Callum doesn’t respond. Just rolls over and eventually his breathing evens out.
But I lie awake for hours. Thinking about tomorrow’s game. About Jax sitting alone at the bar. About Tiger back home dealing with everything by herself.
About how we’re all drowning in different ways.
And I don’t know how to save any of us.
Morning skate is a disaster.
Coach runs drills. Passing. Shooting. Line work.
Jax won’t pass to Callum. When Callum’s open, Jax shoots instead. When I try to set up plays, Jax ignores them.
By the end of practice, Coach is red-faced and furious.
He pulls the three of us aside. “What the hell is going on?”
None of us answer.
“I asked you a question.”
“We’re working through some stuff,” I say finally.
“Work through it faster. We have a game in six hours, and you three look like you’ve never played together before.”
“Maybe you should break up the line,” Jax says.
Coach stares at him. “Excuse me?”
“If we’re not working, change it up.”
“I’m not breaking up my top line two weeks before playoffs because you’re having a bad day.”
“It’s not just a bad day—”
“I don’t care if it’s a bad week or a bad month. You three are the best line in the conference when you’re functioning. So function.”
“And if we can’t?” Jax asks.
Coach steps closer to him. Voice low and dangerous. “Then you sit. And I’ll put someone else in who wants to play. Clear?”
Jax holds his gaze for a long moment. Then nods.
“Good. Now get your shit together.”
We head back to the locker room in silence.
Callum pulls off his practice jersey. “This is going to be a bloodbath.”
“We’ll make it work,” I say.
“How? He won’t even look at me on the ice.”
“We play through it. We adjust.”
“We shouldn’t have to adjust. He should just play like a fucking teammate.”
Jax slams his locker. “I’m right here.”
