Even if the clock is already ticking on whatever peace I've managed to find.
Because somewhere out there, Cody is still in a coma.
And the people who did this to him are still watching.
And the timer on my temporary happiness is probably running out faster than I want to admit.
Chapter 22: Beckett
Saturday’soptionalpracticeisbrutal. Not that optional when Coach Crick sends that kind of text message.
Not physically — though Coach runs us hard enough that my ribs are screaming by the end –– but mentally. The weight of yesterday’s loss hangs over everything like a storm cloud that won't break.
We gather in the film room first, the lights dim, everyone slumped in their chairs with the particular exhaustion that comes from getting your ass kicked and knowing you deserved it.
Coach pulls up the game footage, and we watch in silence as he breaks down every mistake, every missed assignment, every moment where we could have been better.
Then he gets to the second period.
My missed coverage plays in slow motion on the screen — the UCLA forward, Rowan Melrose, cutting through the neutral zone, my hesitation as I calculate whether to step up or fall back, the perfect pass to his winger, the goal.
The room is silent.
I can feel eyes on me, but I keep my gaze fixed on the screen.
"Beck," Coach says, his voice sharp. "What happened here?"
I swallow. "I misread the play."
"You hesitated."
"Yes, sir."
He lets the silence stretch for a beat too long, then moves on to the next play.
But I feel Theo's eyes on me from across the room. When I finally risk a glance in his direction, his expression is blank.
Not angry. Not disappointed.
Cold.
I shiver.
Practice ends around eleven. Most of the guys shower quickly and clear out, eager to salvage what's left of their weekend. I take my time, icing my ribs in the training room, avoiding the inevitable.
But Theo waits.
When I finally emerge from the training room, the locker room is mostly empty. Just Theo, fully dressed, sitting on one of the benches, scrolling through his phone.
He looks up when I approach.
"You're slower," he says conversationally.
I toss my gear bag into my locker. "We lost as a team."
"Don't lie to me."
The words are quiet. Almost gentle. But they land like a punch.
