It works. Because it doesn’t require me to talk.
Over time, a new version of myself begins to form. A version built from all the places I refuse to let break.
I stop waiting for someone to challenge me. I start challenging myself. Harder drills. Earlier practices. Later nights. More weights. More speed. More pain.
You cannot outrun grief. But you can bury it under muscle. You cannot erase a ghost. But you can out-skate the memories long enough to breathe.
I tell myself every morning: Forward. Always forward.
Because if I stop? If I look back for even one second? The image of Mikhail’s face that last day— the bruise on his lip, the way he said thank you without saying it the way he said goodbye without asking me to understand the way he looked at me like he hoped I’d remember him?—
I’ll fall apart. And I do not fall apart. Not ever again.
I build rules. Not written. Not spoken. Just carved into the inside of my skull.
Rule One: No attachments. People leave. People die. People get taken. If you don’t let anyone in, there’s nothing to lose.
Rule Two: No secrets you owe anyone. Mikhail told me his truth. I’ll never regret knowing it. But I will not be the person who holds someone else’s life inside my hands again. Too much weight. Too much risk.
Rule Three: No being someone’s hidden rebellion. I learned that one from the girls. People want what they’re not allowed to have. But they don’t want the consequences. I am done being anyone’s shadow desire.
Rule Four: Be undeniable. Hit harder. Skate faster. Speak less. Work more. Control the narrative so the world cannot rewrite you.
Faulker once joked that I am building myself into a weapon. He didn’t realize I already was one.
Chapter Thirteen
Draft Day
Draft day smells like nerves,ambition, and overpriced body spray. I sit beside Faulker, who looks like he’d rather be waterboarded than stuck in a suit surrounded by rich people clapping for their offspring.
“This room is a human humidity experiment,” he mutters in German.
“No one forced you to wear wool,” I say.
“It’s cashmere,” he snaps. “Which makes it worse. I am suffering in luxury.”
I snort. It’s the only reason I haven’t climbed out of my own skin. His complaining is grounding.
Every time a name is called, and a family erupts into tears, Faulker leans over and whispers something like, “Blood money,” or “His father definitely bribed someone,” or “If I ever smile like that, put me down.”
It helps. Keeps me from choking on my own thoughts. Because I am not thinking about the draft. I am thinking aboutmy brother. He’s thirty-two. Still trapped in the military, he joined to escape our father. Still at the mercy of a government that doesn’t release men during wartime, not even when six years have passed, and the casualty lists have their own columns.
But getting him out completely? Nearly impossible.
Unless I get drafted today. Unless I get the signing bonus. Unless I get the leverage. My knee bounces.
Faulker slaps a hand on it. “Stop it. You look like you’re preparing to stab the room.”
“Maybe I am.”
“At least wait until I get drafted first.”
A name is called. Not mine. Not his.
Faulker leans in. “If New York drafts me, I’m screaming.”
“They won’t.”
