LIAM 'MOOSE' CALLAHAN | RIGHT HOOK | PORTLAND PUFFINS

The suits always felt wrong on him.

Liam Callahan adjusted the knot of his tie as he walked up the concrete ramp toward the arena doors, gear bag slung over one shoulder, the weight familiar and grounding. The fabric pulled tight across his broad chest when he moved, seams protesting the simple act of walking like they knew damn well he wasn’t built for this kind of polish. Give him flannel, give him denim, give him a rink that smelled like ice and sweat and old rubber mats. Not this.

Jack walked to his left, jacket unbuttoned, tie already loosened like he’d lost patience with it halfway through the parking lot. Jesse bounced along on Liam’s other side, suit immaculate in a way that felt deliberate—like he enjoyed knowing he looked good.

The three of them cut an unmistakable shape together: captain, assistant, goalie. Suits or skates, it didn’t matter.

“Tellin’ you right now,” Jack said, voice echoing off the concrete walls, “if Griff makes us sit through another ‘play clean, play smart’ speech, I’m gonna start charging him rent for the space he takes up in my head.”

Jesse snorted, “You say that every game.”

“Because he says it every game,” Jack shot him a look, “Consistency’s important.”

Liam huffed a laugh under his breath. “Jesus Christ, you two ever shut the fuck up?”

“Negatory, brochacho,” Jesse said cheerfully, “Doctor says it’d kill me. Can’t leave the team with zero sex appeal, now can I?”

They hit the doors together, the familiar hum of the arena bleeding through the glass—distant rumbling of the Zamboni on ice, the low roar of an early crowd, music thumping somewhere deep inside. Home game. Big one. Liam felt it in his bones, the same way he used to feel storms rolling over the orchard back home, pressure thick in the air long before the rain hit.

Jesse stopped short, patting his pockets. Once. Twice.

“Ah, shit.”

Jack didn’t slow, “What now, Rodriguez?”

“Mouthguard,” Jesse grimaced, “Left it in my car.”

“Again.”

“Yep.”

Jack swore,“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

“I’ll grab it,” Jesse said, “Won’t take a sec.”

“I gotta get inside,” Jack sighed, already angling toward the doors. “Griff wanted a word before warm-ups.” He glanced at Liam. “You good?”

Liam nodded without thinking. “Ayuh. I’ll wait.”

Jack clapped a hand against Liam’s shoulder once and disappeared inside. Jesse jogged off toward the parking garage, dress shoes slapping against the brick sidewalk.

Liam shifted his weight, setting his gear bag down by his feet, rolling his shoulders to ease the tension gathering there. He leaned against the concrete wall, hands in his pockets, breathing in the frigid, January Maine air mixed with exhaust and salt drifting in from the harbor. Smelled like it was gonna snow later. He’d call his parents, make sure they had gas for the generators after the game in case the power went out back at their-

That’s when he heard it.

Not loud at first. Just sharp enough to cut through the background noise.

“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?”

Liam’s head turned on instinct.

A few yards down the sidewalk, half-shadowed by the overhang, stood a couple he hadn’t noticed before. The guy was in a suit too, though it didn’t sit on him right—too stiff, too new, like he was wearing it because someone told him he had to. His team’s logo was stitched clean and bright on the gear bag at his feet.

The woman stood with her arms crossed tight over her chest, shoulders hunched inward like she was bracing for weather.

“Don’t start,” the guy snapped, “You always do this shit before my games.”

Liam’s jaw set.

The man leaned in, crowding her space. “You know what? You’re fuckin’ embarrassing. You ever think about that?”

Liam pushed off the wall.

He didn’t move fast. Didn’t need to. Every step felt measured, deliberate, winter boots heavy against the pavement. He wasn’t close enough to hear everything, but he didn’t need to be. Tone carried just fine. So did the way the woman’s eyes dropped to the ground.

“Jesus Christ,” the guy went on. “I don’t even know why I bring you. You’re always whining, always—”

Liam stopped.

His eyes locked on the gear bag.

Black and red stitching. Clean zipper. And right there, bold and unmistakable:

79.

Something cold slid down his spine.

He knew that number. Not from the ice. From a screen.

