Chapter 32 IDFC

Chapter 32 IDFC
SEAN

I try to refocus on my prep notes, but Zach's pacing is starting to sound like a drumline. Thud. Thud. Thud. Mason's laughter crackles over it, Ty's deadpan commentary weaving in like background music.
Finally, I push away from the island. "You're gonna wear a hole in the floor, Hughes."
Zach shoots me a look, chest heaving. "Better than putting a hole in Gallo's face."
"Debatable," Mason says, grinning. "Though, to be fair, the ice could probably use some extra ventilation."
"Ventilation?" Zach snaps.
"Yeah," Mason shrugs, totally calm. "Your fist, his teeth. Perfect airflow."
Ty snorts so hard he almost drops his controller.
I can't help it—my mouth twitches. "You know what's really funny?" I lean against the doorway, apple in hand. "The fact that Gallo's still living rent-free in your head while we've got Yale breathing down our necks."
That shuts him up for a beat. His pacing slows, his eyes narrowing. "And I'm not playing that game because of that fucker, remember?"
"Right," Ty and Mason chorus again, perfectly timed.
"He's not worth it, man." I sigh. "The anger, I mean. But Yale is. You waste your energy on Gallo, and guess who wins? Not us. We need your support even off-ice."
"It would be nice to see you punch him in the jaw again, thought." Mason comments. And Ty is quick to agree with him.
Zach groans, dropping onto the couch like he just lost a war. "You guys suck."
Mason claps him on the back. "And yet, we're delightful."
Ty points his controller at him. "Speak for yourself."
They keep bickering, light and stupid, and for once, I let myself get pulled in. The weight in my chest doesn't vanish, but it shifts. The laughter helps. The noise helps. Being here, in this mess of a living room with these idiots—it reminds me why we're fighting so hard for Yale. Why this team matters more than any one guy, more than any one distraction.
It's my last semester at BU, and I know I'm going to miss this—the house, the guys, the chaos, and all the stupid banter that comes with it. I'm sure I'll find my footing with the Bruins just fine, but there's only a handful of months left before the four of us aren't all under the same roof anymore. Ty and Mason still have another year to carry the torch. And Zach? If he manages to graduate, it'll be a miracle. Not because he isn't smart—he is—but because he spends half his life skipping class and the other half trying to charm his way into someone's bed.
When my phone buzzes faintly against the counter, my heart jumps like it's trying to punch out of my chest.
I don't check it right away. Instead, I bite another piece of apple, force a steady breath, and let Mason and Ty argue about who'd survive longest in a zombie apocalypse.
Because I need to walk into that interview tonight as Captain Sean Callahan—the guy who's ready to lead BU to the Frozen Four title. Not the guy whose chest tightens every time Ryan's name threads through his thoughts.
But when I do check? God, I hope it's her.

〰️〰️〰️

The media room smells faintly like stale coffee and nerves. Or maybe that last part is just me.
I smooth my palms against my thighs under the table, trying to look like Captain Sean Callahan: steady, confident, the guy who's about to lead BU into the Frozen Four final for the first time in four years. Internally? I'm the guy whose stomach has been in knots all afternoon, wondering why Ryan hasn't texted him back.
The Terriers' media coordinator gives me the usual rundown—smile, keep it positive, don't swear, don't feed the drama. Easy enough. The exact same speech Julie made sure to drill into my brain.
The Boston University student reporter clears her throat, recorder already poised. She's got that look in her eye—the one that says she's dying to stir a headline out of me.
"Sean, first off—congratulations on making it to the Frozen Four final. It's been four years since BU held the title. How are you and the team preparing for such a massive game against Yale?"
I sit a little straighter, hands folded in front of me. "Thank you. It's huge for us, no question. We've been laser-focused on discipline, on sticking to our systems, and on playing our game. Yale's a tough opponent, but we've worked too hard all season to let this moment slip."
That's the polished answer. The truth? My focus keeps drifting to a pair of eyes that cut me down in the locker room after games, to the fire in Ryan's voice when she's angry about something, to the silence she's left me in since she said she was speaking to Matthews.
Another question comes fast, this time from the Terriers' media team. "Sean, you've had to step into a big role as captain this season. What does leadership mean to you, especially with this group of guys?"
Easy. I've rehearsed this one many times before. "It's about trust. It's about making sure every guy in that locker room knows he's got someone in his corner. Whether it's Zach battling through every shift, Ty holding us steady in net, or Mason keeping the energy up—leadership means lifting them up so we rise together. Nobody wins alone."
I mean it. But the words taste heavier than usual. Because part of me wants to say: leadership also means holding it together when your head is a mess. It means not letting one girl—this girl—make you lose sight of what you've worked for.
The student reporter leans forward, eyes glinting. "Speaking of leadership... last week's game against Boston College got a little heated. Zach Hughes was seen going after Gallo, and some people are saying BU lost its composure. What do you say to fans who think the team can't keep their cool under pressure?"
I inhale slowly, keeping my face neutral. "Hockey's a physical game. Emotions run high, especially in rivalry matches. But I have full confidence in my teammates. We addressed it as a group, and we're moving forward with focus. Our eyes are on Yale, and nothing else."
She tilts her head, not satisfied. "Some say it's not just the on-ice emotions—that there are personal distractions off the ice too. Any comment?"
There it is. The trap.
My jaw tightens, but I force a polite smile. "I'm here to talk about hockey. My personal life stays off the ice."
I keep my tone even, but inside? I'm bristling. She doesn't have to say it—Matthews' name hangs unspoken between us, like smoke. And Ryan's silence weighs heavier.
The media coordinator jumps in to redirect, thank God, throwing me a softball about the fans. I answer with a grin, talking about the atmosphere at Agganis, about how the BU community deserves this win as much as we do.
The questions wind down. The lights dim. The reporter looks a little disappointed she didn't break me, but I don't care. I survived.
As the room clears, I finally check my phone. Still no message from Ryan.
And somehow, that silence is louder than all the questions I just dodged.

