Page 205 of Puck Me Back to Life

I stare at my hands. “Because I already know what happened.”

“Do you?”

The question catches me. “I see it every night.”

“In your nightmares.”

“Yes.”

She nods thoughtfully. “Dreams aren't recordings, Kai.”

I frown.

“They're interpretations. They're memories filtered through fear, guilt, trauma, and the stories we've been telling ourselves.”

Silence settles between us.

“What if the version you replay every night isn't entirely accurate?”

My throat tightens. “I don't know if I can watch it.”

“You don't have to.”

Another pause.

“But I wonder whether seeing it with today's eyes instead of the eyes of a grieving twenty-three-year-old might offer you a different perspective.”

I don't answer.

Because part of me already knows she's right.

An hour later, I sit alone in my car outside her office. The engine isn't running. My phone rests in my lap. I stare at it for almost ten minutes. Then I type: William Grove accident.

Hundreds of videos appear. News clips. Sports coverage. Commentary.

I pick the raw broadcast.

My thumb hovers over the play button.

Then presses.

The arena fills my speakers. I recognize it immediately.

The crowd.

The commentators.

The uniforms.

I remember every detail.

The play develops quickly.

A rush through the neutral zone.

William cuts toward the middle.

I skate backward.