Page 55

Hunter

I can’t get out of bed for the first three days after Rilee leaves.

That’s not hyperbole. Not dramatic flair. Just fact.

Three days.

I stare at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Like if I blink long enough, she’ll be there again—curled next to me, hogging the blanket, mumbling about her pharmacology quiz.

But she’s not.

And she’s not coming back.

I’ve never missed a practice in four years of playing Michigan hockey. Not for illness. Not for injury. Not even for the flu I once puked through an entire third period with.

But I miss three this week.

Because I can’t move.

The ache in my chest isn’t physical—not exactly. But it hurts in that slow, consuming way heartbreak does. Like something inside me cracked wide open and I don’t know how to fix it.

Grayson tries first. Just walks in one morning, shoves a plate of eggs into my hands, and says, “Eat.”

I do.

Not because I want to.

But because it’s Gray.

Caleb sits on the edge of the bed the next night, his voice quiet. “She’s okay. I texted her. She’s in San Diego. Said the job’s started.”

I nod.

That’s all I can do.

Because none of it matters.

Not hockey. Or my own finals. Not her new job. Not the sunshine she probably walks under every damn day.

Because I’m still here.

And she’s not.

And the worst part?

We never got goodbye.

Just silence.

And a door that closed behind her, final and unnerving.

She didn’t just leave.

She took something with her.

And now?

I feel dead inside.

When I finally get out of bed, I go back to the rink like a man possessed.

I skate harder than I ever have. Push every drill to the limit. Take every hit like it’s penance. Like maybe if I punish my body enough, the rest of me will go quiet.

It doesn’t.

But it helps. A little.

The scouts notice.

One of the assistants pulls me aside after a scrimmage and tells me there’s buzz. Real buzz. That I’ll be entering the draft if I want it.

I should be elated.

I should feel something.

Instead, all I can think is—she’s not here to hear it.

Rilee would’ve teased me, called me hotshot, made a sign like an embarrassing little sister at a talent show.

She would’ve hugged me.

Kissed me.

She would’ve believed in me.

And now?

All I have is a future she isn’t part of.

And no matter how fast I skate, I can’t outrun the fact that it doesn’t feel like a win if she’s not standing beside me when it happens.