I decide not to ask her. Not yet.

If George wanted me to know something, he would have said it outright. If my mom wanted me to know, she would have told me years ago. The fact that neither of them has means they are hiding something. I just do not know if it is the same thing.

Until I figure that out, the napkin stays folded in my jacket pocket like a loaded weapon I am not ready to fire.

I feel its presence even when it is not on me, like it hums with the weight of whatever truth it holds. I think about it while I eat dinner, while I lie awake staring at my ceiling, while I lace my skates the next morning.

By the time I step into the rink, I have convinced myself that I will keep my mouth shut until I have leverage. Until George needs something from me more than I need something from him.

The air inside is sharp and cold, a familiar sting on my face. My hip aches faintly from yesterday’s drills, but it is nothing I cannot handle.

The locker room is half full when I walk in. I keep my head down, dropping my bag on the bench and unzipping it. The clatter of sticks outside mixes with the low hum of conversation. I can almost pretend today will be normal.

Then George walks in.

He is laughing at something one of the guys says, easy and loud, but the sound cuts short when his eyes find me. He does not stop moving, just slows as he passes behind me, taking the stall two down. Close enough that I can feel him.

I focus on tying my skates, pulling the laces tight until my fingers ache.

“You kept it,” he says, his voice low enough that no one else will catch it.

I do not look up. “Kept what?”

“The napkin.”

I pause for half a second before tugging on the knot. “You should not talk about that here.”

“No one’s listening.”

“Maybe they should.”

I can hear the faint smile in his voice. “Would not change the truth.”

I shove my gloves on and turn just enough to meet his eyes. “If you think dropping cryptic notes is going to make me trust you, it is not.”

“I am trying to help.”

“Then stop making it about you.”

The words land harder than I meant, but I do not take them back. His expression shifts—still calm, but something sharp flickers in his gaze.

Coach’s whistle cuts across the room, calling us to the ice.

Drills are relentless. Passing, puck handling, tight turns around cones. I push myself harder than I should, every muscle in my legs burning. George is everywhere—skating into my lane, intercepting passes, cutting me off just enough to make me fight for space. It is not aggressive enough to draw attention, but I know he is doing it on purpose.

When we run breakaway drills, he ends up shadowing me again. His stick skims close to mine, his skates a hair’s breadth from clipping my blade. I score once, miss twice. Every time I miss, I feel his eyes on me, like he is cataloging the cracks.

By the last set, my lungs are burning and my hip is screaming. I push anyway, cutting across the ice with everything I have left. George matches me stride for stride, and for a second, it is like we are the only two out here, locked in some unspoken challenge neither of us can win.

Coach blows the final whistle.

I skate to the bench without looking at him. My hands shake as I pull off my gloves.

In the locker room afterward, the air feels hotter than it should. I yank off my helmet and drop it on the bench. The clang echoes.

George leans against the wall near the exit, helmet under one arm, sweat dampening the hair at his temple. “You are mad at the wrong person,” he says quietly.

I grab my bag. “No. I am mad at the person who knows something about my brother and thinks I am going to beg for it.”

His eyes lock on mine, steady. “When you are ready, you will ask.”

“I would not hold your breath.”

I start to sling my bag over my shoulder, but he steps closer, lowering his voice until it is almost a whisper.

“I went into Connor’s room once,” he says. “Before… you know. He had these pages taped under his desk. Notes about plays. About pain.”

I freeze, my grip tightening on the strap. “What kind of pain?”

His gaze dips, and for a second, I think he is going to tell me. Really tell me.

But then something changes in his expression. His jaw tightens, and he shakes his head like he just remembered why he shouldn’t.

“Forget it,” he mutters, stepping back.

“No,” I snap, my voice sharper than I planned. “You do not get to do that. You do not get to start and then stop like it is some kind of game.”

“It is not a game.” His voice is low, almost harsh now. “It is the reason you are still here.”

The words slam into me before I can process what they mean.

I stare at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

He looks at me for a long second, then turns away, grabbing his bag.

I follow him toward the door, heart pounding, but he is already halfway down the hall before I step out.

I stand there, breath sharp in my chest, my mind racing.

The napkin burns in my pocket. His words burn worse.

If I want answers, I am going to have to take them.