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I hold her in my arms, wondering what the hell is going on in that head of hers. She came apart so completely, so suddenly, that it caught me off guard. I’ve seen her stressed, seen her overwhelmed, but this was different. This was terror, pure and primal.

Whatever nightmare she had, it shook her to her core.

I do everything I can to contain the part of me that wants to demand answers, to find out who hurt her and make them pay. Instead, I focus on the weight of her body against mine, the way she fits perfectly in the circle of my arms. Her shampoo smells like vanilla and something floral.

I pull her hair away from her face, tucking the strands behind her ear, and settle her more securely against my chest. The gesture is gentle, careful, everything I’m usually not.

“Are you okay?” I ask, needing to know what’s going through her mind.

She turns to look at me, and the lamp light catches the gold flecks in her eyes. There’s still fear there, but it’s fading.

“My life’s a wreck,” she says quietly. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I search her face, memorizing the curve of her cheek, the way her lashes cast shadows. “Nobody ever knows what they’re doing.”

She nods at that, and the expression lightens something in my chest that I didn’t realize was tight.

“You’re not going to tell me that you know what you’re doing?” she asks.

I hold back my smirk. The truth is, I know exactly what I’m doing when it comes to her. I’m claiming her, inch by inch, moment by moment. “No, because you already promised you would live with me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I would never promise that.”

She got me with that one, but I don’t let her see it. The word ‘promise’ was too strong, too permanent for where she is right now. I need to be more careful.

“What about you?” she asks. “Is your life a wreck too?”

I shake my head. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore? What does that mean?”

I search her face, wondering how much truth she can handle. How much of my darkness I can show her before she runs. “Time to sleep.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t fall back asleep.”

“Count yourself lucky if reality is better than sleeping,” I say and mean it. “I’m going to close my eyes.”

“Wait.” Her voice stops me, so I open my eyes again. “Sleeping is better than your reality? You have a nice house, a nice car, you play hockey at a really good college and––”

“So, I should be happy? Because of the material things I have?”

Her eyes widen with something that looks like horror. “Oh, God. That sounded so bad. I’m so sorry, Slater. I didn’t mean it like that. I just... don’t you love hockey?”

I nod. Hockey is the one constant in my life, the one thing that makes sense. “Doesn’t mean my life’s dandy.”

“What is it then?”

I shrug, deflecting. “You moved to a new city. Got a good job. You have a car. Why aren’t you happy?”

“Point proven,” she says, her gaze lowering. “Tell me why you’re so...”

“So, what?”

“Brooding.”

My expression softens despite myself. Of all the words people use to describe me—dangerous, volatile, ruthless—brooding isn’t one I hear often. “Brooding? That’s a first.”

“You are though. There’s this... weight you carry. Like you’re angry at the world.”

She’s more perceptive than I gave her credit for. “Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

The simple question hangs between us. I could deflect again, change the subject, make another joke about sleeping. But something about the way she’s looking at me, the genuine curiosity in her voice, makes me consider telling her the truth.

Not all of it. She’s not ready for all of it. But maybe a piece.

“You ever lose someone you couldn’t live without?” I ask instead.

Her face shifts, understanding flickering across her features. “Your brother.”

It’s not a question. She remembers the photo in my room, the way I went quiet when she mentioned him.

“Archer was my younger brother. My best friend. He was a better hockey player than me. We…” I stop, the words catching in my throat. “He’s been gone three years, and I still wake up expecting him to be there.”

She doesn’t say she’s sorry. Doesn’t give me some bullshit about him being in a better place. She just watches me with those honey-colored eyes, waiting.

“Hockey was our thing. We were going to play together, get drafted together, win the Cup together.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Instead, I’m here alone, and he’s…”

She touches my fingers.

“Gone.” The word tastes wrong. Even after all these years. After all this time, it still hits the same. “So yeah, I’m brooding. Sue me.”

She shifts closer, her hand finding mine in the darkness. Her fingers are small and warm, and she threads them through mine.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “That you have to carry that alone.”

Something cracks open in my chest at her words. Not because she’s sorry—everyone’s sorry when they find out about Archer. But because she said ‘alone.’ Like she understands that grief is a solitary prison, and no amount of success or money or material things can unlock the door.

“I’m not alone anymore,” I say quietly.

She looks up at me, and I can see the moment she understands what I mean. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Slater...”

“I know. Friends.” I bring our joined hands up and press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ll take it. For now.”

She’ll figure out eventually that friendship isn’t enough for me, that I want everything she has to give. But for tonight, this is enough.

She pulls me in closer, holding me. And I let her, even though every instinct is telling me to stay closed off, not allow anyone in. We lay in the dark as my mind races about Archer, HU, hockey, and her.

After a few minutes, her breathing evens out. I stay awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest, memorizing the way she looks peaceful in my arms.

Tomorrow we’ll go back to the careful distance, the professional boundaries she insists on maintaining. But tonight, she’s mine to hold. Tonight, the demons can’t touch either of us.

The next morning, I slip away before anyone can catch me in her room, before Sage wakes up. The hallway is empty at 5 AM, and I make it back to my room without running into coaches or teammates who might ask questions I don’t want to answer.

