Chapter 7
JACKSON
"Again!"
I groan but skate back to the blue line. We've been running this power play drill for twenty minutes straight, and my legs are screaming. Jenkins is bent over his stick, gasping. Reeves looks like he might actually murder Coach.
"Anderson!" Coach skates toward me, face red. "You're the center on this play. Where's your head?"
"Right here, Coach."
"Bullshit. You've missed three setups in a row." He stops in front of me. "We won the last game because you were sharp. Right now, you're skating like you forgot how. What's going on?"
I know where the arteries are.
Maya's handwriting flashes through my head. Those careful diagrams showing exactly where to cut for maximum damage.
"Just tired," I say. "Long week."
"Then wake up." Coach blows his whistle. "From the top. And Anderson, if you miss Chase breaking toward the net one more time, you're running suicides until you puke."
We line up again. The puck drops. I win the face-off, send it to our defenseman on the point. He fires it across to the other D-man. I'm already moving, reading the play, looking for the opening.
Chase races toward the net. I slip the puck past two defenders, landing it right at his stick. He shoots, and it flies into the top corner of the goal.
"Finally!" Coach yells. "That's what I want to see. Again!"
We run it five more times. I nail every setup. My head's in the game now, body moving on instinct. This I can control. This makes sense.
Not like trying to help someone who's actively planning their own death.
Practice ends an hour later. I'm drenched in sweat, muscles burning in that good way that means I pushed hard enough. The high from landing every play settles in my chest, temporary but real.
Chase slaps my shoulder in the locker room. "There you are. Thought we lost you in the first half."
"Just needed to warm up."
"Warm up?" Jenkins laughs from across the room. "Cap, you're usually dialed in from the first drill. What's different?"
Everything. My sister's best friend is living in my house, cutting herself, and I'm the only one who knows.
"Nothing. Just off my game this morning."
Chase gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push.
The drive home takes fifteen minutes. Chase talks about Emma's latest pregnancy craving—pickles and peanut butter, which sounds disgusting, but apparently, she can't get enough. I make the appropriate sounds, but my mind's already ahead, wondering what state Maya will be in when we get there.
Will she be locked in her room? Will I catch another glimpse of whatever's happening beneath the surface?
We pull into the driveway, and I hear Ethan before I see him.
"No! Skate! Skate!"
Chase and I exchange a look and head around to the backyard.
Ethan's standing by the play structure, arms crossed, bottom lip stuck out in a pout that would be funny if he wasn't on the verge of a full meltdown. Maya's crouched in front of him, hands on her knees, trying to reason with a toddler—which anyone with kids knows is a losing battle.
"Buddy, it's too cold for skating right now," Maya's saying. "The rink isn't even set up yet."
"Want skate!" Ethan stamps his foot. "Unca Jacky skate!"
"Uncle Jackson's at practice—" She spots us, and relief floods her face. "Oh, thank god. He wants to go skating, and I've been trying to explain that's not happening right now."
"Unca Jacky!" Ethan runs toward me, nearly tripping over his own feet. I catch him before he face-plants. "Skate! Please!"
"The rink's not ready yet, bud. We haven't set it up for winter."
His face crumples. "But want skate now."
"Tell you what." I set him down and head toward the play structure. "How about we practice climbing instead? Get you strong for when we do skate."
His eyes light up. Crisis averted.
Maya watches me lift him onto the first platform, something soft in her expression. "You're good with him."
"He's easy. Toddlers just need a distraction." I spot Ethan as he navigates the small ladder. "Plus, I've had practice. Emma made me babysit constantly when he was born."
"That tracks." She leans against the fence, arms wrapped around herself. She's wearing a jacket today—she usually goes without one, and I always itch to give her mine. Her curls are pulled back in a low bun, a few strands escaping around her face.
She looks tired but more relaxed than I've seen her in days. Like, maybe that conversation actually helped.
Ethan makes it to the top of the slide and looks down, suddenly uncertain.
