“Hello.”
That is all.
And somehow that single word carries the same weight it always has.
For a second, no one speaks.
The silence stretches just long enough that I become aware of how loud the arena suddenly feels around us. There are too many voices layered together in the background. People are laughing, cheering, and moving past our row while the five of us stand here, pretending this interaction is normal.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say finally, because saying something feels safer than saying nothing.
“We wanted to see Zane play,” my mother replies.
Not you.
Not both of you.
Zane.
I nod.
“I was about to get us drinks,” I say quickly. I need the movement more than conversation. I need to create distance before the old feeling in my chest settles too deeply.“Can I get you something?”
“Why don’t I help you?” Leo offers immediately.
The relief that follows that sentence is almost embarrassing in its intensity.
“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly.“That would be great.”
Sorry,” I whisper to Gwen as I pass her.
She smiles softly. It helps more than she knows.
The walk toward the bar gives me a moment to breathe again. Distance from my parents has always made everything easier, even when I was younger and still trying desperately to impress them rather than learning to live without their approval.
“They didn’t tell me they were coming,” I say quietly once we are far enough away.
“You ok?”
“Yes,” I answer automatically.
He doesn’t challenge it.
He nods once and keeps walking beside me toward the concourse. He is giving me exactly the amount of space I need without pretending he didn’t notice anything at all.
And for a moment, before the game even begins, I realize I am already grateful he came tonight.
We have just given everybody their drinks when Enter Sandman starts playing. The lights dim across the arena. The crowd rises to its feet so suddenly that the energy shifts from background noise to something physical enough to feel in my ribs. The sound of thousands of voices chanting together creates the same strange mixture of excitement and pressure I used to feel before stepping onto the ice at competitions where everything depended on three minutes of perfection.
I grip the railing harder than I mean to. Holt skates out first. Then Blake.
Even from this distance, I can recognize the way he moves differently on the ice than he does anywhere else. It’s sharper and faster and more controlled, like the confidence he carries so casually in everyday life suddenly has direction and weight behind it instead of floating freely around him.
Then Zane skates out last. He slows when he sees us. He winks at Gwen. Then he sees our parents. His smile disappears immediately. He looks at me. I smile back reassuringly.I didn’t know either. He understands. He always does.
The game starts fast enough that I almost forget myself for a few minutes. The puck moves too quickly for my eyes to track properly, and the crowd around us keeps shouting encouragement and insults and chants loud enough to drown out everything else.
Then Blake gets slammed into the boards. The sound echoes across the rink. My stomach drops instantly.
