A rivalry that sells tickets.
Once, it got so intense, they literally punched each other on national television—during the All-Star Game, when they were allegedly on the same team.Same jersey.Same bench.Same mission statement: Have fun, promote the sport, don’t commit a felony.
Naturally, they chose violence.
Yes.Their hatred has always been ...artisanal.Handcrafted.Small-batch.A limited-edition rivalry with premium ingredients and zero chill.
And the funniest part?It’s a rivalry with a strict gag order.No one’s allowed to mention the camp.Or the lake.Or the nights we were kids and convinced ourselves we could have everything—friendship, love, each other—without consequences.
Because if we say it out loud, it stops being “competitive tension” and starts being “three idiots sprinting away from their feelings.”
When the plane lifts off, the cabin pressure shifts and my stomach does that stupid little flip it always does.I press my head back against the seat and close my eyes.
I try to breathe without picturing Dad on a clinic bed with wires on his chest.
I try not to picture the camp sign weathered and torn down.
I fucking fail.
Sleep comes in fragments.Short, jagged naps broken by turbulence, by the flight attendants’ carts, by my own thoughts slamming into me the second my brain tries to quiet down.
At some point, I open my laptop and stare at my editing timeline.The teenage goalie on the screen smiles into the camera, telling me about his dream like dreams are guaranteed.
I almost laugh.
Instead, I close it again and scroll through photos on my phone I haven’t looked at in a year.
Juniper Ridge.
The rink in early morning light.
Cabins lined up like they’re bracing for laughter.
A blurred photo of my mother mid-shout, her face fierce and bright.
A shot of my brothers—two large bodies in too-small camp T-shirts, grinning like they owned the world.
And then—because my brain is cruel—I hit the folder I pretend doesn’t exist.
Callaway at sixteen, sunburned, shirtless, holding a hockey stick like it’s an extension of his arm.His grin aimed straight at the camera like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Monty at the same age, half-shadowed, leaning against the rink boards, eyes fixed on something outside the frame.He looks like he’s holding himself together with stubbornness alone.
A photo of all three of us in front of the lodge, so young it almost hurts to look at.Me in the middle, smiling like I’m safe—like the world can’t touch us if we stand close enough.Like we’re a secret the universe approves of.
I’m smiling like we were perfect together, like love was something you could hold in your hands and never drop.As if it would last just because I wanted it to.
I lock my phone so fast my thumb slips.I sit there with my hands clenched in my lap, staring at the blank screen like it’s going to explain what to do with a life that keeps dragging me back to the same two people.The plane lands with a jolt that feels like a warning.
Welcome to the city, where the air tastes like coffee and fumes and ambition.Where people move like they’re late even when they’re not going anywhere.Where no one pauses long enough to hear their own fear.
JFK is the opposite of Juniper Ridge in every way.Loud.Crowded.Bright.It doesn’t leave room for feelings.I stand in the aisle with the rest of the passengers, shoulder-to-shoulder, and let the crowd carry me forward.My body is on autopilot—passport, customs, baggage claim.
And yet, the second I step into the terminal, my phone vibrates again.
For one awful second, my heart stops because I think it’s Dad.
It’s not.
