I drag myself into the rink early the next morning, hood up and headphones in. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to see anyone. Especially not George.

Sleep barely touched me last night. My brain kept replaying his words, like some twisted echo. Connor wasn’t perfect... He should’ve sat out... It cost him.

I don’t know what hurts more. The truth, or the fact that George said it like he was doing me a favor.

The lobby smells like wet rubber and cleaning spray. I keep my head down and walk straight to the trainer’s room.

Jessie’s already there, leaning against the counter with a protein bar in one hand and her phone in the other. She spots me and immediately perks up.

“Morning, Cranky Pants,” she says.

I grunt. That’s the most I can manage.

Jessie doesn't push. She just hands me a folded towel and points to the rehab mat.

“You’re doing stretches first. Light hip mobility. Don’t fight me today, okay?”

I nod and lower myself onto the mat, flinching when my hip twinges. Every movement feels stiff, like my body’s still holding onto yesterday.

She kneels beside me, pushing my leg gently to the side. “You’re tight. Did you even ice last night?”

“No,” I mutter.

She sighs and grabs a foam roller. “You’re your own worst enemy sometimes.”

I close my eyes and focus on breathing. In, out, in. I almost relax, until the door opens behind us.

And I hear his voice.

“Coach said you wanted to see me?”

I sit up fast.

George.

Of course.

He’s standing in the doorway in his Northbridge hoodie, hair still wet from a shower, eyes scanning the room until they land on me.

I look at Jessie like she betrayed me.

But she just shrugs. “It wasn’t my idea.”

Right then, Coach steps in behind George. His clipboard’s tucked under his arm, and he looks like he’s already had too much coffee.

“Lane,” he says, nodding at me. “You’re doing rehab all week, minimum. No skating until Jessie clears you.”

“I figured,” I say.

Coach turns to George. “And you’re helping.”

George frowns. “Me?”

“Yes, you. You’ve got extra study hall this week, but rehab fits in your free period. I want you working with her on stretches and stability. She's got no business doing half this stuff alone.”

My stomach drops.

“You’re kidding, right?” I ask.

Coach looks me dead in the eyes. “You need support. He’s it. Don’t make it a thing.”

Then he’s gone, just like that.

Jessie clicks her tongue. “Well. Guess I’ve got a new assistant.”

George steps inside, looking just as annoyed as I feel.

I roll onto my side, away from him. “I don’t need help.”

Jessie hands him a resistance band and smiles like this is all totally normal. “You do today. Be useful, Hale.”

George walks over slowly and kneels at my feet.

He doesn’t say anything. Just starts looping the band around the arch of my sneaker, his fingers brushing my ankle. My skin prickles.

“Straighten your leg,” he says quietly.

I shoot him a glare. “I can do it myself.”

“Yeah? You sure? Because yesterday you looked ready to snap in half.”

Jessie clears her throat sharply. “Enough. Both of you.”

She hands me a small medicine ball. “You’re going to rotate your hip across your body while George stabilizes the leg. Five reps. Each side.”

George places one hand gently under my knee. His fingers are warm and steady.

I hate that I remember exactly what his hands felt like on the ice yesterday.

I grit my teeth and start the reps. The pain is there, but not sharp, just a low burn. I can handle it.

George doesn’t speak again. He just watches, serious, quiet, like he’s trying not to make things worse.

After the third rep, I break the silence. “Why’d you tell me?”

He blinks. “What?”

“About Connor. Why now?”

He looks down at his shoes. “I thought you deserved to know.”

“Do you tell every girl you skate with that her dead brother was hiding injuries?”

His jaw tightens. “You’re not just ‘every girl,’ Cassandra.”

I sit up and toss the ball to the side. “You don’t get to say that.”

He meets my eyes, and for a second, I see something break through that smug confidence he always wears. Something real.

“I know I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he says. “But it’s been killing me. Everyone acting like Connor was invincible, when he wasn’t.”

My throat tightens.

“He was my brother,” I whisper.

“I know.”

“You didn’t know him like I did.”

“No,” he says. “But I watched what he did to himself. I watched how no one stopped him.”

I want to scream. I want to throw something. But all I do is sit there, shaking, the fight draining out of me.

Jessie walks over and hands me a water bottle. “Take five.”

I nod and scoot back against the wall. George moves too, giving me space, but not leaving.

For a while, we sit in silence.

Then he says, “Do you remember that game against Hollow Creek? The night before he died?”

Of course I do.

“He scored the winning goal,” I say.

George nods. “He collapsed right after the buzzer. Said he was fine. Wouldn’t let the medics check him.”

My chest twists.

“He told me not to tell anyone,” George says softly. “Said if I did, he’d never talk to me again.”

I look at him, confused.

“You were friends?”

He shrugs. “Not really. But I looked up to him. Everyone did.”

“Then why are you telling me this now?”

He breathes out slowly. “Because I think he’d want you to be smarter than he was.”

I stare at the floor.

“I can’t be him,” I say.

“I don’t want you to be,” he replies.

The silence stretches again.

Jessie claps her hands. “Alright, you’ve got five more sets. Let’s finish strong.”

I groan and lie back down.

George moves into place beside me, ready with the band again. His hands hover like he’s waiting for permission.

I nod, just barely.

And for once, we work together. No arguing. No sarcasm. Just focus.

But I can feel something new hanging in the air between us.

Something I don’t know how to name.

After the session, I limp toward the locker room, sore and sweaty. George follows a few steps behind.

Right as I’m about to push the door open, he says, “Hey.”

I glance back.

He looks nervous.

“You ever think maybe we could... talk? Like actually talk?”

I raise an eyebrow. “About what?”

“About your brother. About skating. About... stuff.”

I pause. My heart thuds a little louder.

“Maybe,” I say.

He gives me a half smile.

But before either of us can say more, the door swings open from the inside.

And standing there is my mom.

Her eyes scan between me and George. Her mouth tightens.

“What’s he doing here?” she asks.

George takes a step back.

“Rehab help,” I say quickly. “Coach made him.”

Mom’s jaw clenches. She nods stiffly, but I can tell she’s not buying it.

She turns to George. “I think we’re done here.”

George opens his mouth, but no words come out.

“Go on,” Mom says.

He finally walks away, his face unreadable.

I stare at her, confused and tense.

“What was that about?”

Mom brushes past me without answering.

“Seriously,” I press. “Why do you hate him?”

She stops. Doesn’t look at me. Her voice is low and sharp.

“Because George Hale was the last person who saw your brother alive.”

Then she walks into the locker room and slams the door shut.