Mitchell is still passed out when I get back, one arm hanging off the bed and snoring like a zoo animal. I grab my shower kit and head to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the intimacy of the night before. By the time I’m dressed and packed, I’ve got my game face back on.

Downstairs at breakfast, I grab coffee and a protein bar, scanning the room for Sage. She’s sitting with the coaches, looking professional in her team polo and taking notes while Morrison explains something about the game plan. She looks rested, which is good. She needed the sleep.

The bus ride to Milwaukee is routine—guys talking shit, music playing, the usual pre-game energy building. I’m sitting toward the back when Sage boards, and she smiles at me as she walks past. A real smile, not the careful professional one she usually gives me in public.

It throws me off. I thought she was trying to hide whatever this is between us, but that smile was genuine, warm. Like she’s actually glad to see me.

Halfway through the drive, I pull out my phone and text her.

Slater: I see you

She looks down at her phone, then back at me with a small smile before typing back.

Sage: Thanks for last night

I stare at the message for a long moment, then put my phone away and close my eyes. She’s thanking me like I did her some kind of favor, but the truth is I needed it as much as she did. Holding her, feeling her trust me enough to fall apart in my arms—it meant everything.

The moment I step off the bus at the arena, it hits me like a punch to the gut. This place. This fucking place.

Archer and I came here when we were sixteen to watch the Bruins play Milwaukee’s AHL team. We sat in the nosebleeds with our dad, eating overpriced nachos and arguing about which players we’d replace when we made it to the pros. Archer said he’d play center, I’d play wing, and we’d be unstoppable.

He never made it past seventeen.

The memory crashes over me without warning, and suddenly I can’t breathe.

The noise of the team unloading equipment, Sage trying to say something to me as I walk past—it all becomes background static.

I walk past her, past the coaches, past my teammates, because I can’t stop moving or I’ll fall apart.

My hip is screaming, but my mind is louder. The guilt, the rage, the fucking emptiness that never goes away—it’s all there, clawing at my chest like it happened yesterday instead of three years ago.

I’m going to play this game like a fucking animal.

In the locker room, the guys are going through plays and strategy, their voices blending into white noise.

“Castellano, you’re going to start on the second line with Henderson and Davis,” Coach says, pointing at the whiteboard. “We want you crashing the net, creating chaos in front of their goalie.”

Henderson nods, adjusting his shoulder pads. “Their defense is weak on the left side. If we can get the puck behind their net, Slater can cycle it back to Davis for the shot.”

“What about their power play?” Davis asks, lacing up his skates. “They’ve been scoring on over sixty percent of their opportunities.”

“That’s why we stay disciplined,” Morrison answers. “No stupid penalties, no unnecessary hits after the whistle.”

They keep talking, mapping out scenarios and contingencies, but their voices sound like they’re coming from underwater. I’m suiting up—pads, jersey, skates—while Archer’s voice echoes in my head.

You’re going to be legendary, Slater. Both of us are.

“Castellano.” Morrison’s voice cuts through the fog. “You got all that?”

“Got it,” I say, the words automatic.

That’s all I can manage. Two words. Because if I try to say more, I might break apart completely.

The guys exchange glances, but they know better than to push. I’ve played with some of these guys for years, and they’ve learned to recognize when I’m in this headspace. When the grief turns me into something else entirely.

On the ice for warm-ups, everything else fades away. It’s just me, my team, and that fucking net at the other end. This is where I belong, where Archer and I were supposed to be together. Every stride, every shot, every hit is for him.

When the puck drops, I do everything I need to do to make sure it gets into that net.

Thirty seconds in, I steal the puck from their center and fire it cross-ice to Henderson, who buries it top shelf. The goal horn blares, and Henderson skates over to smack my back.

“You’re not listening to the plays, man,” he says as we head back to center ice.

“Still made the shot,” I reply.

Because that’s all that matters. Results. Wins. Making sure Milwaukee knows they made a mistake putting us on their ice.

When play resumes, I spot their right wing getting too comfortable near our blue line. I line him up and slam him into the boards with everything I have, the impact echoing through the arena. The crowd erupts, but the ref’s arm goes up.

Boarding. Two minutes.

I skate to the penalty box without argument, my hip burning like someone stuck a knife in it. But my mind is louder than the pain, drowning out everything except the need to hit someone, to make them feel a fraction of what I carry every day.

When I get back on the ice, I’m hungrier than before. Their defenseman tries to clear the puck, so I slam him into the glass. Their center gets too close to our goalie, so I introduce him to the ice. Each hit gets my teammates fired up, slapping my helmet and shoulders as we skate past each other.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Davis shouts after I level another Milwaukee player.

This is who I am without Archer. This is what his absence turned me into—a weapon on skates, channeling grief into violence because it’s the only way I know how to cope.

And for forty-seven minutes, it works. The pain in my hip becomes background noise. The emptiness in my chest gets filled with the satisfaction of watching Milwaukee players hesitate before coming into the corners.

This is my therapy. This is my religion.

This is how I honor my brother—by being the player he’ll never get to be.