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The Sunday Session
publish date:
2026-08-27 16:20:40
Latest chapter
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term One Question
SLOANEThe plan, as of 6:44 a.m. this morning, was simple.Drive north. Eleven a.m. The storage room behind the equipment closet at the east entrance—the one with the warped handle and no cameras. Tell Chase everything. The burner. The messages. *I know you’ve been fucking your stepbrother.* *Tick tock.* The forged media request. The fact that the words *contained* and *safe* were doing a lot of heavy lifting for a girl with a camera’s worth of leverage pointed at her ribs.Then drive home. Tell no one. Let the blackmailer watch me be boring, and outlast the game.Simple.At 7:41 a.m., as I was pulling my coat off the hook, my phone rang.Not a text tone. Not a buzz. An actual, analog, *I know you’re already dressed and this is not a coincidence* phone call, flashing across the screen in letters that felt personally directed:**MR. CASTILLO — EASTLAKE LEDGER**I stared at it the way a person stares at a meteor in the sky. Pretty. Imminent. Full of implications.I picked up.“Morning.”
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Permanent Damage
CHASE “Are you there?” Mom asked.“Yeah. Yeah.” I put the phone back to my ear. “Got a little distracted. I’ll call you later.”I ended the call and looked over at the tattoo artist finishing up with the girl.“You’re next or you’re watching, kid? ’Cause I’m taking walk-ins until one and then I’m going back to the actual shop, where I have climate control and *dignity*.”“I’m next.”“I’ll be waiting for you upstairs, Chase. Pussy’s all yours tonight.” The girl smiled and walked out.I scoffed.The tattoo setup was in the garage.Sadie had hired him the same way she’d hired the DJ, the fog machine, the photo booth, and the kiddie pool. Sadie Vance’s parties came with infrastructure, and tonight’s included a guest tattoo artist working out of the detached garage the hockey house used for storage and bad decisions.He was set up under a single shop light—the kind that buzzed the way fluorescent lights in institutional buildings always buzzed, constant and accusatory. A black vinyl chair
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Contained
CHASEI took the stairs to the basement two at a time. Standing in the den with Brittany Calloway’s perfume still in my lungs and her threat tight around my throat wasn’t an option.*Imagine if the scouts saw the video.*I’d known. Somewhere in the part of my skull that ran calculations during faceoffs, I’d known she wasn’t finished. Knowing lives in the weather report. Hearing is the tornado touching down in your yard.The basement of the hockey house was where the party stopped pretending.Upstairs was the showcase—dancing, red cups, a DJ, the version of college everyone posted. The basement was the engine room. Black light. No DJ, just a speaker stack wired into a playlist that sounded like a building collapsing in rhythm. A couch that had died in 2018 and been too heavy to drag out. A wet bar nobody tended because everyone brought their own.And the other thing.The hockey-house basement had a reputation, and the reputation was earned. What happened down here stayed down here—not
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Frame Three
BRITTANYSadie Vance’s birthday party had a budget that could have funded a small country’s education system.The hockey house—a three-story brick colonial with a porch swing broken since 2019 and a keg tap permanently installed in the kitchen island—had been transformed. String lights crisscrossed the backyard. A DJ booth occupied the corner where the broken ping-pong table used to sit. Someone had rented a smoke machine. Someone else had rented a foam cannon. Both were running at full capacity by ten, turning the first floor into a cross between a music video and a hazmat zone.I arrived at 9:47.Not 9:30 (eager). Not 10:15 (predictably late). 9:47—the exact minute that said *I have somewhere better to be but chose you* without saying it out loud.Sadie met me at the door in a sequined mini dress and the bright-eyed gratitude of a girl who understood her party’s social currency had just tripled.“Brittany! Oh my God, I’m so glad you came.” She pulled me into a hug that smelled like
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Transfer
BRITTANYThe Dalton University registrar’s office processed my transfer paperwork in six days.Six days, one call from my mother to the dean of admissions — the dean my mother had played tennis with for eleven years — and one exceptionally persuasive personal essay about “seeking a program with a stronger communications curriculum.”The essay was garbage.I wrote it in forty minutes on my phone during a gel refill, and I still got a congratulations email with three exclamation points.That was the thing about being Brittany Calloway. Doors didn’t open for me. Doors saw me coming and removed themselves from the wall.I stood in the middle of my new dorm room — Hartwell Hall, ironically, the building diagonally across the quad from the athletic housing block where Chase lived with Marcus — and hung the last of my clothes. Silk first. Then cashmere. Then the winter coats that cost more than most students’ laptops.My roommate hadn’t arrived yet. Some scholarship girl from Oregon who list
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Dirty Little Secret
CHASEThe locker room was loud—hip-hop thumping from the main speaker, the sharp rip of tape being torn from shins, the usual post-win chaos.I sat on my wooden stall bench yanking on dark jeans, Dalton hoodie pulled tight over still-damp shoulders. Every muscle in my back felt wound to the point of snapping. Across the aisle Marcus pulled a clean white henley over his head, completely unbothered, humming along to the music.The side door creaked open.Sloane walked in.The room didn’t fall silent—these guys were used to media walking through during availability—but the energy shifted instantly, like someone had tuned every frequency to her.Leather satchel slung across her body, the strap cutting between her breasts and sharpening the structured lines of that navy dress. Dark brown waves fell loose around her shoulders, brushing her collarbone with every step. Tablet in one hand, pen tucked behind her ear. Professional. Untouchable.Tyler perked up immediately. “Hey, Media! Tell me y
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Welcome Home
CHASEThe locker room reeked of sweat-soaked gear, fresh tape, and the cold bite of sharpened blades. Most of the Vancouver Titans had already peeled out after morning skate—laughing, slapping asses, scattering to hotels for whatever flavor of chaos they’d lined up: threesomes, one-night stands, or
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term The News
SLOANEI was halfway through a very important scroll when my bedroom door swung open without so much as a courtesy knock.“Oh my god, Dad—what the hell?” I yanked the sheet up to my chin, though my silk camisole and tiny sleep shorts had already betrayed me by riding up in all the wrong places. Dad
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Collision Course
SLOANERevenge tasted like shirtless pettiness and the faint scent of cedar body wash.I was starving for anything that wasn’t Victoria’s artfully plated grilled salmon, so I’d claimed the kitchen while the happy couple was out “finalizing wedding details.” The massive marble island gleamed under r
Hate Should Be A Hockey Term Morning After
CHASEThe bed was empty when I woke. Sheets tangled, pillow still dented from where she’d collapsed. Amber—Ashley?—had ghosted around 3 a.m., heels clicking softly down the hall like she thought stealth was an option. It wasn’t. Thin walls go both ways.Sunlight sliced through the curtains like a
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