But they only trembled.
I stood, walking slowly to our closet where I dug through my clothes on hangers to a hidden shelf behind them. Wrapped in an old reusable bag and covered with spare fabric from when I’d tried my hand at sewing was Shane’s old Boston College Hockey hoodie.
I slipped it over my head and let the pain sear me, my eyes welling with tears as I fell into a heap on the closet floor. I curled into the hoodie, tucking my legs under it, pulling the sleeves over my shaking hands and inhaling deep as if the scent would still be there. It had faded long ago, but my memory of what it was to be loved by Shane McCabe never would.
I thought of my mother — of all the years I’d watched her shrink inside herself, bite down on her tongue, apologize for things that weren’t her fault. I used to wonder why she didn’t leave. How she didn’t scream. Why she didn’t run.
Now, I understood in a way that made my stomach lock up like a malfunctioning machine.
It broke my heart when she died. But lately… lately I’d caught myself wondering if it wasn’t mercy in the end. I wondered if she didn’t long for the quiet of it, if slipping away hadn’t felt like opening a door that had been locked for years.
Because sometimes, even when I was ashamed to admit it to myself, the idea of not existing at all felt easier than living in a hell no one else could see.
My fingers curled, ice cold and shaking, nails digging into my palms.
I wasn’t my mother.
But for the first time, I finally understood how someone like her — someone like me — could disappear without ever leaving.
Very, Very Wrong
Shane
Present
When the Sweet Dreams Gala rolled around, I thought I was prepared.
I was prepared to wrangle the team into dancing for charity donations. I was prepared for our away game in Boston that we’d leave for the following day. I was prepared to put up with Nathan, to grin and bear the whole event like I didn’t hate the prick. I was especially prepared to keep a close eye on him, to continue watching him for clues as to what he was up to behind closed doors.
What I was not prepared for, it turned out, was seeing Ariana.
I’d been counting down to it. I hadn’t seen her since Thanksgiving, since she let me kiss her and then told me I was a liar. It wasn’t for my lack of trying. I’d found my way into every Sweet Dreams meeting I could, even when I knew I wasn’t needed — but she was never there. And when we had games, I looked for her in the suites, only to come up empty-handed.
She’d been staying home. She’d been avoiding me. At least, that was what I’d thought.
But one look at her tonight, and I knew there was something more at play.
She stood near the edge of the ballroom, light catching on her the way it always did, like the room had tilted subtly in her direction without anyone else noticing. Her hair spilled down her back in long waves of golden blonde, framing alabaster skin that seemed almost luminous against the black of her dress. It clung to her in all the right places, hugging the generous curve of her hips and the soft swell of her waist and chest. The fabric shimmered when she moved, fine glitter woven through it like starlight, and from her shoulders flowed a sheer draped train, part cape, part veil, trailing behind her like smoke.
She was absolutely breathtaking.
She was also, undoubtedly, not okay.
I knew it with one lingering look. I’d spotted her, my heart kicking back to life in my chest as I moved toward her, and then promptly stopped again.
In an instant, I saw through the makeup and dress.
Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes — not the way it used to, not the way it did when she was proud of something she’d built. Those blue eyes were glassy, distant, as if she were looking through the room instead of at it. Her posture was perfect, shoulders back, chin lifted, but it felt rehearsed — held together by willpower alone.
She shifted her weight where she stood next to Nathan, one heel sliding back, then forward again, like she was bracing herself for a blow no one else could see coming. One hand stayed curled at her side, fingers flexing and unclenching, betraying the tension she worked so hard to hide.
It didn’t make sense.
This gala was her heart on display. Sweet Dreams was her vision, her fight, her sleepless nights and relentless hope stitched into every detail — and yet she looked like she’d rather be anywhere else, like she was counting the minutes until shecould disappear, like the room was closing in on her instead of celebrating her.
Something was very, very wrong.
“Coach.”
