Cross Checked (Expanded 2026 Edition #2)

1. Brayden

brAYDEN

The smell of maple bacon drifted up the stairs like an alarm clock for my stomach. It was the kind of smell that didn’t just wake you—it wrapped around you, tugging you down to the kitchen whether you were ready to face the day or not.

I could already hear Mom’s voice floating through the house, half laughter and half business, her tone sharp and sweet all at once.

The cordless phone was wedged between her shoulder and ear, the way it always was when she was trying to do five things at once.

The comforting hiss of eggs sizzling in butter mingled with the click of her wedding ring against the frying pan handle.

She looked up when I stepped into the kitchen, eyes bright even without makeup, hair pulled back in her signature low ponytail. “Good morning, honey,” she mouthed, lips curving into that smile she wore like armor—soft but unbreakable.

“I will see you on Monday with those damn papers finally signed and in hand. Talk to you then.” She dropped the phone back into its cradle and exhaled, her shoulders relaxing as though she’d just scored the winning goal in overtime.

“What’s got you in such a good mood this morning?” I asked, sliding into the chair at the end of the breakfast table. The one that still had a faint burn mark from when I was twelve and thought I could use a lighter to melt a hockey puck. I did not win the science fair that year.

With her singsong voice, my mother beamed. “I’m going to get those divorce papers signed today if it’s the last thing I do.”

Her flannel pajamas—red and green plaid, faded soft from years of washing—swayed as she moved between the stove and the counter.

The smell of coffee mingled with bacon and butter, turning our old farmhouse kitchen into something warm and alive.

For the first time in a while, she looked like herself again.

With Dad gone, I’d started noticing the little things about her—how she hummed off-key when she cooked, how she always cracked eggs with one hand, how her feet never stopped moving. Life had thrown her a pile of broken sticks, but she still found ways to make plays flawlessly.

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “We’ve sent those papers to the jerk at least a dozen times. He keeps refusing.”

She gave a small, wicked grin. “Your sister and I are going up there later today. He won’t be able to say no to our faces. I mean, your sister’s puppy eyes and my cold, heartless glare—that’s the perfect recipe for success.”

Her laugh filled the room, a sound I didn’t realize I’d missed until it was back. For a split second, I saw the woman she’d been before all the lies, liquor and lawyers—fierce, funny, unstoppable.

“I don’t know what you think will change this time,” I huffed, more frustrated than intended.

Her smile faltered. “Honestly, Brayden, I’ve run out of options.”

She set a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon in front of me and another for herself, but her hands lingered on the edge of the table. The weight of what she didn’t say—years of exhaustion, disappointment, anger—sat between us like an invisible third plate.

I hated that look on her face. Hated that she was fighting so hard just to close a chapter that should’ve ended long ago.

“I just feel like there are other ways to handle this,” I said. “It’s only going to upset you and Myla. You know he wants that. Seeing you, getting a reaction—that’s his power play.”

She didn’t answer right away, just stared down at her plate and tapped her fork against it in a slow rhythm. Finally, she sighed. “Maybe. But it’s time someone finished this game. I’m tired of living in sudden-death overtime.”

We ate in silence after that. The kind of silence that hummed louder than words.

When I was done, I shoved back from the table, chair legs scraping against the tile. “I have to get ready for practice.”

Mom nodded absently, eyes already distant, as if she was rehearsing the confrontation in her head.

As I turned to leave, the thought of her standing face-to-face with him made my chest tighten. If I couldn’t talk her out of it, maybe Myla could.

I climbed the stairs two at a time, knocking softly on my sister’s half-open door. “Hey, sis, got a sec?”

The squeaky floorboards betrayed me before I even got close to my sister’s door.

Myla sat cross-legged on her bed, a well-worn Harry Potter book balanced on her knees.

Her room was a pastel explosion of pink and gold, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, and enough throw pillows to suffocate a small bear.

She glanced up, brow furrowed. “What’s up, Brayden?”

I sat beside her, the mattress dipping under my weight with a noisy sproing. “Maybe it’s time to get you a new bed,” I muttered, trying for humor, but it came out awkward. Small talk had never been my strongest play.

“What do you want, Bray?” she asked, voice clipped. “I’m at the best part—Dobby just got a sock.”

Of course she was. Myla had always found refuge in fantasy worlds. When everything real got too heavy, she dove into stories like they were oxygen tanks. I admired it, even if I didn’t always understand it.

“You know you don’t have to go today,” I stammered, hands clamming as I fiddled with the end of Myla’s blanket. “Mom will understand.” I reached out and squeezed her hand, small and soft and trembling.

“I’m already on the guest list.” Her voice cracked a little. “I don’t want to hurt Dad like that. He’s still our father.”

I felt my temper flare, hot and immediate. “Hurt him? Hurt him? You’re worried about hurting the man who ruined everything?” I stood, pacing a small trench into her carpet. “He doesn’t deserve your pity, Myla. The only good thing he ever did was give us life—and even that’s debatable.”

Her head snapped up, violet anger flashing in her eyes. “How dare you say that! He was a great father until he got injured! You of all people should understand what that feels like, Brayden. If you couldn’t play anymore, you’d lose it too!”

I froze. She wasn’t wrong—but she wasn’t right either. Our father hadn’t just lost himself. He’d taken everyone else down with him.

“Myla, I was there,” I said, voice dropping low. “I saw the cops on the porch that night. You think I don’t remember Mom’s face when they told her? That two people were dead? That another was fighting for their life? He didn’t just fall apart, Myla—he killed a family.”

Her lip trembled. “He didn’t mean to—”

“No,” I cut her off, shaking my head, words spilling faster now. “He meant to drink. He meant to drive. He meant to ignore every warning we gave him. And then he looked me in the eye the next day from that goddamn hospital bed like he was the victim.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “Stop.”

“I can’t,” I snapped, the sound of sirens and that knock on our door flashing behind my eyes like it was happening again.

“The way Mom collapsed—how you screamed—I hear it every time I close my eyes. And you want to go see him? Shake his hand? Give hi a fucking hug? Pretend he’s just some broken man who deserves forgiveness? ”

Her jaw clenched. “He’s still my dad, Brayden.”

“Then he’s your problem,” I muttered, the words sharp enough to taste blood.

The silence that followed was worse than the shouting. Just the faint ticking of her clock and the rustle of a page turning from a book she wasn’t reading anymore.

I rubbed my face and sighed. “You’re too good, Myla. You always were. You still want to believe there’s something left to fix. But there’s not. He’s gone. And one day, you’ll see that loving him doesn’t make you loyal—it makes you weaker.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look up.

When I shut her door, the sound echoed down the hallway like a gunshot—one that would keep ringing in my head for years.

I leaned against the wall, heart hammering, guilt clawing through me. I wasn’t just angry. I was scared—scared she’d go to him and come back broken, too.

Downstairs, Mom hummed again, stubbornly cheerful, the sound of her hope threading through the house like a promise none of us could keep. The smell of bacon still lingered, but all I could taste was dread.

I didn’t know it yet, but that would be the last morning that ever felt normal.