73. Jackson
Jackson
The ice was loud, but my head was louder.
Every time Coach yelled an instruction, the word “Breathe” echoed in my mind.
I was fighting the puck, fighting my concentration, fighting the constant, grinding anxiety that I shouldn’t have left Ryan alone.
I’d promised to be back by noon, but the clock on the rink scoreboard was moving too slowly.
I kept seeing his face, still, tense, wrapped in my hoodie, staring at the blank Seattle fog.
Logan skated past, giving me a pointed look.
“Head in the game, Hayes! You’re sloppy.
” He was right. I was useless. I couldn’t shake the fear that in the silence of my house, the ghosts would finally corner him.
He’s alone. The thought hit me with the force of a cross-check.
I slammed my stick against the boards, the sound sharp and final.
I skated straight off the ice, pulling off my helmet.
“Coach, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go,” I said, not waiting for the inevitable fine or lecture.
I didn’t give a damn. I just ripped off my skates and threw on my jacket, already sprinting for the exit.
The drive back to Tidehaven felt agonizingly slow.
Every red light was a personal insult. My hands gripped the wheel, white-knuckled, praying I hadn’t made a terrible mistake.
I burst through my front door, slamming it against the wall, not caring about the noise.
“Ryan!” I shouted, dropping my bag instantly.
The house was silent, but the air was heavy, charged with something dark and electric.