"Hockey!" Ethan yells, pumping his fist.
She sits on the edge of my bed, adjusting Ethan on her lap. "How's therapy going, by the way? I know losing Lily was traumatic. I'm glad you're getting help to process it."
My stomach twists. She thinks that's what therapy is for. Jackson and I agreed not to tell anyone the real reason: the rape, the cutting, all of it.
"It's helping," I say carefully. "Dr. Mills is good. We're working through a lot."
"Good. You've seemed lighter lately. More present." Emma smiles. "I'm proud of you for going."
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, but I push it down. "Thanks, Em."
Three hours later, I'm sitting in the family section of the Hartford Wolves arena, surrounded by wives, girlfriends, and kids. The energy is electric, twelve thousand people packed into this space, all of them buzzing with pre-game excitement.
Emma's beside me with Ethan in her lap. She's wearing Chase's jersey, number eighteen. Ethan's wearing a tiny Wolves shirt that says "Future Captain" on the back.
"You okay?" Emma asks, reading my face.
"Yeah. It’s just loud in here."
"It is. But it's a good kind of loud." She bounces Ethan. "See daddy? And Uncle Jackson?"
The teams are warming up on the ice. I spot Chase immediately: number eighteen, dark hair visible under his helmet. Then Jackson, number twenty-five, the C on his chest catching the light.
Captain.
He's doing drills with the other forwards, moving with mesmerizing precision. Quick turns, perfect passes, shots that hit the net with satisfying thuds. Even in warm-ups, he's commanding, the other players orbiting him like he's the sun.
"He's good, isn't he?" Emma says, following my gaze.
"Yeah. He is."
The anthem plays, and both teams line up at their blue lines. Jackson's at center ice, helmet off, hand over his heart. His blond hair is swept back, jaw set in concentration.
He looks like he was built for this, like the ice is where he belongs.
The puck drops, and the game explodes into motion.
I've watched hockey before, grown up with it, spent years in this sport's orbit. But watching Jackson as captain is different. He's everywhere, calling plays, directing traffic, fighting for every inch of ice. When he has the puck, the arena holds its breath.
Five minutes in, one of the opposing players takes a run at Chase in the corner. The hit is late, dirty, and sends Chase crashing into the boards. The whistle blows, but Jackson's already dropping his gloves.
"Oh shit," Emma mutters.
Jackson goes after the guy who hit Chase, doesn't even hesitate. Grabs him by the jersey and throws a punch that connects with his jaw. The other player fights back, and suddenly they're both throwing punches, the refs trying to separate them while the crowd roars.
Jackson gets in three solid hits before the refs pull them apart. He's bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow, but he's grinning, shouting something at the other player as he skates to the penalty box.
"Five minutes for fighting," the announcer says, and the crowd boos.
"That's my brother," Emma says proudly. "Defending his teammate."
Chase is back on his feet and gives Jackson a nod as he skates past the penalty box. The message is clear: they're a team, they protect each other.
Jackson serves his penalty, comes back out flying. First shiftafter the box, he wins a face-off, threads the puck through two defenders like it's nothing. Chase picks it up at the blue line, carries it into the zone, and buries it in the top corner.
The arena erupts.
Emma's screaming, Ethan's clapping, and I'm on my feet without realizing it.
