The question catches like ice in my chest. My first instinct is to answer honestly. Tell him no, I’m not sick, just hurting. But the bruise burns under my shirt, and the thought of Coach Bryant pulling me from drills tomorrow is worse than the pain.
“Just an off day,” I say instead. The lie slides out smooth, practiced. Too easy.
Bryant’s eyes narrow for half a beat, assessing. Then he nods once and turns to bark at someone else. Just like that, the danger passes.
Relief mingles with guilt. It isn’t dishonesty, not really. It’s survival.
Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
As I make my way toward the showers, I feel Phoenix’s gaze on me. He’s across the room, shirtless, watching with that same unreadable grin. Like he knows. Like he’s seen me stiffen, clocked the way I hold myself a fraction too carefully.
For a second, the locker room noise fades under the weight of his stare. Then he looks away, laughing at something one of the defensemen says, and the spell breaks.
I exhale slowly, chest aching. Maybe he hasn’t noticed. Maybe I’m imagining it.
But deep down, I know better. Phoenix notices everything.
The ache follows me into the shower, the sting of hot water hitting my ribs like a punishment. I brace a hand against the tile, eyes shut, letting steam curl around me. The lie I’ve just toldCoach echoes in my head, colliding with memories I don’t want to touch.
I’m ten again, standing in the cramped bathroom of our old apartment. Dad sits on the edge of the tub, a needle still on the counter beside him, his sleeve rolled up. His arm is blotched with bruises he’ll never admit are his doing. He looks at me with glassy eyes, tells me he’s fine. Always fine. Even when he can barely stand.
I learned early what it means to live inside someone else’s denial. I learned that admitting weakness doesn’t make things better; it just gives other people ammunition. The neighbors, the school, the social workers—they all want to dig, to pry, to take control away.
Silas used to tell me,We keep it in-house, Lee. Don’t let them see.He was fifteen then, already carrying the weight of two parents. He pulled me close, his arm steady where Dad’s wasn’t, and he whispered promises he was too young to keep. We survived because we pretended. Because we lie well enough to pass.
So now, standing in the locker room shower with the bruise flaring under my skin, it feels almost natural. A continuation of what I’ve been trained for my whole life. Smile. Straighten up. Say you’re fine. And don’t let anyone catch the truth.
I open my eyes, rinse the soap from my hair, and force myself upright. Pride burns hotter than pain.
The water shuts off with a squeak. I grab my towel, dry off slowly, and by the time I pull my clothes on, I’ve buried the flashbacks deep again. But as I sling my bag over my shoulder and step out into the hall, Phoenix is there, leaning against the wall like he’s been waiting.
His eyes flick to my side, then back up to my face. I keep walking, brushing past him without a word.
“Hey, Cameron,”
I ignore him. If he wants to play detective, let him. I’m not giving him—or anyone else—the satisfaction of seeing me bleed.
“Leander.” He grabs my arm gently, turning me to face him.
“What, Locke?” I growl.
Phoenix smirks at my aggression before pushing a small tin jar in my palms. “For youroff day.”
I open my hand to see that he had given me a jar of salve for bruises and deep muscle pains. Brand new.
He turns on his heel and walks out of the building with his duffle over his shoulder. Leaving me stunned in the hallway.
The apartment is dark when I push the door open. Jeremy, my roommate, is out of town visiting his sister, so I have the place to myself. Practice ran late, my ribs are on fire, and all I want is to collapse on the couch and not think about Phoenix Locke’s smirk burned into the back of my skull.
But the second the door shuts behind me, I know I’m not alone. A faint scrape of movement comes from the kitchen. My pulse kicks, quick and defensive. I didn’t leave the TV on, didn’t set anything on the counter. I drop my gear bag gently, ready to snap if some idiot decided to break into a hockey player’s barely-held-together apartment.
“Lee?”
The voice stops me cold. My hand hovers near the closest thing I can use as a weapon—the metal umbrella stand by the door. But then he steps into the light, and my body uncoils so fast it leaves me dizzy.
Silas.
He looks older than I remember, though maybe that’s just the shadows under his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. Samesharp jaw, same brown hair falling into his face in uneven lengths, like he cut it himself with a bathroom mirror and dull scissors. His smile is tentative, like he’s not sure I’ll be glad to see him.
