The memory was right there, I just had to reach for it with my blood-red fingers.
Reed, my brother, on the floor. Blood everywhere, more than a body should hold, pooling and spreading fast under my knees. My hands were useless, slipping, pressing down like that would do anything. Screaming for Pierce, his best friend, and getting nothing back — because Pierce was already running. I heard the door. I turned my head. He was gone.
He left Reed on that floor. He left me with Reed on that floor.
Pierce looked exactly the same, but broader in the shoulders, with that crooked grin that used to make me feel like I might float. The suit was new and different, looking like he didn’t come from Florida trash. And next to him, like no time had passed at all, like nothing had ever happened, Liam stood.
I was twelve years old in an instant. Skinny and hopeless and chasing after Reed’s friends because it was the only way I got to feel like I was part of something. Pierce slipping me candy on the days Papa forgot groceries again. Liam with his books and his careful explanations, Reed calling him his better half with all the smarts.
They were just there, alive and pretty, with a pack my brother always dreamed of, like they hadn’t killed Reed and ruined everything.
Tires screech. A car honks and I’m thrown forward in the cab, blinking as if I don’t know where I am. I rock forward as the carstops short. I almost cover my ears to save them from the driver’s blistering curses.
Right.
I am on my way home after that shitty date with Timber, not back in that blood splashed-living room with my dead brother.
“You like hockey?” he asks as if nothing happened.
“What did you say?”
He holds up one finger and changes the station on the radio.
“…blood on the ice. The Puck Panthers got exactly what they deserved.”
“Ha!” A barking laugh from the cab driver makes me focus on the radio.
The sports anchor’s voice is bright with barely contained glee as it rumbles through the car’s speakers. “The Scented Scorpions took on the Panthers last night, and things got ugly fast in the second period after their winger crashed straight into Scorpions’ goalie, Milton Grady.”
I close my eyes and lean my head against the window again.
“Grady hit the ice hard, trainers rushing in, and that’s when defenseman Beckett Hansen decided he’d seen enough. Gloves off, helmet off, straight to business. Timber Holtz joined in a heartbeat later, and suddenly we had two Scorpions on one Panther player, a full-blown scrum at center ice.”
“Scrum? That was some MMA shit,” the driver mutters.
The anchor laughs like he is in on the joke too.
“Refs were useless for a solid twenty seconds,” the anchor continues. “Hansen was throwing punches like rent was due, Holtz had the guy pinned, and the crowd was on its feet. A very clear message was sent.”
There’s a brief pause, then:
“And yes, Hansen spent some quality time in the box. He’s always been a brawler, but he’s entering his vicious era this season.”
The cab rolls through a yellow light, hitting a bump and almost toppling my bag to the floor.
“Scented Scorpions hockey, folks. You touch our goalie, you’ll answer for it. Final score aside, that’s the clip everyone’s replaying today.”
“Damn straight. Hansen did his job,” adds the cabbie.
The radio fades as the driver switches stations, but the name sticks in my head anyway.
Beckett Hansen.
The taxi jerks to a stop, and I just sit there until I catch the death stare from the driver in the rearview. I shove my bills and coins at him, and he rolls his eyes at the stack of ones and loose change. I know the sting of a bad tip and having to smile through it all too well.
I creep down the driveway. The house is all dark, but that doesn’t mean Papa isn’t awake and prowling. I clamp my purse between my teeth and use both hands to lift the latch on the gate. It still squeaks, but not too loudly. I wince and tiptoe down the cracked pavement to the garage, holding my breath. The whole neighborhood seems to be holding its breath to see if I fuck this up and get caught.
I grip the railing and distribute my weight the way Reed taught me when Papa was passed out with his belt still curled in his fist. The stairs up to my apartment are ancient, built before I was born. Every step groans. My bag slides off my shoulder and almost takes me with it, but I clamp my arm around the strap and right myself. I picture the headlines: “Local Omega Dies in Freak Stair Accident, No One Surprised.”