"Come on, buddy," I call up. "You've got this."
"Scared!"
"That's okay. Being scared is normal." I move to the bottom of the slide. "But I'm right here. I'll catch you."
He sits at the top, considering. Then he pushes off.
I catch him at the bottom before swinging him up. He's giggling, fear forgotten. "Again! Again!"
Maya's laughing. Actually laughing. Not the performance laugh she uses around Emma and Chase, but something real. The sound hits me square in the chest.
This is the Maya I remember. The one who used to fill our house with noise and life. The one who made everything feel lighter just by existing in the same room.
"My turn," Maya says suddenly.
"What?"
"I want to go down the slide." She's already climbing the structure, moving with the kind of reckless confidence I haven't seen from her since she arrived.
"Maya, that slide is built for toddlers—"
She goes down anyway, gets stuck halfway because she's too tall, and has to awkwardly shimmy the rest of the way while Ethan thinks it's the funniest thing he's ever seen.
She lands at the bottom, hair coming loose from her bun, grinning like an idiot.
"That was dignified," I say.
"Shut up, Ice Capades."
Ethan wants to go again, so we spend the next twenty minutes taking turns on the play structure. Maya keeps getting stuck on the slide. I keep catching Ethan at the bottom. And for a little while, it feels normal. Like we're just two people hanging out with a kid on a fall afternoon.
Max appears from nowhere, jumping onto the fence and surveying the scene with his typical judgment. His tail flicks as he watches Ethan climb.
"Your cat is judging us," Maya says.
"He's Chase's cat."
"He's everyone's cat. And he definitely thinks we're idiots."
Max meows, which I choose to interpret as an agreement.
Emma's voice carries from the back door. "Food's ready!"
Ethan takes off running. "Food! Food!"
Maya follows him, and I trail behind, watching the way her shoulders have loosened, the way she's moving easier, like maybe she's not carrying quite as much weight.
Inside, Emma's set the table. She's made spaghetti and meatballs, which explains why the whole house smells amazing. Chase is already seated, loading up his plate.
"How was practice?" Emma asks, kissing my cheek as I pass.
"Good. Long, but good."
"I'm guessing Coach is riding the high from your win the other night?"
"Coach is always riding some kind of high." I grab a plate. "How're you feeling?"
"Nauseous. Tired. The usual." She watches Maya help Ethan into his high chair. "But good. Doc says everything looks perfect."
We settle into dinner. Ethan makes a mess with his spaghetti, getting sauce everywhere. Chase tells a story about one of our new teammates getting lost on the way to practice and ending up at the wrong arena. Emma complains about pregnancy brain, making her forget basic words.
Maya sits across from me, quiet but present. The mask is back, but not as thick. She's engaging with the conversation, making small comments, even smiling at Emma's stories.
But I'm watching her too closely now. I can’t help it after reading her journal.
I notice when she rubs her left wrist. A quick circular motion with her right hand, like she's trying to erase something. The motion pulls her sleeve up, and I catch a glimpse of raised skin.
Scars.
My stomach drops.
She catches me staring and quickly pulls her sleeve down, eyes meeting mine for half a second before she looks away.
Fuck.
She knows I saw.
The rest of dinner passes in a blur. I'm going through the motions—eating, responding when spoken to, helping clear the table—but my mind is stuck on that flash of scarred skin.
How many times has she done it? How deep does she cut? Is she doing it every night while we're all asleep?
I know where the arteries are.
Emma takes Ethan upstairs for bath time. Chase heads to the living room to watch game footage on his laptop. Maya starts washing up.
I should go downstairs and give her space, not stand here in the kitchen watching her like a creep.
Instead, I grab a dish towel and start drying the pots she's washing.
We work in silence. She washes, I dry. Old rhythm from when we used to do this at my mom's house in Calgary. Maya would cook these elaborate meals, and I'd help with cleanup, both of us talking about nothing and everything.
