I turn.
Dad.
He’s here.
My heart skips a beat.
I expected my mom. Ivy or Lina. Or maybe no one.
But it’s him.
I walk toward him, trying to pull myself together, trying to hide the tears threatening to spill.
“Dad…”
He looks at me.
Really looks at me—with eyes that have watched thousands of players try to hide injuries and fear.
He takes two steps forward, ignoring Aunt Tina as she tries to interview him.
Stops in front of me and places his hands on my shoulders.
“My girl,” he says softly, worried. “What’s wrong? Who made you cry?”
I break.
I don’t sob—but I collapse against his chest, burying my face in the rough wool of his jacket.
He holds me. Tight.
But over his shoulder, my eyes search for Cohen.
He’s far away, with Grace.
And he isn’t looking at me.
64
I Need Some Air
Cohen
“Let’s get out of here, Co.”
Grace’s voice is quiet but steady.
She doesn’t ask where. She doesn’t ask why I look like a man who’s just watched his own execution. She just knows I need to run—and she’s coming with me.
We move away from the cheering crowd, from the cotton-candy-pink bus, from Aunt Tina’s shrill voice interviewing someone.
We walk until we reach a quiet corner of the resort, behind the ski equipment storage buildings. No cameras here. Just the low hum of generators and the cold biting into my skin.
I drop onto an overturned wooden crate, elbows on my knees, and bury my face in my hands.
Darkness presses against my eyelids.
I failed.
