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Holden shakes his head. “Pretty sure that last one got her hospitalized.”

My gut twists.

They’re not wrong. I’ve been flailing, and the person getting caught in the rip current is Joely.

Boone steps back, giving me space. “Figure your shit out, little brother. Before the game’s over and you don’t even notice the buzzer’s already gone off.”

I’m sitting on the locker room bench after practice, helmet dangling from one hand, sweat still dripping down my neck. I’m not even sure if I’m breathing heavy from the drills or from Boone body-checking my soul into the glass. Either way, my legs are jelly and my chest feels like it’s caved in.

“Want some advice you won’t take?” Bennett drops down next to me, smelling like sweat and sarcasm.

“Absolutely not. Our other brother already ripped me to shreds.”

“Perfect.” He pops open a water bottle and takes a long swig like he’s a wise old monk instead of a grumpy bastard in overpriced skates. “You don’t want to play hockey.”

I turn to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the inspiring locker room speech, Captain Dickhead.”

“I’m serious.” He gestures toward the rink with his water bottle. “You’ve been half-assing this for months. You used toshow up early, hit hard, and skate like you had a point to prove. Now you skate like you’re trying not to wrinkle your laundry.”

“I’ve had a lot going on.”

“We all have a lot going on. The difference is, some of us want to be here.” He tosses his towel over his shoulder. “So do you? Want to be here?”

I stare at the row of battered lockers, the flicker of fluorescent lights making the whole place feel colder, harsher. Gear bags slumped on the floor. The stale smell of sweat and old tape hanging in the air. It used to feel like home—now it feels like a cage I can’t decide if I built or inherited.

I love the locker room chirps. The inside jokes nobody outside this team would ever get. The way we all roll our eyes at Virgil’s Zamboni worship or roast Gage for eating gas station sushi before a game. That’s the stuff I’ll miss. The brotherhood. The way a win makes the whole damn town feel like they’re on top of the world, and a loss means you’re buying your own beer for a week. But the grind? The constant ache, the ice baths, the double practices and midnight bus rides for a shot at maybe, possibly, not sucking?

“I don’t know,” I admit. “I think I’ve been trying to be something I’m not. For Dad’s legacy. For the town. For all of you.”

Bennett shrugs. “None of that matters if you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it. I just… I think I like the idea of it more than the day-to-day.”

Bennett leans forward, elbows on his knees. “So what do you like?”

I don’t even hesitate. “Coaching the kids. The Mega Mites. That day at the rink with them? I haven’t felt that good about hockey in a long time.”

He nods like he’s known the answer the whole time. “Then maybe that’s the dream. Doesn’t have to be mine. Or Boone’s. Or Dad’s. But it has to be yours.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It’s not. But it is simple.”

I exhale slowly. “What if I let people down?”

“You already are. The good news? You can stop.”

I blink at him, caught off guard by how un-Bennett that sounded.

My skates creak against the floor as I stare down at my hands, still shaking a little. I press my knuckles into my thighs and try to slow my breathing. The rink’s chill seeps through my gear, making the whole world feel a little sharper, a little more real. I can hear my pulse pounding in my ears—every word Bennett said sticking to my ribs.

He stands, stretches his back with a groan. “Also, if you cry, I’m calling Mom.”

“Go to hell.”

He grins. “I live there. Rent-free.”

I finish unlacing my skates, every movement feeling heavier than it should. The rest of the guys have already filtered out—voices echoing down the hall, the smell of sweat and winter air fading as the locker room empties. I stuff my gear in my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head out.