Raw Talent

SLOANE

The sushi arrived in those flat cardboard boxes lined with wax paper, the kind that feel occasion-appropriate even when you’re eating at a kitchen island because the dining room is still recovering from the emotional fallout of a two-day heat wave.

Victoria arranged everything—salmon rolls, edamame, miso in small ceramic cups—with the quiet efficiency that was starting to feel familiar rather than intimidating. Dad poured water. Brittany claimed the seat next to Victoria and slipped into the rhythm of the conversation with practiced ease, the kind of social fluency that looks effortless because it’s had years to develop.

I was beginning to understand that Brittany Calloway—whose I*******m I’d scrolled through once upon a time and fallen in love with her curated aesthetics, the effortless way she carried herself—was now someone I hated with a clean, burning passion. What the hell does a model even know about hockey, bitch? But hey, bitch, don’t fuck with me.

Chase sat at the end of the island.

I sat across from him.

We ate.

“The article structure I’m thinking about,” Brittany said to Victoria, responding to something about the wedding I’d half-heard, “is based on what I saw agents doing around similar announcements. You control the narrative or someone else does.” She speared a piece of tuna roll. “That applies to weddings the same way it applies to contract negotiations.”

“Everything is a negotiation to you,” Chase said.

“Everything *is* a negotiation.” She didn’t say it defensively. More like pointing out a law of physics. “You know this.”

“I know you believe it.”

“I know you’ve benefited from it.”

The table went slightly quiet.

Dad—diplomatically, generously, perfectly—said: “Chase, I saw your stats from the summer league game last week. That empty-netter from the red line—was that improvised or was there a play there?”

I watched Chase’s posture change. The tension in his shoulders shifting from the coiled, reactive kind to the focused kind. He leaned forward slightly.

“Improvised,” he said. “Goalie’d pulled out to challenge a rush that didn’t happen. I was at center and saw the angle open up.”

“Saw it or felt it?”

Chase paused. “Both.”

“That’s the thing they can’t teach,” Dad said. “The read.”

Chase nodded once—sharp, like acknowledgment he wasn’t used to accepting gracefully. “Reynolds calls it ‘puck vision.’ Says either you have it at instinct level or you’re always a half-second behind.”

“He’s right.” Dad tore the edge off a piece of seaweed. “I played with a guy on the Flyers—Danny Hargrove, you wouldn’t know him, he washed out after two seasons—who had the best hands on the team. Incredible hands. But he always had to see the puck to know where it was going. Couldn’t *feel* the play.” He shook his head. “That half-second is the difference between the show and the minors.”

“Hmm…” Chase breathed arrogantly.

Oh yes… typical Chase… the arrogant motherfucker.

Well, truce time is over. Back to war.

I cracked my neck.

“Dad played better than you, you know,” I smirked.

The words dropped like a puck on fresh ice—clean, sharp, unmistakable.

Dad froze mid-chew.

Victoria’s chopsticks hovered.

Brittany’s perfect lips parted in what might have been surprise or amusement or both.

Chase looked at me slowly.

The kind of slow that said he’d heard every syllable and was already deciding how to return fire.

“Excuse me?” he said. Voice low. Calm. Dangerous.

I leaned back on my stool. Crossed my arms. Smiled the smile I usually saved for people who thought they could talk down to me about hockey.

“I said,” I repeated, slower this time, “Dad played better than you. And he did. Stats don’t lie. He had a 0.912 save percentage in his last full season before the knee injury. You’re hovering around .887 in summer league this year. That’s not even close.”

The kitchen went dead quiet except for the low hum of the new AC.

Dad cleared his throat. “Sloane—”

“No, let her finish,” Chase said. Still calm. Too calm. “She’s on a roll.”

I kept going.

“Dad had 312 points in 487 NHL games. Mostly as a shutdown defenseman who could skate with anyone. You’re a flashy forward who coasts on highlight-reel goals and then disappears when the forecheck gets heavy. Different positions, sure—but if we’re talking pure impact? Dad was better. Full stop.”

Brittany let out a soft, surprised laugh—half delight, half disbelief.

Chase didn’t laugh.

He leaned forward. Elbows on the island. Eyes locked on mine.

“You really wanna do this right now?” he asked. Quiet. Deadly.

I didn’t blink.

“Yeah. I do.”

Victoria tried to intervene. “Kids—”

“No,” Chase cut her off. Still looking only at me. “She wants to talk hockey? Let’s talk hockey.”

He straightened. Cracked his knuckles once—slow, deliberate.

“Your dad was good. Solid. Reliable. The kind of guy coaches love because he never lost a shift. But he was never *the* guy. Never the one the building stood up for. Never the one they built the power play around. Never the one scouts wrote home about.”

He paused. Let that sink in.

“I’m projected top-ten. Maybe top-five. That’s not flash. That’s trajectory. Your dad peaked at third-pair minutes and a nice handshake from the GM when they bought him out. I’m on pace to be a franchise cornerstone. So yeah—different positions. Different eras. Different ceilings.”

He leaned in closer.

