Page 57 of Salute, To Bravery

Craig

T he next day starts off lighter than most. There’s a buzz of excitement in the air, especially from the kids.

We go out for breakfast—just the five of us, minus Patrick, who’s off at morning skate prepping for the game.

Jane insists we enjoy the moment, keeping the mood up, distracting everyone with pancakes, hot cocoa, and her classic no syrup until after three bites of real food rule.

Bridget and Caleb make a game of counting how many players they think they’ll meet later.

When we pull into the arena’s parking garage, Jane turns in her seat and gives everyone the look —Mom mode activated.

“Everyone be on your best behavior. I don’t care if you see your favorite player or a dancing Zamboni—no yelling, no climbing things, and no asking for selfies until we’re told it’s okay.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I smirk, and she rolls her eyes before kissing my cheek.

We’re all dressed casually but bundled up in winter gear—puffer jackets, team beanies, thick scarves.

Even Rei has traded her usual sleek jacket for a heavy parka, the fur-lined hood pulled tight around her face.

She hasn’t said much today, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out why.

Being here, surrounded by the hype, the bright lights, the players—it’s probably a minefield of memories. Brandon would’ve loved this.

We’re led through security and into a private elevator that drops us off at the Players Club—an exclusive lounge filled with sleek tables, plush seating areas, a couple of private bars, and oversized TVs streaming pre-game coverage.

A few Capitals execs greet us warmly, handing out passes and gently guiding us around.

“Holy shit ,” Bridget gasps, practically vibrating in place. “Mom, look—it’s Evan ! OMG, I need his autograph!” She’s pointing toward a tall winger with a grin that could sell cereal. “You played him in high school, right, Aunt Rei?!”

“Yes,” Rei replies, voice flat. She offers a tired smile; it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Bridget doesn’t notice—too busy planning her ambush.

I wheel over to Rei as the rest of the group fans out. The kids are already moving from player to player, autograph books open, phones in hand, and Jane is deep in conversation with the team liaison. I lower my voice so only she can hear.

“You okay?”

Her eyes don’t meet mine at first. “Yes.”

“Liar.”

Rei finally looks at me. There’s a flicker of annoyance, maybe even gratitude, hidden behind the weariness.

“Yes, well. What do you expect? Patrick only has us here to parade you around for sympathy and good press.” Her gaze follows Patrick, who’s just entered the lounge with a camera crew close behind.

“Just smile and pretend it’s all peachy. ”

I sigh. “You want me to run over his foot with the chair?”

That earns the ghost of a smirk. “Tempting.”

“Hey,” I nudge her elbow gently, “I know this sucks. But I’m glad you’re here. Brandon would’ve wanted you to keep living. Even if it means suffering through a fake PR stunt with Patrick’s smug face in every frame.”

She snorts. “That smug face should come with a warning label.” Before I can respond, the energy in the room shifts. Cameras sweep toward us, and at the center of it all—of course—is Patrick.

He struts in like he owns the place, all bright smiles and broad shoulders. The man has charisma in spades and self-awareness in crumbs. He claps me on the shoulder like we hadn’t spent the better part of the past year not speaking.

“Look at this, crew,” he says to the cameras, turning up the volume. “My brother, the hero, looking like a champ. Damn, I think this is the first time I’ve seen you wear something that isn’t government-issued.”

I grit my teeth and give him the smile I reserve for formal events and funeral homes. “Trying something new.”

Rei stands a step behind me. She offers a tight, almost imperceptible smile—just enough to pass as polite. But I see the signs: the stiff shoulders, the clenched jaw, the way her hands curl into fists at her sides.

Patrick doesn’t notice. He never does.

“And look who it is, my baby sister,” he says, spreading his arms like he’s welcoming her home from war.

“It’s been forever. I still remember you and Brandon at that barbecue—what was that, two years ago?

The one where he couldn’t stop talking about all the good things we’re doing over there.

” His voice shifts, just slightly. Toward the cameras now.

“I mean, that’s my family. Marine dad. Two siblings in uniform.

