I don’t turn around when I hear him behind me.

I know that sound. The careful shuffle of skates on rubber flooring. Slow. Hesitant. Like he’s trying not to make it worse but still can’t help himself.

“Cass,” George says softly.

Just one word. But it snaps something in me. My fingers grip the bench so hard my knuckles go white.

I don’t answer.

He walks closer, slow like he’s approaching a wild animal. I guess in this case, he kind of is.

“I didn’t mean for it to come out like that,” he tries again. “I just… I thought you deserved to know.”

I still don’t look up. My helmet lies on the floor by my foot. I stare at it like it holds all the answers. Like if I focus hard enough, the ache in my leg and my chest might vanish.

“You don’t know what I deserve,” I mutter.

George sighs. “I’m not trying to fight.”

“Well, you’re not doing a great job.”

There’s a long pause. I hear him shift his weight, then set something down behind me. Maybe his gloves. Maybe he’s getting comfortable, like this is going to turn into some heart-to-heart scene from a teen movie.

It’s not.

“You shouldn’t have been skating on that leg,” he says.

I whip my head around so fast it sends a jolt through my neck. “Are you seriously lecturing me right now?”

“I’m not…”

“You think just because you helped me up once, you’re allowed to tell me how to skate? You don’t get to decide what I can or can’t push through.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, George? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like you’re trying to play hero again. Just like out there.”

He looks at me, eyebrows drawn low. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is having to hear about my brother from you,” I snap. “You knew. Coach knew. And nobody said anything.”

George looks like he wants to explain himself. But he doesn’t. Instead, he kneels down in front of me, ignoring the scowl on my face. “Can I at least look at your leg?”

I flinch back like he tried to touch it. “Don’t.”

“Cass.”

“I said don’t.”

“You’re hurt.”

“No kidding.”

“I want to help.”

That’s when I finally lose it.

“You can’t help,” I bark. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everyone look at you and only see a dead person’s shadow. You don’t know what it’s like to have your whole life yanked away and then thrown back at you like, 'Here, try again.' I didn’t ask for any of this, George.”

He blinks. For once, he’s actually speechless.

Good.

I lean back, hating how shaky I feel. My voice, my body, everything. it’s like I’m made of glass. The harder I try to hold it together, the more it cracks.

“You think skating with you makes it easier?” I say, quieter now. “You think being paired with the guy who replaced my brother is some kind of therapy? It’s not. It’s just another reminder that I’ll never be him. And everyone’s waiting for me to fail.”

George stands up slowly. He doesn’t look mad. He looks… hurt.

“I don’t see you as a replacement,” he says. “And I don’t think anyone does.”

I scoff. “Yeah, okay.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re nothing like Connor.”

That one hits strange. I don’t know if it’s supposed to be a compliment or an insult.

“You’re sharper,” he says, “and messier, and harder to read. And yeah, you’re stubborn as hell, but… you’ve got this fire in you that makes people nervous. Even Coach. Especially me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why would I make you nervous?”

He gives a small, crooked smile. “Because I care.”

Ugh.

That word. That awful, heavy, unwanted word.

I push myself up from the bench. My leg protests, and I wobble, but I force it to hold. I need it to hold.

“Don’t,” I say. “Just don’t. Don’t pretend like this is some bonding moment. You don’t know me.”

“I’m trying to,” he says.

“Well, stop trying.”

He watches me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Maybe he’s thinking of something else to say. Something clever. Something that’ll change everything.

But he doesn’t get the chance.

The locker room door swings open, and Coach steps in.

His eyes bounce between us and the tape roll on the floor.

“You okay?” he asks me.

“I’m fine,” I lie.

He looks at George. “Give us a minute.”

George hesitates. He looks at me one last time, then grabs his gloves and helmet and walks out without another word.

The door shuts behind him.

Coach crosses his arms. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“No.”

“I heard shouting.”

“Then you know what happened.”

He sighs and sits across from me on the opposite bench. “Cassandra…”

I brace myself for a lecture. But he surprises me.

“I know this hasn’t been easy. Getting back on the ice. Being paired with George. Dealing with your leg.”

I don’t say anything.

He continues. “When Connor got hurt, he begged me not to tell anyone. Especially you. He didn’t want you to worry.”

My throat tightens.

“I should’ve told you anyway,” he says. “I didn’t. And I regret it.”

I shake my head slowly. “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Maybe not,” he agrees. “But maybe you would’ve understood sooner why things ended the way they did.”

Tears sting my eyes again, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough today.

Coach stands. “Go home. Rest the leg. Take tomorrow off. That’s not a suggestion.”

I nod, too tired to argue.

As he leaves, I pick up my phone again.

I should text my mom. Tell her I need a ride. But I scroll past her name and stop on another one instead.

Jessie.

She’s the only person who doesn’t treat me like I’m about to shatter. And I really need someone like that right now.

Before I can change my mind, I send a message.

Me: “You busy?”

The typing dots appear almost instantly.

Jessie: “For you? Never. What’s wrong?”

I hesitate.

Me: “Everything.”

Jessie: “Want me to come get you?”

Me: “Please.”

While I wait, I limp out of the locker room. The cold air hits my face and clears my head just a little.

George is still outside, near the benches, pacing.

He looks up when he sees me.

I pretend I don’t notice.

He calls out, “Cass, wait...”

But I keep walking.

Behind me, I hear his footsteps stop.

Good.

Because if he follows me now, I might say something I can’t take back.

And I’ve already ruined enough today.