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Not until her.

I stared at the laminated instruction sheets. The original was soft and worn, the new one still crisp.

If all went well, I’d step back into the net soon.

Then I’d find out if I could still do the thing that had defined me my whole life.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ELLIE

It was the evening of game three, and Brashe had been cleared to play.

I stood in my bedroom, staring at the four outfits lying across the bed.

Marzipan sat on the dresser, her yellow eyes tracking my movement with the judgment only a cat could deliver. I’d tried on the jeans twice. The dress felt too formal, and it would be cold in the arena. The leggings-and-sweater combo screamed trying too hard not to try.

Brashe’s hoodie hung over my desk chair where I’d left it after work yesterday.

I picked it up, turning it over in my hands. Sniffing it.

“I’m just checking if it needs washing,” I told Marzipan.

She slow-blinked.

“Wearing this is practical,” I said, pulling it over my head, tugging it down around my jeans. “The arena is cold.”

Marzipan’s tail flicked once.

The hoodie hung almost to my knees, the sleeves extending well past my fingertips. I had to roll them four times to free my hands. My phone said 6:13 PM. Forty-seven minutes until the game.

No text from Brashe, but I hadn’t expected one. He’d be in the zone now, going through his pre-game routine that shut out everything else.

I texted Crim. Good luck tonight.

Are you wearing what I think you’re wearing?

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Uh huh. His name and number are on the back.

I froze.

The full-length mirror by my bedroom door caught my reflection as I turned. KEDISH 8 blazed across the back in bold letters, impossible to miss.

I had three other perfectly acceptable outfits lying on my bed that I could wear instead. Any of them would work. None of them would announce to the entire arena that I was wearing Brashe Kedish’s hoodie like I was making a declaration.

My hands found the hem.

Marzipan meowed once. It sounded encouraging, though I was probably projecting.

“You’re right,” I said to my cat. “It’s a hoodie. Plenty of people will be wearing his name and number.”

Though those jerseys and hoodies had not belonged to him.

I didn’t change.

The staff parking lot looked the same as always. I killed the engine and sat with my hands on the steering wheel, trying to figure out what exactly I was doing here.