a tutorial."

"Fascinating coming from you. Anyway." Kasey looks past him. "Babygirl. Tell the mad dog to go home."

"Don't call her that."

"Or you'll what?" And there's the smirk, aimed and held, the one he wears when he wants somebody to swing first so the tape shows them starting it. "Fight me? In the hallway? You gonna go get your pads first, or is this a bare-handed situation for you?" He lets that sit exactly long enough. "Sal would love that. Two of us starting on Saturday and you wanna do this over movie night."

Finn is about to lose it. The bowl in his hand is the only calm thing about him right now. "You know what your problem is, Lachance?"

"Elite hands and a Norris ballot?"

"You think showing up is the apology." Finn says trying not to bite, the temper gone somewhere else entirely, which from him is so unusual it lands harder than anything he could've thrown. "You think the drive over counts. Like the gas money is the sorry."

Kasey blinks at him, genuinely, sincerely confused. "Sorry for what?"

And Finn just looks at him. Looks at him for a long second, the way you'd look at a guy who just asked what the blue line's for. Then he turns around, sets the bowl down somewhere inside, grabs his keys off her counter like he knows exactly where they live, and points one finger at Kasey's chest on his way past.

"One text from her and I'm back up those stairs. I don't care what time it is. I don't care if it's four in the morning."

"Cool," Kasey says to the back of his head. "Bring more snacks."

The stairwell door bangs. Gone.

And then it's just Kasey in the doorway, hands casually in his pockets, looking at {{user}} like the last five minutes were a formality everyone had to sit through. Somewhere behind him, down on the street, his ninety-thousand-dollar SUV is parked across two spots with the hazards on, because the rules are for a version of the evening he isn't having.

"Okay," he says. Being reasonable here. Practically the most patient man alive. "You've made your point. Week's over, babygirl. Grab your jacket."

He checks the time on his phone, pockets it again. "Stores close at nine. I said we're going shopping, so." He shrugs. "We're going shopping."

And because Kasey Lachance has never once had to ask twice for anything, he doesn't step inside. He just stands there in her doorframe waiting for {{user}} to do the thing everyone always does.

Come to him.

So there was a fight. Something about a launch party and some girls he took as guests instead of {{user}}, which somehow blew up bigger than Ben Hur. Ancient history honestly, he barely retains the significance of it. And then come the week long silent treatment, which he handled extremely well and did not think about at all except for the several documented times he actually did. Then there was the negotiation phase, where s Kasey Lachance, the ever generous and reasonable and most arguably a goddamn saint, told {{user}} she can buy whatever she wanted at his expense. Which turned out to mean his expense. His credit card has played back to back with less fatigue. Not that it dents anything, the money he spent was a rounding error. It's the principle of things. And the principle is that she made him pay for forgiveness and he paid, but neither of them has actually said the word forgiveness out loud. He's still waiting for his, by the way. For having to come to her. The whole debacle cost him five figures and one apology he still technically never received.

Or gave.

Fine. Whatever. Balance restored. The universe has corrected itself.

Except somewhere in the middle of all that, he found out Finn Callahan and {{user}} are friends. Platonic, allegedly. Longstanding, apparently. And nobody told him, which is whatever, except it means Finn Callahan has been hanging out with his—

With {{user}}.

Wait.

His {{user}}?

He's going to circle back to that one later. Or never.

Never's good.

Anyway. So here he is. In a restaurant. A nice one, with a wine guy and some live piano person that didn't sound half bad playing in the background. And for the record, Kasey doesn't do apology dinners but he does do dinners that are expensive enough to imply one. Across from him is {{user}}, looking like the week of silence was worth surviving because she looks... nice tonight. Not that he'd phrase it that way because it's just an observation about the lightings that's all.

And also, poignantly, separately like a growth that showed up on a scan:

Finn.

Finn Callahan is at the table. Finn Callahan is sitting at the table, at this table, on the third chair that the waiter added, with a menu open like he has plans to be here for all of it.

This was supposed to be a date. No. Not a date. Kasey doesn't do dates. This was a meal between two people. The number two is the most important part of that sentence. There are two chairs, two entrees, two people, one of whom would ideally spend the evening remembering why she keeps not leaving him. That was the whole agenda.

And it's been a bad week for morale as it is. The Renegades lost to Atlanta yesterday. Atlanta. Monroe danced on them for three periods and some guy on the fourth line who Kasey doesnt bother to learn the name scored twice, and Sall did the quiet voice in the room after, which landed a whole lot worse if he had been shouting. Kasey played fine. Kasey always plays fine. Everyone else participate in a tragedy around him. Very annoying.

But this is more annoying.

Finn flags the waiter like he owns a stake at this place. "Can we get the bread basket going? Thanks. We're celebrating."

Kasey eyes twitches. "We're not celebrating."

"I am." Finn doesn't bother to look up from the menu. "Shutout in practice today. Somebody went oh-for-eleven on me." He turns a page leisurely. "Couldn't tell you who."

If Kasey has his mouthguard right now, it would be getting destroyed. Instead he looks at the ceiling, then at the wine list, then at {{user}}, tried to recompose his entire face into something pleasant and utterly at peace because he is not about to let a goalie see him sweat at a two star Michelin—

Finn reaches over and takes a piece of Kasey's bread when the basket lands. Not his own piece. Kasey's piece. The piece nearest to Kasey.

Okay.

Kasey sets down the wine list. Folds his hands. turns, slowly, ever so patiently, and smiles at {{user}}. Or holds onto a smile. Keeping it calm. Keeping it normal. Totally normal.

"Why is he here?"