Real heroes. Makes me proud every time I think about it. ”

Rei’s face doesn’t change. Not anger. Not shock. Just… still. Like something inside her has turned off. She takes one step back. Then another.

“Hey,” I murmur, angling closer. “You good?”

She gives a small, mechanical nod. “I just need a minute.”

Then she turns and disappears, slipping through the edge of the crowd like mist. No one stops her. Patrick keeps talking. The cameras keep rolling.

But I saw it. And I can’t let her disappear into the quiet alone.

A few minutes later, I slip out of the suite under the guise of needing air. Jane catches my eye and nods. No words necessary.

The hallway beyond the players’ lounge is cooler, quieter.

The cheers of the game now sound distant and soft, like waves breaking against a closed door.

I follow the noise—barely a murmur—until I round a corner and spot them.

Evan’s leaning against the wall, not crowding her, just…

present. “I know people say the wrong things,” he’s saying, voice low and careful, “especially when they don’t know what else to say—”

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM MY SISTER!” The words crack like a gunshot behind me. I turn sharply—Patrick is storming down the hallway, face flushed, eyes locked on Evan like he’s the only thing in the world.

Evan straightens, hands out slightly, not defensive but steady. “We were just talking.”

“Not after what you did to her.” Patrick’s voice is sharp, almost wild. He stalks toward Evan like he’s forgotten where they are—or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“Patrick,” I say, moving to intercept, “rein it in.” I really should have rolled over his feet.

He jerks out of my reach. “He doesn’t get to look at her like that. You took everything from her!”

“You have no idea what you’re even talking about!” Rei’s voice cracks like a whip through the space, raw and shaking. She steps between them before he gets too close—body tense, hands balled into fists.

Patrick glares at her, confused, angry, unraveling. “He hurt you!”

Rei doesn’t flinch. “Touch him over something you don’t understand,” she says, voice low and dangerous, “and I swear to all that is holy, we will be so fucking done.”

“Rei—he is—”

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence.”

Evan starts to speak, his hand lifting gently, like he’s going to rest it on her shoulder. “Rei, I don’t need—”

That’s all it takes.

Patrick lunges forward like a dam breaking.

But he doesn’t make it.

Rei moves fast, dropping her shoulder and taking him to the ground with a sharp, clean takedown. The kind of move you don’t forget how to do, no matter how long it’s been since training. The air leaves him in a grunt as he hits the concrete hard.

“Holy shit, Dad!” Bridget shouts from behind us.

“Language,” Jane hisses instinctively, one hand on Bridget’s shoulder, the other hovering like she wants to stop it—but can’t. Instead ushering the kids back into the room.

No one moves. No one breathes.

Rei’s on top of Patrick, fist drawn back—but Evan is already there, sliding in beside her. “Rei—enough,” he says, arms gently circling around her, pulling her back just enough to stop the next blow.

She lets him.

Just like that, her whole frame shakes, and for the first time, I can see it—the heartbreak, the fury, the exhaustion she’s been carrying for too long. She’s not crying. She’s just breaking in silence.

Patrick groans from the ground, stunned more than hurt.

Jane turns to me, helpless. “What the hell was that?”

I don’t have an answer. Not one that would make any of this better.

“Evan,” she says, voice steely, “you better kick his ass out on that ice tonight.”

Evan meets my eyes, gives a curt nod, then turns back to Rei. His hand finds her shoulder—not possessive, not performative, just steady. “You good?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Taking breaths before shrugging. “I will be.”

He doesn’t push. Just gives her one last glance—something quieter than concern, deeper than pity—then turns and walks away, back toward the noise of the arena.

Once he’s gone, I roll up beside her. The hallway feels colder now. Thinner.

We stand—well, I sit—and let the silence settle like dust.

Then, softly, she says, “He used Brandon’s name like a prop. Like it made him more patriotic. More… heroic.”

“I know.”

“I just—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenched. “I didn’t mean to lose it in front of the kids.”

“You didn’t.”

We fall quiet again, but it’s not empty. It’s the kind of silence that carries weight. That says everything we can’t.

Finally, her voice barely above a whisper: “I miss him every day.”

My throat tightens. “So do I.”