“But if we’re comparing raw talent? Speed? Hands? Vision? I smoke him. And you know it.”

The air between us crackled.

Dad looked like he wanted to disappear into his miso soup.

Victoria’s eyes were wide—half horrified, half fascinated.

Brittany leaned back on her stool, sipping sparkling water like she’d paid for front-row seats.

I felt heat climb up my neck. Not embarrassment. Anger. The good kind.

Oh… Motherfucker.

“You think numbers are everything,” I said. “You think because scouts drool over your wrist shot and your plus-minus looks pretty in July that you’re untouchable. But I’ve watched your tape. Every shift. Every zone entry. You force plays when you should cycle. You hold the puck too long when you should dump and chase. You play like someone who’s terrified of being ordinary—so you try to be spectacular instead. And half the time it works. The other half? It costs your team.”

I leaned forward now. Matched his posture.

“Dad never had your hands. But he never needed them. Because he understood the game. He read the play two steps ahead. He made the simple play look elegant. He didn’t need to be the hero every shift—he just needed to win the shift. And he did. Night after night. For years.”

I paused. Let it land.

“You? You’re still trying to prove something. To scouts. To your mom. Oh yes… your fucking MOM!” Oh yes… I struck a nerve. His eyes turned red as he held back those tears I would love to see fall. Fucking cry, boy. “To yourself. And until you stop performing and start *playing*—you’ll never be half the player he was.”

Silence.

Thick. Electric.

Chase stared at me.

Long.

Hard.

Then he laughed—low, humorless.

“You really hate losing arguments, don’t you?”

“I hate bullshit,” I said. “And right now you’re full of it.”

He stood up slowly. Chair scraping back.

For a second I thought he might walk out.

Instead he braced both hands on the island. Leaned across it until we were only inches apart.

“You wanna talk real?” he said. Voice so low only I could hear it. “Fine. Your dad was good. Respect. But he’s not here anymore. He’s not the one who’s got NHL scouts in the stands every weekend. He’s not the one who’s about to have his name called in the first round. And he’s definitely not the one—”

Dad cut in. “You’ve got the same tells Sloane does when you’re watching game tape in your head. The thing you do with your hands.”

Dad looked at me.

I looked at my miso.

“He’s observant,” I said, to no one in particular.

“He’s annoying is what he is,” I said, which made Victoria laugh—genuine, surprised—and broke whatever the tension had been about to crystallize into.

Brittany’s gaze moved between Chase and me with an expression I couldn’t read and didn’t try to.

“So you grew up around this,” she said to me. “Your dad’s career.”

“Sort of.” I set down the ceramic cup. “He retired before I was really old enough to understand what I was watching. I came to it through the writing.”

“Through the blog.”

“Through the blog.”

“And now you’re covering the summer games.” She folded her napkin precisely. “Have you reached out to any of the major outlets? The Athletic, ESPN, The Hockey News?”

“I’ve sent some pitches.”

“To who specifically?”

“Brittany,” Chase said.

“I’m asking a professional question.”

“You shouldn’t waste your time talking to a backstabbing bitch.”

“Chase.” My voice came out sharp and level in equal measure. “I can answer for myself.”

He stopped.

Brittany watched me with the focused, patient expression of someone who already knew the ending and was curious about the journey.

“I’ve pitched to three editors at The Athletic,” I said. “One at ESPN. Two freelance pieces for TSN digital that went through. Nothing regular yet.” I picked up my chopsticks. “I’m building the portfolio.”

I looked at Chase. And I saw the perfect word—**HATE**.

Raw.

Pure.

The one that will last enough for the rest of the summer.

Chase then looked at his food.

Dad and Victoria had migrated into a quiet conversation about florists, the way couples do when they’ve gotten good at knowing when to give a room back to itself.

“Why are you here?” Chase asked. Low. For her specifically.

Brittany didn’t flinch.

“Marcus told me the summer games are good this year,” she said. “And I have a shoot.”

“Marcus told you.”

“And I missed Victoria.” A pause. “And I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I’m doing fine.”

“You look it.”

Something passed between them—old and complicated and none of my fucking business.

I ate my salmon roll.

Predictable Chase. Fuck her after lunch. But trust me, not gonna happen on my watch.

“I’m going to get some air,” Chase said abruptly. Stood. Took his plate to the sink, rinsed it with more attention than strictly necessary, and walked out the back door without looking at anyone.

The door closed.

Brittany refilled her water glass.

“He’s always been like that,” she said, not unkindly. “When something surprises him, he needs to go somewhere it can’t follow him.”

I didn’t ask what had surprised him.

I was afraid I already knew.

“He’ll come back,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“But you won’t go after him.”

I looked at her. “That’s not my job.”

Brittany considered me for a long moment with the same careful, thorough attention she’d given everything else since she walked into this kitchen.

“No,” she said finally. “I suppose it’s not.”

She picked up her chopsticks and returned to her food.

Outside, through the glass door, I could see Chase at the far end of the deck—back to the house, hands braced on the railing, looking at the garden like it had done something to him.

I looked at my miso.

Picked up my chopsticks.

Ate.