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Get your shit together,my mind shouts at me.Chloe needs you functional. The team needs you functional.

But functional feels impossible when every cell in my body wants to beg Maya to forgive me. To tell her everything about the bet, the money problems, the bone-deep fear that I’m not worth her time, that I don’t want to burden her with my shit because she’s got enough of her own.

To let her see all of it and pray she doesn’t run.

Except she would run.

Of course she would. She cut her own family out, for fuck’s sake.

Wouldn’t she do the same to me?

So no, none of that, for now.

I’m avoiding her, because I’ve got no better solution.

I finally make it to practice an hour late. Coach barely looks at me as I slouch onto the bench to lace up my skates. And, when I hit the ice, my legs feel like lead, my stick foreign in my hands. Every drill is a struggle, every play a reminder that I’m falling apart in every area of my life.

During a water break, Mike skates over. “You look like death.”

“Thanks.” I sigh. “Really helpful.”

“What’s going on with you and Maya?”

The question hits like a check into the boards. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.” He snorts. “Sophie says Maya’s been going out every night.”

The thought of Maya out at bars, finding comfort in other guys because I’m too much of a coward to give it to her, makes me want to break my stick over my knee. But I’m the one who pushed her away, so what right do I have to feel jealous?

“Not my business,” I mutter.

Mike shakes his head and skates off before I can respond.

I’m about to rejoin the next drill when I see my phone light up on the bench, right where I left it. I should leave it, focus on my game, but I’m already neck-deep in a river of shit so why not find out what’s going on?

I lean my stick against the boards, skate over, and snatch it up. I answer without checking the caller ID. “Hello?” I say.

“Maine?” My mother’s voice cracks like thin ice. “It’s Chloe.”

The rink tilts sideways. “What happened?”

“They’re admitting her. Her oxygen levels dropped, and she’s been coughing up blood. Your father’s trying to get there, but the traffic—“ A sob cuts through her words. “I’m scared, Maine. I think it might be really bad this time, and I need you here.”

Everything else evaporates. The bet, the team, Maya—gone. My baby sister might be dying, and my mother’s terror confirms this isn’t another routine flare-up. Time to armor up and be the son who shows up without questions, without needs of his own.

“Which hospital?” The words come automatically.

“Mercy General. Pulmonary ward.”

“I’m on my way.”

I’m already yanking off my skates, not bothering to unlace them properly. Mike starts toward me, but I wave him off. Can’t explain. Can’t stop. Chloe needs me. The other guys—and even Coach—seem to catch my vibe, because none of them question me as I leave the ice.

Or maybe they just think I’m done.

When I rush outside, the parking lot air hits like a slap. I throw my gear in the trunk, still wearing my practice jersey, and slide behind the wheel. My hands shake as I grip the steering wheel, trying to process everything my mom had said: Chloe hospitalized, coughing blood, oxygen failing.

My first instinct—immediate, overwhelming—is Maya. This medical terminology suddenly carries weight that could crush me, and she’d translate the jargon into something comprehensible. She’d know if this is manageable or if I should be planning a funeral. She’d be the anchor I desperately need.