14. Brayden
brAYDEN
The days went on in a sort of routine. A messy, imperfect, exhausting routine—but still a routine.
Taking care of Myla and practicing with my team consumed my life.
Wake up, make coffee, check on Myla, practice, check on Myla again, eat something, check on Myla again, collapse on the couch. Rinse, repeat.
We started to get into a nice rhythm—our own weird little version of normal—but nothing could have prepared me for everything that had happened in such a short amount of time.
Some days it felt like the earth had shifted on its axis and nobody warned us.
Other days it felt like we were living inside a snow globe someone kept shaking just to see if we’d fall over.
The weirdest part? Even though everything had changed in my life, nothing really had.
Yes, my mother was gone.
Yes, Myla was no longer going to be an Olympic skater.
Yes, trauma had kicked us in the teeth repeatedly.
Those things were giant, mind-altering facts I had to accept as my new reality. But the world around me kept acting like nothing had happened.
My team was still the same loud, sweaty, chirping band of misfits. The mail never stopped coming. Bills still needed to be paid. Laundry still needed folding. My father was still in prison for vehicular manslaughter. The fridge still somehow ran out of milk at the exact same speed it always had.
The world kept spinning, days kept coming and going, life went on. I didn’t get to crawl under a blanket and opt out. I had to get back into the swing of things or risk getting left behind—or at least that was how it felt most days.
And through all of it, Myla was getting stronger every day. Her spirits were up, her spark was coming back, and that was pretty much all I could ask for.
I could live with exhaustion.
I could live with pressure.
I couldn’t live with losing her.
“Hungry?” I asked one night, carrying two plates of chicken and rice into the living room.
Myla glanced up from her Kindle—some fantasy book about dragons, judging by the crazy cover—and took the plate from me. “This smells so delicious, thanks.”
“Hey, we both gotta eat, right?” I winked at her before sitting on the opposite couch.
It was the simplest kind of moment, but honestly? It hit me harder than any goal I’d ever scored. Just being here. Just breathing in the same room. Just having a quiet night with my sister and not worrying she’d stop breathing in her sleep or fall or need to be rushed back to the hospital.
Before the accident, we were both so busy—me with hockey, her with training for the Olympics—that we never slowed down. We lived under the same roof but barely crossed paths unless it involved food or one of us borrowing shampoo.
But now? Now I actually knew her.
Over the last few months I’d started to learn things I never realized I didn’t know. I’d known Myla my entire life, but this was the first time I felt like I was actually meeting her.
I never knew she hated the color yellow because it reminded her of the pee-colored skating costumes their coach made them wear in elementary school.
I never knew she detested lima beans because they “taste like what regret would taste like if regret were edible.” I never knew she finished an entire romance series while bed-bound and had strong opinions about fictional men named Heath, Rowan, or Maximus.
We talked about everything. About how much she missed skating. How scared she was to try it again. How she dreamed—nightly—of an octopus with sponge-hands trying to slap her off a wooden boat she’d apparently been drifting in since third grade.
Individually, none of the things I was learning felt life-changing. But altogether? It was like discovering someone had secretly upgraded my sister to the deluxe, high-definition version I never knew existed.
I mean, I’d had a sister since I was two and my parents told me Mommy had a baby growing in her tummy. But somehow our relationship had shifted to a different level—something deep and tied together, something I’d never let go of.
Myla was turning into my best friend. And someone I truly admired.
“Hey, Brayden?” Myla finally said, looking up from her plate.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t think we say it enough, but I love you… and I’m really thankful you’re my brother.” Tears welled in her eyes before she could blink them away.
A goofy grin spread across my face before I could stop it. “I love you too, My.”
And for a second, the room went soft—warm, almost glowing. One of those rare moments where the world didn’t feel like a freight train trying to run us over.
She put her fork down. “Can I tell you something without you getting all overprotective and weird?”
I raised an eyebrow. “No promises.”
She laughed. “I’m serious.”
“Okay,” I relented. “Shoot.”
She took a breath. “I don’t want us to feel stuck in recovery mode forever. I want… I don’t know. A reset. Something fresh. Something that doesn’t hurt every time we look at it.”
I swallowed hard.
Her words weren’t dramatic. They weren’t heavy. But they hit like a punch to the ribs.
A reset.
A way forward.
Not forgetting the past—never that.
But moving out of survival mode.
I nodded slowly. “Yeah… I get that.”
“Good,” she said softly. “Because I think we’re ready.”
And damn it—she was right.
She was healing. I was holding us both above water. Our house didn’t feel like a sick ward anymore.
We were—finally—standing on the edge of something new. Something that looked a hell of a lot like hope. Something that would make the upcoming time jump not just feel earned… but necessary.