I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, blackout curtains sealed tight so the room is a box of black. It doesn’t matter. The dark outside is nothing compared to the noise inside my head. It presses behind my eyes, a constant, pounding pressure. My skull feels one bad hit away from cracking.
I replay it in loops.
Her in the passenger seat, fingers curled in her sweatshirt sleeve when I hit that pothole. The seatbelt cutting across herchest. The way the streetlight caught on her mouth when she looked at me. The way she didn’t pull away when I leaned in. Not right away—just that tiny, frozen moment of suspended gravity.
If I’d closed that last inch, I would’ve kissed her.
I know it.
My hands ache, a low, throbbing pulse from knuckles to wrist. I flex them against the sheets. The tape bites back. The skin underneath is still bruised from punching the post. I can still feel Rylan’s jersey clenched in my fist, the way the metal groaned and buckled around his head.
The sound of the impact echoes in the quiet room.
I hear my father’s voice layered over it, cold and flat.You embarrassed me.
Beatrice’s, syrup-thick.All that strength… you shouldn’t have to leash it so tightly.
Coach’s, in the locker room.You’re a liability. Stay away from her.
Talia’s, soft and too honest:I’m not alone. You’re here.
My ribs feel too tight. The bed feels like a coffin. I rip the blankets off and sit up, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. The room hums with phantom noise—the crowd, the clang of a locker, the slam of a door upstairs at Genny’s that I only heard about secondhand but can see too easily. Her flinch.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a second my chest jerks, stupid hope rocket-launching before my brain catches up.
Not her.
Adrian.
Adrian:Coach wants you in at 6. Office before ice. Don’t be late.
The adrenaline is instant. It hits like a puck to the sternum. Six a.m. usually means conditioning or film.Officemeans something else. Judgment. Decisions.
I stare at the message until the screen goes dark.
He’s either cutting me for real.
Or he’s letting me back in.
Either way, it’s not going to be quiet.
The arena at dawn is a different kind of dark than my apartment. Cleaner. Honest.
By the time I push through the side door, the sky outside is just starting to bruise from black to grey. The hallway lights buzz low. The Zamboni’s parked, the sheet a fresh, glassy mirror. Cold air knifes my lungs in the best way.
I should feel better. I’m in my church.
I don’t.
My stomach’s one solid knot as I walk past the locker room. I can hear a couple of guys already inside, voices low, joking about something stupid. My stall is there. My gear is there. But I pass the door and keep walking.
Straight to Coach’s office.
The door is half-open. Light spills in a narrow triangle across the hallway floor. I stop with my boot on the edge of it and knock once on the frame.
“Come in.”
His voice is clipped, controlled.
