I swallow hard, the lump in my throat threatening to choke me. “I don’t know,” I whisper, the words barely audible.
She squeezes my shoulders gently before letting her hands drop. “Then start there. Figure out what you want. And when you’re ready, I’ll be here—whatever you need, whenever you need it.”
The weight of her words settles over me as we continue walking,the silence between us thick but not uncomfortable. For the first time in a long time, I feel seen—really, truly seen. And while I’m not sure what comes next, I know one thing for certain: I can’t keep living like this. Something has to change.
We arrive at her car, a beat-up Subaru she refuses to trade in because “it’s got character,” when suddenly it hits me—I wasn’t expecting her tonight. I pause, frowning slightly as she unlocks the doors.
“Wait a minute. You’re supposed to be visiting your brother. Why are you home early? And how the hell did you know we were at Union?”
Skye glances at me over the top of the car, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Bitch, please. I always know where you are. Location sharing, remember?”
“Stalker,” I shoot back, but there’s no heat in my voice. Just gratitude.
She laughs, the sound light and unapologetic as she slides into the driver’s seat. “Call it what you want, but I knew you’d need backup tonight. That douche canoe doesn’t know how to treat you, and I wasn’t about to let him get away with being an even bigger asshole than usual.”
I climb into the passenger seat, the familiarity of her car wrapping around me like a warm blanket. It smells like the coffee she always forgets to throw out of the cup holder.
“You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you already back in town?”
Skye shrugs, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the main road. “Dad thing. Told him I’d help him with some stuff tomorrow morning, so I figured I’d come home a day early and see my favorite girl. Lucky me, I walked into Union just in time to see your boy showing his ass. Again.”
I shake my head, a small smile tugging at my lips despite the lingering ache in my chest. “You’ve got impeccable timing, as always.”
“Damn right I do.” She glances at me briefly before turning her attention back to the road. “Seriously, Tori. You deserve better. And I’m not saying that as your best friend—I’m saying it as someone who’s watched you bend over backward for a guy who doesn’t even notice how much you do for him. You’re not a goddamn doormat. Stop letting him treat you like one.”
I don’t respond, staring out the window at the streetlights blurring past. Her words echo in my mind, bouncing off the walls of my carefully constructed defenses. I know she’s right, but admitting that feels like stepping off a ledge I’m not ready to leave.
“Like I said, you don’t have to make decisions now or figure it all out tonight,” Skye continues, her voice softer now. “But you’ve got to start thinking about what you want. Not what he wants, or what you think you’re supposed to want. Just… you.”
The weight of her words sinks deeper, settling into the corners of my mind like seeds waiting to take root. I don’t know what I want yet. But for the first time, I’m starting to think it’s okay to ask the question.
Skye reaches over, giving my knee a quick squeeze. “And when you’re ready to raise some hell, you know where to find me.”
I glance at her, a small, genuine smile breaking through the fog of my thoughts. “Wouldn’t dream of raising hell without you.”
I roll down the window. The scent of cold air chases out the last trace of Union Lodge—cheap cologne and something darker I can’t name. I breathe deep. I don’t know what comes next.
But I know I’m not walking back into that bar.
NINE
LEO
I don’t usually pushthrough George’s front door at 9 a.m. on a Saturday.
Saturdays are ours, but they don’t start this early. Most weeks I roll in closer to noon, let him have a slow morning, and we pick some replay to tear apart like the outcome isn’t already decided. That’s the rhythm. That’s the ritual. But today I’m here three hours ahead of schedule, rapping my knuckles once on the doorframe out of habit before letting myself in.
The place smells the same—coffee, faint cedar from the woodpile stacked by the back porch. Everything looks the same too: paint peeling on the shutters, flag flapping lazily in the breeze, the ceramic bird feeder still hanging crooked from the porch beam. But George? George looks thinner than he did last week when he comes shuffling into the living room. His sweatshirt hangs looser, his cheeks a little more hollow. Cancer is carving at him piece by piece, and the fact that he still manages to smirk when I crack a jab about the Avalanche blowing another lead—that’s everything.
I drop onto the sagging end of the couch, the cushion already molded to me from years of this routine. He lowers himself into his recliner with the care of someone who knows his body won’tforgive him if he drops too fast. The TV’s already cued up to a replay from earlier in the week—Avalanche collapsing in the third, again—and we treat it like it’s happening in real time.
He rants about bad line changes. I tell him his goalie’s washed. He tells me my Canes are pretenders who’ll choke in the second round again. Stale pretzels in a chipped bowl, a flat beer for him and a cold one for me (it’s five o’clock somewhere). That’s the ritual. The safe place. The one constant left standing.
And for a while, it works. The tension from yesterday—the memory of Chase’s hand clamped around Tori’s arm, the sound of her voice undercut by his venom—starts to bleed out of me. For a couple hours, it’s just hockey. Just us.
Until George breaks the ritual with eight words that send my beer down the wrong pipe.
“You going to tell me who she is?”
