"Adela, that could be dangerous."
"Good." I open the car door. "I'm done being careful."
As Beckett walks around to the driver's side, I see him pull out his phone. His expression is unreadable, but his jaw is tight.
“I need to get to practice.”
I look away, staring out the window at the gray Seattle morning.
“Then get to practice.”
Evergreen Private Medical. That's where I start.
Someone moved Cody in the middle of the night. Someone with enough power to arrange transfers, block phone calls, and tell hospital administrators to keep their mouths shut.
Someone who wants me to stop looking.
But I'm done asking for answers.
Now I'm taking them.
Chapter 18: Beckett
I'mtapingmyribsin front of my locker when Silas walks in.
He glances at the compression wrap I'm winding around my torso and doesn't say anything. We both know where the bruise came from. We both know it's not going to heal in time, but I’m not going to complain.
The purple has spread from my ribs down to my hip, the boot print still visible if you look closely enough. Every time I twist or turn or take a deep breath, the pain flares hot and sharp.
I finish taping and pull my practice jersey over my head, wincing when my ribs protest the movement.
"You good?" Silas asks, not looking at me as he laces his skates.
"Fine."
The locker room fills gradually — guys stumbling in half-asleep, the smell of coffee mixing with sweat and hockey tape and steel. Someone's playing music low from a speaker.
Coach walks in, clipboard in hand, his expression already pissed off.
"Listen up," he barks, and the room goes quiet. "UCLA embarrassed us at home Friday. We don't split at home. We sure as hell don't lose the home opener." He slaps the clipboard against his palm. "This week, we fix that. Friday at UCLA, and we're sweeping both games. No excuses. No weak shifts. No fucking around."
Someone mutters agreement. Coach's eyes sweep the room, landing on each of us in turn.
"We run contact drills today. Full intensity. If you can't handle it, sit out now."
Nobody moves.
"Good. Ice in five."
The cold hits my face the moment I step onto the rink, sharp and clean and familiar. I do a lap to warm up, testing my ribs with each stride. The pain is manageable, but barely.
Theo is already out here, skating like a machine — fast, aggressive, every movement precise and controlled. I’m not surprised by the stunts he’s pulled.
I push the thought away and focus on the drill Coach is setting up. Contact work — one-on-ones along the boards, full speed, full contact. The kind of drill that separates the guys who can take a hit from the guys who fold.
Theo lines up across from me for the first rep.
Coach blows the whistle, and we both drive toward the puck. I get there first, but Theo doesn't slow down. He comes in hard, shoulder driving into my side, slamming me against the boards with enough force that my ribs scream.