Now the silence is deafening.
She hands me the last pot. Our fingers brush, and she jerks her hand back.
"Maya—"
"Don't." Her voice is quiet but firm. "Whatever you're about to say, don't."
"I'm just—"
"I said don't, Jackson."
She walks out of the kitchen, leaving me standing here with a wet pot and a chest full of words I can't say.
I hear her footsteps on the stairs. Then the guest room door closing.
Max appears at my feet, meowing.
"Yeah," I tell him. "I know."
I put the pot away and head downstairs to my room, sit on the edge of my bed, and stare at the wall.
I saw her scars. She knows I saw them. And neither of us knows what to do with that information.
The thing is, I've been in high-pressure situations my entire life.
Hockey teaches you how to make split-second decisions, how to read a play before it develops, and how to anticipate what's coming next.
I've captained teams through playoffs, made calls that determined whether we won or lost, and carried the weight of expectations from coaches, teammates, and fans.
But this? This is different.
There's no playbook for watching someone you care about slowly self-destruct. No drill to practice, no game footage to review, no coach yelling instructions from the bench.
I can't fix this with better positioning or sharper passes. Can't win this by outworking the opposition.
And that's what's killing me. That feeling of complete helplessness while someone I've known most of my life cuts herself in the room above mine, and I have no idea how to stop it.
I pull out my phone and open a new search tab, then close it.
I've already read enough articles about self-harm and trauma to know that confronting her directly could make things worse.
That she needs professional help, not some hockey player who thinks he can solve everything through sheer determination.
But doing nothing isn't an option either.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jenkins about tomorrow's practice schedule. I respond automatically, then toss the phone onto my nightstand.
The house is quiet now. Emma's probably reading to Ethan before bed. Chase is still watching footage, analyzing plays with the same focus he brings to everything. And Maya's upstairs in that guest room, probably sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering how much I saw, how much I know.
I think about going up there. Knocking on her door. Telling her I know she's not okay and that's fine, that she doesn't have to be okay, that I'm here regardless.
But she told me not to. Said it as clearly as anyone's ever said anything.
So I respect that boundary, even though every instinct I have is screaming at me to do something, anything, to help.
I change into sweats and lie back on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The basement's always been my space—separate from the rest of the house, quiet, mine. Right now, it feels like a cage.
Above me, I hear footsteps. Maya is moving around. The sound of water running in the bathroom. A door closing.
I wonder if she's looking at her wrists right now. If she's thinking about adding new scars to the collection. If she's pulled out that journal and is writing more of those dark thoughts that made me throw up in the kitchen sink.
My chest tightens.
I can't lose her. Can't watch her disappear. Can't stand by while she cuts herself and plans ways to die.
But I also can't tell her I read her journal, can't confront her directly, can't force her to accept help she's not ready for.
So what the fuck do I do?
The question sits heavy in my chest, unanswered. Because I don't know. I don’t know how to navigate this without making everything worse.
All I know is that Maya's hurting, that she's been carrying this weight alone for months, and that tonight at dinner she looked at me like she knew I'd seen too much.
Like she was waiting for me to confirm her worst fears about herself—that she's too damaged, too broken, too much to handle.
And I couldn't say anything. Couldn't tell her that seeing those scars didn't make me think less of her, didn't make me want to run, didn't change the fact that I'd do anything to help her if she'd just let me.
I just stood there like an idiot and let her walk away.
The ceiling fan rotates slowly above me in the same pattern it's traced every night since I moved in. Everything's the same as it was yesterday, last week, last month.
Except nothing's the same at all.
Because Maya's here now, and she's not okay, and I know things I shouldn’t, and I'm lying in my bed at night wondering if she's safe two floors above me.
All I know is that I need to figure out how to help her before those scars become something worse.
Before I lose her to whatever darkness she's fighting.
Because the thought of Maya not existing in this world anymore makes it hard to breathe.