“Then you talk to McCarthy,” Mason says, voice low and firm. “Before warm-ups.”
“We have a game tonight,” I snap. “Reed gets scratched?—”
“We’ll juggle lines,” Mason cuts in. “We always do. Losing a center isn’t the end of the world.”
Then, quieter, sharper, “But letting him skate after doing that? That’s the end of your conscience.”
I drag a hand through my hair. “Half the team’s gonna lose their shit.”
He shrugs once, not gentle. “Half the team can deal. Wren matters more. And honestly?”
His jaw flexes. “I’ve got a sister. If anyone tried that on her…” His voice drops to something cold. “I’d put the guy through a wall.”
The breath I let out feels jagged. “Yeah.”
“Good.” He nods toward the hallway. “Go shower. Tape your hand right. Walk into McCarthy’s office looking like you’re in control, not like you just crawled out of an ER.”
A beat.
“But don’t wait.”
I nod.
He squeezes my shoulder once—solid, unshakable. “You’re doing the right thing, O’Connor. Even if it costs us. Even if it costs you.”
I stand, and the room tilts for a second. Mason doesn’t look away.
“Go,” he says. “Handle it.”
Coach McCarthy’sdoor is cracked when I get to the rink. The light from his office cuts across the dark hall like a spotlight. I can hear the faint murmur of a video—commentary turned off, just skates, stick taps, the scratch of blades on ice.
My mouth’s dry. I take a fortifying breath and knock once before pushing the door open.
Coach is at his desk, two monitors going—one with the last game, one with a spreadsheet of shifts. He looks up, sees the bandage on my hand, and immediately pauses the video.
“Close the door,” he says.
His voice is flat. Not a great sign.
McCarthy leans back in his chair, gaze moving from my hand to my face. His expression doesn’t give me much—just tight lines around his eyes. The smell of coffee and old tape fills the room.
“You want to explain why my starting center showed up this morning with a face like ground meat,” he says, “and my alternate captain looks like he lost a fight with a cinder block?”
I swallow and nod. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Start talking.”
So I do.
I tell him about the party. About Wren leaning against the wall in her oversized hoodie, phone in her hand, promising she’d stay put. About the blender incident in the kitchen. About going back and not finding her there. About the way my chest squeezed tight, the unease I tried to shake off.
I tell him about seeing Reed halfway up the stairs with her hanging off him, knees dragging, head lolling.
I don’t embellish or dramatize. The facts are sickening enough.
Coach’s face gets tighter the further I get. When I describe catching her before she hit the step, his jaw ticks.
“And then you hit him,” he says.
