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Max

Eight Years Ago - December

"Max?" Emmy's whisper carries through my bedroom door. "Are you awake?"

She pushes the door open, wrapped in her Frozen blanket like a cape, her stuffed dog Pucky tucked under one arm. In the glow of my nightlight—the one she insisted I keep "just in case"—she looks smaller than usual. Paler.

"Can't sleep." She runs across the room and launches herself at me, peppering my face with little-kid kisses.

"Whoa there." I gently push her back. "What did we say about the kisses?"

She sits back on her heels, gap-toothed smile making her whistle slightly. "That you can show love lots of ways, not just kissies." She does air quotes around "kissies" like she's heard Mom do. "But I forgot because I missed you so much while you were at college!"

I ruffle her hair—our special way of saying 'I love you.' "What's keeping you up, Em?"

"My nose was bleeding again." She wipes at it self-consciously. "And I'm cold."

Something tightens in my chest, but she's already sliding off my bed. "Will you read me a story? Please? Just one chapter?"

I should say no. Coach wants us doing extra drills before the scouts come in January. But Emmy's giving me that look—the one that makes her look exactly like Mom—and I'm already following her to her room.

Her Christmas lights twinkle around her princess canopy bed, casting soft light on the mix of hockey posters and Justin Bieber. A row of signed pucks—every one from a game I played—sits on her pink vanity next to plastic makeup and a tiara.

"Can you braid my hair first?” She touches her loose blonde curls, all messy from sleeping, then hands me her Frozen brush—the one with Elsa on the handle and glitter in the bristles.

"Not tonight, squirt. You need sleep." I spot a dark bruise near her hairline. "Where'd you get that?"

"Oh." She touches it absently. "I don't know. I get lots of bruises lately."

She curls up under her covers, arranging Pucky beside her. On her desk, I spot her letter to Santa, decorated with glitter and careful seven-year-old handwriting:

Dear Santa,

I've been really good this year! Please bring:

1. For Max to win his big game!

2. A real makeup set! (not the plastic kind)

3. A puppy!!! (I promise I'll take care of it)

Love, Emmy

P.S. I will leave extra cookies this year!

"One chapter?" She holds out her tiny finger. "Pinky promise?"

I link my finger with hers, trying to ignore how cold her hand feels. "One chapter."

She's asleep before we finish, one hand stretched toward me. At her door, I look back. She's so small in her princess-themed bedding, dark circles under her eyes that I somehow hadn't noticed before.

"Love you, squirt," I whisper.

But she's already gone too deep into sleep to hear me.

Early January

The tournament could change everything. Three games in five days, with NHL scouts watching. That's why I had to leave right after Christmas, even though it killed me to go.

At least I got to see Emmy's face light up when Santa brought her puppy—a golden retriever she immediately tried to name Princess Sparkles until I suggested Stanley. “Because I’ll win the Stanley Cup for you someday.”

"But she's a girl!" Emmy had giggled, still in her Grinch pajamas that were two sizes too small, but she refused to give up.

"Fine, Stanislava then. Like one of your Russian princesses. But you can call her Stanley."

"You're so silly. Silly, silly, silly goose, horrible brother." She'd wrapped her arms around my neck. "Fine, I’ll name her Stanley—but just because I love you. Stanley Puck!"

That was ten days ago. Before the fever that wouldn't break. Before the bruises that led to blood tests. Before the word leukemia shattered our world.

Now I'm on the ice, playing the game of my life. Every shot finds its mark. The puck feels magnetic to my stick. The crowd roars as I score once, twice, three times. After each goal, I touch the "EMMY" written on my stick in Sharpie.

This one's for you, squirt. Wait till I tell you about it.

When the final buzzer sounds, I'm floating. Teammates mob me, towels flying, Gatorade spraying, locker room echoing with victory roars. Cameras flash. The arena chants my name. Coach grins in the locker room. "Scouts are impressed, Dalton. This could be your year."

Then I see my phone.

Twelve missed calls.

Six voicemails.

My mother's voice breaks through the speaker: "Max, honey, you need to come home. Emmy... she's not—" A sob. "The doctors say... Please, just come home."

The next message plays automatically: "Max, she's gone."

No. No.

This isn't possible. Just ten days ago, she was in her Christmas pajamas, cuddling her new puppy, beaming at me like I hung the moon. "When you win that cup," she'd said, "me and Stanley Puck will be right there with you."

This can't be real. Kids don't just... They said we had time. They said the treatment would...

Something snaps inside me. I slam my fist into the concrete wall. Once. Twice. Again. The pain barely registers through the roar in my head. Blood streaks the wall, but I keep hitting until someone pulls me back.

"Jesus, Dalton, stop!"

I can't. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process that my baby sister is gone while I was...

Playing a game.

Scoring goals.

Celebrating.

I never got to braid her hair one more time.