2. Jayce
TWO
Jayce
T he worst thing I’ve learned, is smiling while your insides are shattered glass. Pretending you’re holding it together when every step feels like walking through fire. It’s easier to just give in, accept what you are—like I did. I’m sprawled on the couch, drowning in an old sweatshirt that’s hanging off my shoulders like it’s given up on me too. It’s me and the bottle. Again. The whiskey sits heavy in my gut, but my head? Numb. All fucking numb.
The clock ticks loud enough to drown out the trickle of the zen fountain my mom thought would help me “relax.” The irony isn’t lost on me. I don’t know what drink this is—fourth, sixth? Maybe I’m just chasing ghosts at this point. The bottle isn’t even in reach anymore, and my leg is throbbing like the wound is fresh, not months old.
It’s crazy when I think back; just six months ago my life was still complete. I had it all. Now I can’t look at all the trophies on my wall, calling me best captain or player or whatever. I don’t care.
I’m no one. I’m not a hockey player anymore and never will be again.
I shift on the couch, trying to ease the ache, and feel something cold and sharp dig into my side. A crushed beer can. Great. I grunt as I sit up, my body stiff, uncooperative, like an engine that hasn’t been turned over in years.
The pain spikes as I move, shooting through my useless left leg.
The TV across from me glows faintly, playing something I don’t remember turning on. The house is eerily quiet, except for that. My too-big, too-empty beach house looks like a warzone, a wasteland of bottles, takeout containers, and unopened mail. Even the cleaning lady—Brenda? Macey? Marlow?—has stopped showing up. I told her not to bother. Told everyone not to.
The phone buzzes next to me. I glance at it, barely caring, until the name flashes across the screen.
Riley.
Of course.
Always Riley.
I ignore the message. I haven’t read any of them in weeks. My phone’s drowning in notifications—WhatsApp, emails, missed calls, DMs. I couldn’t care less.
The screen lights up again. I catch the preview before it fades.
Rile: I’m coming over. Answer me, asshole.
I turn the screen off and toss the phone onto the floor. I know he’s my best friend…or was. I don’t know. What’s the point? I’m useless and he can come if he wants, but he’s still in Canada for his game. By the time he gets back? I’ll be gone. Somewhere he can’t find me.
Why? Because I’m done. Because Huntington shouldn’t have to deal with this version of me. The useless one. The one who can’t even—
My phone buzzes again. The vibration hums softly against the couch frame, and since it won’t stop, I groan and reach for it, just to turn it off.
Then I see the name on the screen.
It’s not Huntington. At least not Riley.
It’s another one.
Rosie.
His little sister.
My heart stops.
Rosie doesn’t call me. Ever. Not once in all the years I’ve known her.
She’s a texter, always has been.
I swipe to answer, my breath catching in my throat. “Rosie?”
“Jay.” Her voice is barely a whisper, a broken thing that feels like it’s cutting straight through me. She doesn’t ask why I’ve vanished from everyone’s lives. She doesn’t scold me or demand answers. Instead, she’s crying—soft, shaky breaths that hit like a punch to the gut. I don’t need more to know that she’s in danger. That breaking in her voice. That quivering. One moment, I couldn’t care less if lightning had struck me, and the next, I’m flooded with anxiety. Every sense I had numbed is suddenly sharp and awake again. But my mind is blank except for one pressing question: How can I reach her as quickly as possible?
“Jay, are you…are you in the Hamptons?”
“Yes. Rosie, where are you? What’s wrong?”
“I…” Her breath hitches, and then her voice cracks again. “I need you.”
Those three words hit me like a freight train. My body moves before my brain catches up. I’m on my feet—or trying to be—gripping the edge of the couch for support as the room tilts.
My stiff leg protests, sending a sharp jolt of pain up my spine.
I grit my teeth and continue to push myself, ignoring the excruciating discomfort. No one, not even my physician, could make me move this quickly since the injury.
“ Where are you?”
“I don’t know,” she says, her voice shaking. “Somewhere in the woods, somewhere near the Hamptons. I—I can’t—”
Her words dissolve into a sob, and suddenly the haze in my head clears.
She’s drunk. No, worse. She’s utterly lost.
“Send me your location,” I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be.
She can’t get hurt too. Not her. Not ever.
Seconds later, my phone buzzes in my hand. Her message. The first one from her in years.
My hands tremble as I open it, my eyes locking on the coordinates. They’re close—thirty minutes on foot, maybe less if I move fast. A desperate laughter bubbles in the back of my throat. Yeah, as if I’m fast. I aged fifty years six months ago. It might take an hour.
It’s the meniscus that causes all my pain—this crescent-shaped cushion of cartilage in my knee, the thing that’s supposed to absorb impact and keep everything stable. It used to do its job perfectly, but now? It’s beyond repair. Irreparable, they said. The damage is too extensive—too shredded, too worn—for it to heal on its own or even for a surgeon to fix it. They tried to fix it three times and now I’m stuck with the consequences: the stiffness that never quite goes away, the dull ache that flares up when I push too hard, the way my knee doesn’t move like it used to. Or not at all. It’s not just about pain—it’s about losing the freedom to move the way I once could. The freedom of playing that game I love so much.
