"Again!"
I groan but skate back to the blue line. We've been running this power play drill for twenty minutes straight, and my legs are screaming. Jenkins is bent over his stick, gasping. Reeves looks like he might actually murder Coach.
"Anderson!" Coach skates toward me, face red. "You're the center on this play. Where's your head?"
"Right here, Coach."
"Bullshit. You've missed three setups in a row." He stops in front of me. "We won the last game because you were sharp. Right now, you're skating like you forgot how. What's going on?"
I know where the arteries are.
Maya's handwriting flashes through my head. Those careful diagrams showing exactly where to cut for maximum damage.
"Just tired," I say. "Long week."
"Then wake up." Coach blows his whistle. "From the top. And Anderson, if you miss Chase breaking toward the net one more time, you're running suicides until you puke."
We line up again. The puck drops. I win the face-off, send itto our defenseman on the point. He fires it across to the other D-man. I'm already moving, reading the play, looking for the opening.
Chase races toward the net. I slip the puck past two defenders, landing it right at his stick. He shoots, and it flies into the top corner of the goal.
"Finally!" Coach yells. "That's what I want to see. Again!"
We run it five more times. I nail every setup. My head's in the game now, body moving on instinct. This I can control. This makes sense.
Not like trying to help someone who's actively planning their own death.
Practice ends an hour later. I'm drenched in sweat, muscles burning in that good way that means I pushed hard enough. The high from landing every play settles in my chest, temporary but real.
Chase slaps my shoulder in the locker room. "There you are. Thought we lost you in the first half."
"Just needed to warm up."
"Warm up?" Jenkins laughs from across the room. "Cap, you're usually dialed in from the first drill. What's different?"
Everything.My sister's best friend is living in my house, cutting herself, and I'm the only one who knows.
"Nothing. Just off my game this morning."
Chase gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push.
The drive home takes fifteen minutes. Chase talks about Emma's latest pregnancy craving—pickles and peanut butter, which sounds disgusting, but apparently, she can't get enough. I make the appropriate sounds, but my mind's already ahead, wondering what state Maya will be in when we get there.
Will she be locked in her room? Will I catch another glimpse of whatever's happening beneath the surface?
We pull into the driveway, and I hear Ethan before I see him.
"No! Skate! Skate!"
Chase and I exchange a look and head around to the backyard.
Ethan's standing by the play structure, arms crossed, bottom lip stuck out in a pout that would be funny if he wasn't on the verge of a full meltdown. Maya's crouched in front of him, hands on her knees, trying to reason with a toddler—which anyone with kids knows is a losing battle.
"Buddy, it's too cold for skating right now," Maya's saying. "The rink isn't even set up yet."
"Want skate!" Ethan stamps his foot. "Unca Jacky skate!"
"Uncle Jackson's at practice—" She spots us, and relief floods her face. "Oh, thank god. He wants to go skating, and I've been trying to explain that's not happening right now."
