“Nothing. We weren’t there. We were home. All night.”
“Mom, he—”
“I know.” Her voice breaks. “I know. But we can’t say anything. Ever. Do you understand me?”
I don’t understand. Don’t understand any of it.
But I nod.
That night, Grant doesn’t come home.
My mom gets the call at two in the morning.
I’m awake, sitting on my bedroom floor, and staring at nothing.
I hear her answer. I hear her voice change at the confirmation.
I go to her doorway. She’s on the floor. Phone still pressed to her ear.
“Ma’am? “ someone says through the speaker. I can hear it from across the room. “I’m so sorry for your loss. We will need to take your statement. Ma’am?”
My mom looks at me. Eyes wide. Broken.
And I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
We were there. We watched it happen. And we did nothing.
18 years old
I fit into Grant’s gloves perfectly now.
His hockey equipment has been in the garage for four years. My mom couldn’t get rid of it. Couldn’t bear to touch it.
But I could.
I wear his jersey number. Use his sticks. Skate in his shadow.
Practice ends and I’m sweating. Exhausted. Zephyr skates over. Taps my helmet.
“Good session,” he says.
“Yeah.”
He looks up into the stands. “Who’s the new guy your mom’s with?”
I glance up to see her sitting next to a man I don’t recognize. She’s smiling. Really smiling. For the first time in four years.
“She needs it,” I say. “It’s been long enough.”
Zephyr just stares up at them and pats my shoulder. “Grant was the best coach we ever had. You good, brother?”
I turn to him. “I found her.”
“Who?”
“My stepsister.”
Zephyr’s eyes widen. “What? Where is she?”
