Page 177

Panicked breaths saw out of me; my chest is heaving, skin flushed. It’s a full-blown panic attack—and I’m not silent anymore. There are desperate panting sob-like sounds bellowing from my mouth.

“Holy shit.”

I can barely look up to see who it is, just lift my chin to see Toren Kane stepping back, fully dressed, skates and all. He pulls off his cage, tossing it down as he darts across the space to me, no hesitation, sinking to his knees.

“Fuck, Reiner, breathe,” he begs. “Are you okay if I touch you?”

I can just barely manage a nod. Toren wraps his arms around my shoulders, his jersey to my naked chest, and squeezes tight. There’s a strange relief to it before he pulls back and moves his hands across my arms to squeeze there, down to my hands where I’ve gone numb.

For a moment it’s like pins and needles—but it fades into something better, warmth.

“Can you breathe with me? Like this?” He takes in an overexaggerated breath, and I match him, over and over, slowly, until my erratic too-quick huffs are back to normal. “There ya go. All good.”

Someone comes in, but I don’t look up to see. I can’t. Not yet.

“What—”

“Shut up and come here, Koteskiy,” Toren says, no bite to his voice. He squeezes my hands again. “You’re his best friend. He needs you, not me.”

I can’t speak, throat dry. Toren lets go of my hands and steps back, letting my best friend take his place. Rhys is decked in our navy blue Waterfell classic jerseys, dark brown hair already messy from his helmet, brown eyes wide and terrified as he stares at me.

Rhys kneels in front of me, gaze meeting mine—soothing me with his steadying presence alone. The person I’ve had by my side since I can remember.

“Bennett?” he asks.

“Just . . . a panic . . . attack—”

Rhys’s eyes widen, but he nods. “Okay. Okay.” He stands, almost stumbling over his own skates to head to his bag, rummaging around.

“How’d you know?” I ask Toren, a little breathless still.

Toren shrugs, arms crossed. “I . . . um—My best friend used to have them a lot. Not like panic attacks exactly, but something similar. I’ve—I saw you needed help.” He shrugs again, eyes darting away. “I’m gonna just—”

His thumb darts over his shoulder and he excuses himself. I wonder if he has any clue that we watch him go with different eyes, that this might be the moment he became part of our team completely, especially for Rhys. I can see it in his gaze, flickering over where the defenseman was standing.

“Here,” Rhys says, handing me his phone with corded headphones already plugged in. “Music helps me. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”

The words seem weighted, so I put in a headphone and press play, letting the lull of music take over in my right ear.

“What’s going on?” Coach Harris asks, stepping into the room. Rhys stands almost protectively beside me. “Reiner—are you hurt?”

“No—I’m . . .” I shake my head. I’m not hurt, but I’m hesitant to say I’m fine either. “I just had an episode. I need a second.”

Harris nods, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He checks his watch before looking down the hallway toward the tunnel and gesturing. Toren reappears, Paloma and my dad both behind him.

My dad rushes to me, something like fear on his face, before I wave him off and stand.

“I’m fine. I can play—”

“Like hell you can,” my dad snaps. “We’re going home.”

It’s a strange mix of relief and anger that swirls inside me—desperate to leave the arena, to close my eyes for a moment, to rest. But also desperate not to let my team down. Especially Rhys.

He’s worked his whole life for this. He hauled himself back from the dark without your help. And you would abandon him—

I shake my head to clear it, only to make my headache worse. Enough that I stumble to the side—just a hair.

Arms wrap around my torso: Rhys on my left. Paloma on my right, brown eyes looking up at me from beneath a messy pile of blond curls.