From a headline that never quite became a headline. A blurb buried halfway down a sports site, phrased careful and bloodless.

‘Player to take a season break for personal reasons.’ No charges filed. No further comment. A girlfriend who’d stopped posting pictures of them together and then stopped posting entirely.

Liam had remembered the number because it stuck in his craw. Because guys didn’t just disappear for a season and come back like nothing happened. Because everyone had talked about it in low voices and then stopped. Because no one wanted to touch it.

The rookie—because that’s what he was, Liam realized now, young face, unearned confidence—kept going. “You’re lucky I even put up with your shit. You know how many girls would kill to be here instead of you?”

Liam’s hands curled into fists inside his pockets.

He was twice the guy’s size. Could end this in a second. One step forward. One word. One look.

Footsteps pounded behind him.

“Okay, okay, got it,” Jesse said, breathless, red faced and panting in the below freezing winter air, “Told you—two secs.”

He followed Liam’s line of sight and went quiet. Jesse stepped closer, close enough that Liam felt him before he touched him. A hand landed on Liam’s shoulder. Not restraining. Just there.

Jesse hesitated, then said, “Is that—”

Liam didn’t let him finish.

“Ayuh.”

“Hey,” Jesse said softly. “Save it for the ice.”

Liam swallowed, “You’re kidding.”

“Uh, no I’m not,” Jesse’s voice stayed even, “On the ice, it’s part of the game. Off the ice…” He trailed off. “You’d probably end up sitting in jail longer than he should have a year ago.”

Liam’s jaw worked.

“I don’t like how he’s talkin’ to her,” Liam muttered.

“I know,” Jesse squeezed his shoulder once, “But not here.”

Liam exhaled through his nose. Hard. Slow.

That was all.

Jesse’s hand fell away.

They didn’t look back when they went inside.

---

The game started hot.

From the first puck drop, Liam felt it humming under his skin. Every shift, every stride, every breath tasted sharper than usual. He found 79 early—saw him circling wide, saw the way he flinched under pressure. Rookie mistakes. Rookie confidence.

Liam lined him up.

The hit was clean. Shoulder to chest. Boards rattling. Crowd roaring.

He skated away without a glance. Didn’t take a lot of explaining on the bench before the next period for the rest of the Puffins to want in on the action.

Griff, their coach, had one thing to say: ‘Just make sure you make the other team start it.”

Next shift, Tyler finished a check late and chirped something about taking the guy’s mom against the glass last night. Jack crowded the bastard’s space along the boards. Viktor made sure he paid for every inch of ice he tried to claim. It wasn’t subtle. It didn’t need to be.

By the third period, tempers were boiling.

A shove turned into a slash. A slash into a scrum.

Liam saw 79 lunge at Tyler.

That was it.

Liam grabbed him by the jersey and drove him back, pinning him hard against the glass. Helmets knocked. The crowd went feral when Liam lifted 79 two inches up off the ice by his collar.

“You ever talk to a woman like that again,” Liam snarled, close enough that the kid could hear him over the noise, “you’re gonna fuckin’ regret it. You hear me, prick? Give me an excuse. I’d fuckin’ love ya for it.”

The rookie spat something back. Liam didn’t hear it.

He just swung. Right hook. Clean. Across the jaw.

Refs were on him instantly, dragging him back as the rookie crumpled. The whistle screamed. The crowd howled and anyone in reach of the glass wearing a Puffins’ jersey pounded on it.

Liam didn’t fight the refs, he skated to the bench in silence.

Griff’s lecture washed over him later, sharp and disappointed and inevitable. Liam nodded. Took it. He knew the cost. Benched for the rest of the game.

As he sat there, helmet off, sweat cooling on his skin, he felt it—the weight of someone watching him.

He looked up.

In the stands, a few rows back, sat a woman he didn’t recognize immediately. Eyes fixed on him. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just… seeing him.

Then it hit him. 79’s girl, the one the shithead had been chewing out on the sidewalk.

Liam’s ears burned. He lifted one hand in a small, awkward wave for her. Like he didn't just beat her piece-of-shit boyfriend into a red stain on the rink. Then he looked back to the ice, jaw tight, heart still hammering like he’d never left it.