〰️〰️〰️

The walk back across campus is brisk, the kind of cold that seeps through your jacket and rattles your bones. Usually, it clears my head. Tonight, it doesn't do a damn thing.
I replay every question from the interview—every polished answer I fed them, every careful smile. On the surface, I sounded like Cap Callahan: steady, composed, BU's golden boy. Inside? I was chewing glass.
Because all I could think about was her.
Ryan and Matthews. With Matthews or whatever happened there between them. Ryan, keeping me in the dark. Ryan, not texting back.
By the time I hit the corner by Agganis, I've checked my phone so many times I'm surprised the screen hasn't burned through my palm. Still blank.
I tell myself to stop. To lock in on Yale. To think about forechecking and breakouts, not a girl with wildfire eyes and a habit of blowing up every certainty I've ever had about myself.
Then—buzz.
My hand flies to my pocket before I can stop it.
It's her. Finally.
RYAN: staying at the dorm with the girls tonight.
I stop walking, thumb hovering over the screen. That's it? No details, no context? Just... staying at the dorm.
A hundred things rise in my chest. Relief, first. At least she's safe, with Rae and Emma. Then frustration—because it's not with us, where I know she'd be okay, where I'd know she's okay. And under all of that, something sharper. The need to hear her say it's over with Matthews. That she slammed the door shut on him the way he deserves.
SEAN: U okay?
And then I sit there, staring at it, forcing myself not to add everything else I want to say. That it would be better for her to stay here. That I need to know she's good. That we're good. That she's officially, permanently done with Matthews.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, itching to type more. Screw it. I don't want a text. I need to hear her voice.
I hit call before I can talk myself out of it. The line rings once, twice—then she picks up.
"Hey," Ryan says, quiet. Too quiet.
"Hey." My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to. "You okay?"
"Yea, I'm fine." She says it flat, automatic, like a reflex. And it lands wrong. I know her tones by now—the clipped sarcasm, the sharp defiance, the half-smile hiding in her words when she's teasing me. This? This isn't any of those. This is brittle. Hollow.
She's not fine. Not even close.
"Ryan." I step off the sidewalk, pressing a hand against the cold brick wall of a building just to ground myself. "Don't do that thing where you say you're okay when you're not. I can hear it in your voice."
A long pause hums between us. She exhales, shaky.
"What did he say to you?" I ask, lower now.
Because I need to know. Not to rip Matthews apart—though God, I want to—but because whatever poison he tried to spit at her, I need to wash it out.
Another pause. I hear a rustle, maybe her shifting in bed, maybe Rae's voice faint in the background. Then Ryan says, "Nothing I couldn't handle."
"Ry," I say, softer this time. "Don't do that with me."
There's silence on the other end, just her breathing. I wait. My grip tightens against the wall. I can almost picture her—sitting on her old dorm, hair pulled back, arms folded like armor.
Finally, she whispers, "He said I was pathetic. That me even looking at you made me... trashy."
My stomach knots.
"And that..." she swallows, the sound catching in the line, "that I'll chew you up and spit you out, the same way I did to him. That it's just who I am."
For a second, I don't trust myself to speak. Rage spikes hard and fast in my veins, sharper than any adrenaline I've ever had before a game. The image of Matthews' smug face—saying that to her—makes me want to break something.
But what I say is steady. "That's bullshit."
Her laugh is bitter, small. "Yeah, well. He believes it."
"He doesn't matter." I press my hand harder against the wall, grounding myself before I snap. "Ryan, you're not what he said. You never were. You never will be. Okay?"
Silence again, but this time it's different. I hear the faintest hitch in her breath, like she doesn't know whether to cry or believe me.
I close my eyes, lowering my voice. "I know you and you're not trashy. You're the strongest and most determined person I know. Also stubborn and impulsive. And I..." My throat tightens, but I force the words out. "I know exactly who you are. And it's nothing close to what he said."
Another long beat. Then, very quietly: "Thanks, Sean."
And just like that, my chest unclenches. Not all the way, but enough. Enough to know I got through to her, even if Matthews' poison still lingers.
"Enjoy the night with the girls and don't even think about that fucker," I say finally. "Can you promise me that?"
"I'll try," she whispers.
"Okay, that's something. I'll see you tomorrow before the game?"
"Yep." Her voice is thin and fragile, and all I want to do is hug her and keep her close to me.
I end the call, but my grip stays white-knuckled around the phone long after the line goes dead.
Because hearing her say those words—hearing what he dared to throw at her—ignited something in me. Something that won't burn out until we put Yale away and I know, without a doubt, that she's free of Matthews for good.