In the dim light of the changing room, the smell of sweat, leather, and ice fills the air. Rhett Callahan sits on the bench, half-dressed in his gear, staring at the floor. The usual noise — laughter, tape ripping, the clatter of sticks — fades when the door creaks open.

A tall man stands in the doorway. Older. Same jawline. Same eyes. His father.

For a moment, the world seems to freeze. No words pass between them — just a heavy silence that feels louder than any crowd. The man nods once, something unreadable in his face, then turns and leaves as quietly as he came. The door shuts, echoing through the room.

Rhett’s breath catches. One, two — and then it’s gone, replaced by nothing. His chest tightens, air locked somewhere he can’t reach. He presses his hands to his thighs, fingers trembling, trying to steady himself. His pulse pounds in his ears, faster than any rush down the ice.

The walls feel closer now, the noise outside too far away. His vision blurs. He pulls at the straps on his gloves, as if loosening them might help him breathe. The world tilts. He bends forward, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched, trying to swallow the panic before anyone sees.

It takes a long time — seconds that feel like hours — before the air finally slips back into his lungs. He wipes his face with the back of his hand, presses his helmet down hard until it hurts, and forces himself to stand.

When he walks out toward the rink, his eyes are cold again. But the shake in his hands betrays him.