We drink in silence for a while, the hum of the fridge filling the gaps. I keep sneaking glances at him, half-afraid he’ll vanish if I look away too long. He’s always been a ghost, slipping in and out of my life on his own terms. But tonight, he’s here. Breathing the same air, asking about hockey like it matters, like I’m not just surviving practice after practice with bruises hidden under my gear.
I want to tell him the truth that I’m not okay. That the weight of pretending, of keeping every crack sealed, is grinding me down. But the words won’t come.
Instead, I finish my beer, set the empty bottle on the counter, and force a smile. “It’s good to have you here, Si.”
His eyes soften. “Good to be here, little brother.”
And just like that, the lie feels worth it.
3
PHOENIX
The bar buzzes—loud music, sticky floors, the sharp tang of spilled beer mixed with fry grease.
First win of the season, and Coach Bryant has loosened the leash enough to let us celebrate. Shots line up, rookies get teased, everyone laughs loud enough to drown out the exhaustion still riding our legs.
I don’t like waiting for the buzz to build. I like shortcuts.
Jax leans in, sensing my frustration, voice low, a mischievous spark in his eyes. “Hey, you want to hit the back for a sec?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Got something for me?”
He smirks, producing a tiny baggie from the pocket of his hoodie. “Nothing wild. Just enough to feel a little… better. You in?”
I glance around the bar—teammates too wrapped up in their own chaos to notice a thing. “Why not?” I shrug.
The back hallway swallows us. I follow Jax into the shadows of the bathroom, where the fluorescent light flickers and casts everyone in half-shadows. He moves first, careful and practiced, setting the powder on the counter.
“I’m not taking it on that nasty ass counter.” I grimace.
“Your loss,” Jax pulls quickly while there’s no one in sight.
I tap it to the back of my hand, inhale, and let it slide smoothly. Fire up the sinuses, edge sharpened.
My limbs feel lighter, my thoughts just a fraction more focused. Jax coughs, grimaces, shaking his head like he’s been hit by a truck. “Goddamn, that’s strong,” he mutters.
“Part of the fun,” I say, wiping my nose casually. He’s still staggering a little as we leave, grinning dumbly.
Back in the bar, the team has staked out a long stretch of tables. Glasses clink and voices rise in bursts of laughter. Everyone looks loose, electric from the win. I slide into the crowd,
throwing an arm around Nolan’s shoulders, stealing a fry off his plate. “Boys,” I drawl, letting the grin spread. “Finally looks like a team worth watching.”
Cheers erupt around me. Easy. Too easy.
But then my eyes catch on him.
Leander.
He sits at the far edge of the group, not quite apart but not in it either. His beer sits untouched, condensation dripping slowly down the glass. He laughs at the right moments when someone tosses a joke his way, but it’s soft, delayed. Always a step behind.
Most of the others wouldn’t notice. Too wrapped up in noise and booze. But of course I see him.
I lean back, watching him. Something about the way he carries himself, like he’s trying so hard to disappear and failing. Like he’s holding himself together with invisible thread.
I want to tug on those loose strings and see what unravels.
I push up from my chair, weaving through the crush of bodies until I land in the empty seat next to him.
