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forty-eight

CAROLINE

Chicago, IL, USA

I don’t know where it broke.

Where we broke.

Maybe we were never whole to begin with. Maybe I just told myself that we were. That I was safe. That we were solid.

I don’t know. But we’re broken now.

I pull my blazer tighter around me, my eyes fixed on the ice as the players take their positions for the opening faceoff. My breath leaves me in short, even exhales.

I’m fine. I’ve survived worse. I don’t need him. I don’t need this. I don’t care.

I repeat it like a mantra as Rhett skates to the center dot. But my eyes find him, and the words feel like ash in my throat.

He looks… vacant. Hollowed out. Like whatever was holding him together has finally unraveled.

He keeps his head down, his stick hitting the ice, his shoulders coiled tight. Brendan Holt lines up across from him, chin lifted, eyes cold. Something’s said—I can’t hear it from here—but I see the way Rhett’s jaw twitches, the way his neck visibly shudders under the weight of it.

The puck drops.

Rhett is slow. Slower than I’ve ever seen him. He stumbles on the draw, barely reacts. The play moves around him, the boards rattle with impact, skates cut sharp lines in the ice. But Rhett floats—disconnected, unfocused—his body there, but his mind somewhere else entirely.

A few feet from him, Holt watches. I don’t know what passed between them. I don’t know what scars they’re both carrying. But something ugly brews between them—I can feel it from here.

I fold my arms tighter, pushing the feeling down. He made his choice. I remind myself of that. And I won’t be the fool who falls apart over someone who’s been playing me all along.

But then—he looks at me.

Just a flicker of a glance. Lost. Haunted. Eyes locking with mine like he can’t help it.

And in that second, everything tilts.

He doesn’t see it coming.

The puck ricochets off a skate. Flies up, sharp and fast, catching him clean in the temple. His head snaps sideways with the force, and he doubles over, clutching it. Blood blooms instantly—dark and thick against the ice.

My breath lodges in my throat.

It happens so fast—Holt, still keyed up, spins as Rhett stumbles into his path. Holt doesn’t see the blood. Doesn’t register what’s happened. He shoves him hard, shouting something I can’t hear.

Rhett’s skates catch.

He hits the ice.

Hard .

The breath goes out of me in a single, strangled sound. The entire arena holds still as he doesn’t get up. He doesn’t move.

My heart tears in half.

“ Rhett! ” I gasp, bolting for the bench, panic rising in my throat.

I don’t remember moving. I barely see the people around me. I only know the way my pulse thunders, the way my knees buckle as my dad’s arm flies out, holding me back.

“Let me go—let me go—” I plead, but I can’t break his grip.

Medics are flooding the ice now, players skating to the edges in stunned silence.

I see the blood first. Then the way Rhett’s body is twisted wrong. His head lolls, his face pale. My tears blur my vision, hot and fast, falling unchecked down my cheeks.

“Let me go—please—” The words tear from my chest, raw and wild.

Finally, I’m released. I sprint, following as they carry him off down the tunnel. As soon as they have him settled onto a stretcher, I all but drop to my knees, cradling his head in my hands.

“Rhett,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

His eyes flutter—barely.

And then they close.

The world tilts. My heart fractures.

And everything— everything that I thought mattered before—falls away.