I pull my knees up, curl tighter into the hoodie, his hoodie, and press my forehead to them like it’ll somehow make the thoughts stop. Like I can hide inside the fabric, inside the warmth, inside something that still smells like him and pretend it’ll all be fine.
But I don’t know how to come back from this—not if I fuck it up again, not if I keep giving him reasons to bench me, not ifI’m the one who costs him the Cup. And I can feel it, deep in my chest. The fear. The pressure coils around my spine, constant and ruthless, tightening with every breath.
And then there’s the voice, the one that won’t shut up, won’t back the fuck down. What if you’re not enough? What if they win the next game because you weren’t good enough to stop them? What if you lose him? The questions dig in like blades, each one sharper than the last, and I can’t outrun them, can’t drown them, not even with the weight of his hoodie hanging heavy across my shoulders.
So I grab the remote and I rewind the tape again. Two minutes left. Hawks up one. Reapers chasing. I’m on the ice. I’m skating too wide. I’m out of position. The pass slips right by me. That goal never should’ve happened.
Never.
I press pause, and the screen freezes mid-motion, the puck hanging in the air. It floats there, frozen mid-air right before it destroys everything. The image is too clear, too cruel. I stare at it until my eyes burn.
I swallow hard, throat tight and dry, and whisper, “Not again.”
The sound of my own voice barely registers. It’s swallowed by the low hum of Damian’s office down the hall—background noise I’ve been tuning out for the past hour. Newscaster chatter, static from a television left on, the gentle, clinical buzz of something normal happening outside this room.
Then—BREAKING NEWS.
My head lifts.
The words slice through the noise. A newscaster’s voice cuts in—calm, rehearsed, unbearably slow. Another clip plays, muffled by distance and a doorway I didn’t bother closing. I can’t see the screen. I don’t need to because the words hit anyway. “—the Ravensburg Reapers’ team bus has been involved in a crash—”
My blood turns to ice.
“—reports say the vehicle flipped—”
No.
No.
“—three players lightly injured—”
Please, God.
“—one critical—”
My ears explode with ringing. A high, shrill screech, drowning everything out. The room tilts violently to the left, or maybe I do. I can’t tell. The TV in front of me fades to a blur of grey and light, a glitching frame I can’t focus on. My heartbeat slams into my ribs, each pulse a fist trying to punch its way out of my chest.
I can’t hear. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
Everything narrows. Everything condenses to a single, sharp point of horror echoing over and over inside my skull.
Critical. Bus.
The reporter keeps going. Her voice is steady, professional, slow, like she isn’t ripping my life apart syllable by syllable. “—the accident occurred just outside city limits—”
No. No, no—
“—the bus caught fire—”
Flames.
I’m not here anymore—I’m twelve again. Rain hits the windshield. Tires screech. The car tilts, unnatural and wrong, spinning toward the tree. Burning rubber floods my nose. Sirens wail in the distance. And beside me, there’s nothing. Just my brother’s empty seat.
My lungs seize. My hands shake so violently I drop the remote. It hits the floor with a crack that sounds exactly like snapping bone.
“—emergency responders on site—”
I stumble to my feet, vision tunneling as sweat breaks down my spine, my throat closing tight. My heart pounds too fast, too hard, like it’s going to burst out of my chest.
