“She's right,” Poppy said from her corner. “I'm almost eighteen. Micah's in college. Talia's got her whole life together. We're not helpless babies who need you hovering over us twenty-four seven.”
“I'm not hovering?—”
“You're absolutely hovering,” Micah cut in, and there was affection in his voice but also firmness. “You've been hovering since you got custody of us. And we get it, we do. But at a certain point, you have to trust that we can take care of ourselves.”
I looked between the three of them, all of them watching me with expressions that ranged from exasperated to determined, and felt the walls I'd built around my own life start to crack.
“I just want to make sure you're safe.”
“We know.” Talia's voice softened slightly. “But you can't put your entire life on hold every time they pull a stunt. You've already given up too much for us. The gig in Montreal is a big deal, and you're not bailing on it because Mom can't take a hint.”
“What if there's an emergency?—”
“Then we'll call you, and you'll come home early. But there won't be an emergency, because we're going to be smart and careful and we have each other.” She moved closer, and I could see the determination in her eyes. “It's time for you to live your life too, Soren. Not just the parts that fit around taking care of us.”
“I don't know how to do that.” The admission came out before I could stop it, and I felt exposed in ways that made my skin itch.
“Well, you're going to have to learn.” Poppy uncurled from the couch and came to stand next to Talia. “Because we're not letting you martyr yourself for us anymore. It's getting pathetic.”
“Poppy—” Talia started, but Poppy just shrugged.
“What? It's true. He acts like we're all going to spontaneously combust the second he leaves the apartment. It's insulting, frankly.”
“It's not insulting, it's love,” Micah said, standing up to join the intervention forming in the middle of my living room. “But it's also a problem. You deserve to have a life outside of being our brother and our protector. You deserve to play music and travel and do things that make you happy instead of constantly putting yourself last.”
I looked at the three of them standing there in solidarity, ganging up on me with affection and frustration in equal measure, and felt my throat go tight.
“I don't deserve you,” I said quietly. “Any of you.”
“Oh, shut up with that martyr bullshit,” Talia said, but her voice was warm. “You absolutely deserve us. You're stuck with us. And part of being stuck with us means we get to tell you when you're being an idiot about your own wellbeing.”
“We're going to be fine,” Micah added. “We have the code word. We have the plan. We have each other. You can go to Montreal and play your gig and trust that we're capable of handling our lives for forty-eight hours.”
“And if you cancel,” Poppy said, grinning now, “I'm going to tell June that you're backing out because you're scared of success. And then I'm going to post about it in the family group chat until you crack from the shame.”
Despite everything, I laughed. “You're a menace.”
“I learned from the best.” She came over and hugged me, and I wrapped my arms around her with a fierceness that probably bordered on uncomfortable. “Go to Montreal, Soren. Play the gig. Have fun. Let yourself have nice things for once in your life.”
“She's right,” Talia said, joining the hug and pulling Micah in with her until we were all tangled together in the middle of the living room. “You've spent your entire twenties making sure we survived. It's time for you to do more than survive too.”
I held them close, these three people I'd fought for and bled for and loved more than I knew how to express, and let myself feel the truth of what they were saying. They weren't kids anymore. They were capable, smart, fierce people who'd survived the same shit I had and come out the other side still standing.
Maybe it was time to trust that.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
playoff static
ROOK
Montreal in March was fucking cold. The hotel room overlooked downtown, glass and steel and traffic noise muted by double-paned windows, and I'd been awake since five watching the city wake up while my brain refused to shut off.
Game One. Best of three series. Montreal Maples on their home ice with a crowd that would be screaming for our blood the second we stepped onto the rink. No pressure.
I'd gone through my usual pre-game routine twice already—stretched, showered, gone over systems in my head until I could call every play blindfolded—but the static in my brain wouldn't settle. Soren kept threading through my thoughts in ways I couldn't control.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my head, and I opened it to find Tess standing there with her medical bag and anexpression that said she was already evaluating me before I'd said a word.