I grab my cane, my free hand already shoving my keys into my pocket. Can’t drive. I really have to walk there. I should call someone, maybe Riley, but the thought vanishes as quickly as it comes. No one’s in the Hamptons—not even her parents, they are at their hotel in New York. All I can focus on is getting to her. I’m the closest one to her and you can’t protect someone by running away from them. Even though when it comes to her, I’ve always been running.
I halt at my shoes and look at my sneakers, the ones with the laces. I can’t tie them on my own. So, I slip into my Birkenstock shoes. It is what it is. Fuck it. I’m drunk and can’t even put on my own shoes.
“Stay on the phone,” I grunt. “Just talk to me. Keep talking until I get there. It will take a while.”
She’s quiet for a beat, and then she starts to speak, her voice soft and hesitant.
“I danced the lead in Swan Lake at the end of last semester,” she says. “You missed it.”
My throat tightens. “I’m sorry, I considered coming,” I say, gripping the cane so hard my knuckles ache as I make my way down the street, following that blue dot on my phone while I put Rosie on Speaker.
She laughs, but it’s hollow, bitter. “Jay, you were in a coma.”
“Yeah.”
There’s silence until I hear her sniffing.
“Did you know I was there the night it happened?”
I limp down the road, every step sending a fresh jolt of pain through my leg. But something spikes in my chest, and that something needs all my attention because what the fuck is she saying? “When?”
“I came to the hospital right after Riley called me. We sat there all night. I was so scared of you. You talked with me.”
My heart sinks. “I did? I can’t remember. What did I say?” Suddenly my biggest fear is that I said something stupid. Something I should never ever say out loud. Like I had a crush on you for years even though I’m way too old for you. Even if it makes me a fucking creep.
“You said you didn’t want me there.”
I can feel my heart rate increase and my stomach drop at the realization that I hurt her. That’s something I’d never do. It must have been the meds and my fear of revealing those damn feelings for her in front of Riley. “I’m sorry, Rosie, I—”
“No hard feelings, Jay.”
Her words cut through me like a knife, but I can’t be angry with her. Not when she’s in this state again. I hate myself for being too wasted to scold her, but at the same time, I know she needs someone to protect her. It’s just hard when we’re both so lost.
“It’s okay, Jay. I’m not angry or anything. I just wanted you to know that I was there and that I just respected your wish.”
“Thank you for being there.”
“Riley says you vanished since they released you.”
After three weeks in the hospital and one month at a physical rehabilitation center, they let me go. And since then, I’ve ignored everyone and their dog.
“How are you—” I can tell what she wanted to ask, but she probably thought twice about it, knowing I’m feeling like crap.
Then we both fall silent, and I follow the GPS to a dark, winding road lined with trees. I make her talk about Julliard and her courses and those final projects she has until the faint glow of her car’s headlights comes into view, half hidden by branches. The front end is crumpled against a tree, the windshield cracked.
My heart slams against my ribs.
“Rosie,” I say, my voice catching.
“I’m here,” she says. “I see you.”
And there she is, stumbling out of the woods. Her dress is torn and dirty, her long black hair a tangled mess. Mascara trails down her pale cheeks, highlighting the tear tracks. Shaking, she clutches herself tightly as if trying to mend her shattered self.
I tighten my grip on the cane, catching the way her eyes flicker to it before a faint wince crosses her face. That’s exactly why I keep myself hidden—because I can’t take that look. The one that says people feel sorry for me. Pitying me. Not her. Rosie can’t look at me like that. I’ve always tried so hard to be perfect for her.
Then she’s in my arms, and for a moment I can’t breathe. Every muscle in me strains to keep us upright as I shift all my weight onto my good leg, holding her small frame steady. I used to carry her across yards, tossing her onto my shoulders without a second thought. Now, just holding her delicate body feels like a battle I’m barely winning.
“Jay.” She sobs into my chest, her voice muffled against the fabric of my gray hoodie. “I fucked up so bad.”
I hold her tighter, praying to God she’s exaggerating like always.
“It’s okay,” I whisper, even though I know it’s probably not. “You’re safe now. I’m here.” It’s a lie, because how the hell could I make her feel safe? I’m useless.
Her sobbing intensifies, and I become suspicious as I glance at her car once more. Rosie has never been one to care about material possessions. It’s unlikely she would cry like this simply because she crashed her car. She could easily buy a new one in a sec.
“No, it’s not okay, Jay.”
Her voice cracks as she pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her gaze wide and glistening, something raw and broken slipping through the usual warmth of her whiskey-colored eyes. Lips part, trembling, and when she finally speaks, it’s barely a whisper.
“Jay…he’s dead.”
The air seems to disappear out of my lungs and my pulse slams in my ears.
“What? Who?” The words come out strangled. “What did you just say?”
“He’s—” she chokes out, crying, panicking. “ Dead .”
“Who is?” My throat tightens around the question, but she doesn’t answer.
Her lips quiver again, her breath hitching like she’s trying to force the words out and failing.
“Who?” I demand, louder this time, my voice sharp and cutting through the suffocating silence.
But then my eyes shift to the car again.
To the figure slumped in the passenger seat.
And everything falls apart.