I can’t feel my legs.

Not in the good, adrenaline-pumped way. More like the burning, cramping, gonna-fall-over-any-second kind. My right hip throbs with every stride, like it’s screaming at me to stop. But I don’t. I skate faster, harder, meaner.

Because George is still out there.

And I can’t let him see me break.

I shoot one more puck at the goal, miss wide, and growl under my breath. It’s like the pain in my leg is messing with my whole body now. My balance is off. My breathing’s shallow. Every nerve feels like it’s twitching.

But my head... my head is worse.

I can’t stop hearing George and Coach. That quiet conversation I wasn’t supposed to hear.

“She thinks he was a hero.”

“She doesn’t know the whole truth.”

“That’s not your story to tell.”

I slam my stick against the boards hard enough to echo.

“You okay?” Coach calls from the far end of the rink.

“Fine,” I lie through my teeth.

He nods and disappears into the locker room, leaving just me and the buzzing lights.

I shouldn’t be out here alone. I know that. But I can’t go in. Not yet. Not with the way my legs are shaking and my heart’s pounding so loud I can barely think.

I skate another lap, forcing my right foot to push even though it feels like it’s grinding glass. My jaw clenches tight.

Just a few more minutes.

Just until it stops hurting.

Except it doesn’t. It gets worse.

Halfway through the next turn, my skate blade catches. My hip twists the wrong way. A shock of white-hot pain slices up my side and everything inside me seizes.

My vision flashes white. I barely register the fall until the cold hits my cheek.

I crash to the ice with a thud that rattles my teeth.

For a second, I just lie there, flat on my back, staring at the ceiling lights. I can’t breathe. Can’t move. My ribs ache from the hit, but it’s my hip that’s screaming. A cruel, familiar scream.

No, no, no. Not again.

A sob bubbles up, but I swallow it back.

It’s like I’m thirteen all over again.

I remember the ambulance lights flashing across the rink. The sharp click of skates as people circled around me, whispering. I remember Mom’s hand gripping mine, the way she kept saying, “You’re okay, baby, you’re okay,” even though I wasn’t.

The doctors said it was a torn labrum. Months of rehab. No skating. Maybe never again.

I’d begged them to let me come back.

Now here I am. Same ice. Same pain.

Same nightmare.

I roll onto my side and press my glove into the rink, teeth clenched, breathing through the pain.

“Get up,” I whisper to myself. “Get up.”

I try to stand, but my leg won’t hold me. My knee buckles and I hit the ice again.

Tears sting the corners of my eyes. Not just from the pain, but from the humiliation. I hate this. Hate how small I feel. How helpless.

“Cassandra?”

My stomach flips.

George.

Of course.

Why is it always him?

I try to push myself up, fast, like nothing’s wrong. But my whole right side is on fire.

“I’m fine,” I snap, even though I’m very much not.

He’s already skating toward me. I want to disappear into the boards and never come out.

George slows down and stops just in front of me, then kneels, his skates scraping against the ice. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

I glare up at him. His eyes are too soft. That quiet concern thing he does when he’s trying to act like he doesn’t care but clearly does.

“I tripped,” I say. “Big deal.”

“Your leg gave out.”

“No, it didn’t.”

He just stands and holds out his hand again.

I hate that I need it. I hate that I can’t get up without help.

But I take it.

His hand is warm, steady, strong. He pulls me up gently, like I’m breakable. The second I put weight on my right leg, pain shoots up and I flinch hard.

George’s eyes narrow. “That’s the same leg from earlier, isn’t it?”

“George”

“You’ve been limping all day.”

I turn away. “Drop it.”

“No.”

I yank my hand back. “I said drop it.”

“You’re hurt. You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Then stop skating like you’re made of glass.”

That one cuts deep.

“Don’t you dare,” I say, voice shaking.

His expression softens. “What’s going on with your leg?”

I look at him, then at the ice.

“It’s... old scar tissue,” I say quietly. “It flares up sometimes.”

He stares at me like he’s reading between the lines.

“Is that why you stopped skating before?”

I freeze.

How does he know that?

My chest tightens. My heartbeat thunders in my ears.

George watches me carefully, like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.

“Is it about your brother?”

It feels like someone punched me in the stomach.

“What did you hear?” My voice barely comes out.

He hesitates. “I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

“Say it.”

He looks away, sighs, then back at me. “Connor... wasn’t perfect. He was under pressure. From scouts. From your mom. From everyone. He hid things.”

“No,” I whisper.

“He was injured, too. Coach knew. Everyone kept it quiet.”

I can’t breathe.

“He should’ve sat out. But he didn’t. And it cost him.”

My vision blurs. The tears I’ve been holding back spill over.

“You’re lying,” I whisper.

“I wish I was.”

He takes a step closer, like he’s trying to comfort me, but I back up fast. The pain slices through me again, but I don’t stop.

“Stay away.”

“Cass—”

“I said stay away!”

I skate to the boards, barely making it without collapsing again, and shove the door open. I limp into the locker room, head down, tears hot on my cheeks.

My helmet falls from the bench as I pass. I don’t pick it up.

I sit down hard and grip the edge of the bench like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My leg throbs. My chest burns.

Everything hurts.

He knew. Coach knew. Everyone knew.

And no one told me.

I hear the door creak open behind me.

“Get out,” I say without turning.

The footsteps stop. “Cass... I’m sorry.”

George’s voice.

Again.

I grab the first thing I can—my tape roll—and hurl it at the wall.

It smacks loud against the tile and bounces off.

I breathe hard. He doesn’t say another word.

I don’t look at him.

Finally, the door creaks again. Then silence.

I sit there, shaking, long after he’s gone.

Then I pull my phone from my bag. My hands tremble.

I scroll through my contacts and stare at the name I haven’t touched in years.

Coach Decker – Connor’s old trainer.

I hesitate.

Then I press call.

The phone rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then a click.

“Hello?”

My voice cracks. “Tell me what really happened to my brother.”