Chapter Twelve
Crew
Crew Donnelly had always believed pressure was easier when it came with a scoreboard.
Scoreboards were honest.
Brutal, sometimes.
Unforgiving, often.
But honest.
They told you how much time was left, how far behind you were, and whether the thing in front of you required patience or panic.
Life should have had scoreboards.
His father was asleep in a hospital bed.
Marin stood six feet away, holding Crew’s phone with his coach’s message still lit on the screen.
And there was no scoreboard anywhere.
No clock counting down cleanly.
No whistle.
No line change.
Just the words:
Need you back on campus for captain meetings after the Fourth. Team leadership schedule changed. We may need you earlier than planned. Call tomorrow.
Earlier than planned.
Crew watched Marin read it again.
Her face did not crumble.
That would have been easier.
It closed.
Not fully.
Not like outside the hospital when the hand-hold post hit. Not like the bakery when old hurt got too close. This was different. Quieter. A door not slamming, exactly.
More like a lock turning because it had been trained to protect the house.
Crew hated that he knew the sound.
He hated more that he had built it.
Marin handed the phone back.
Her fingers did not touch his.
“Okay,” she said again.
One word.
Too steady.
Crew took the phone.
“It might be nothing.”
The second he said it, he knew it was wrong.
Marin’s eyes lifted.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Good.
Better.
No minimizing because he wanted the room less sharp.
He looked at the message.
Then at her.
“It might be something,” he corrected.
Her chin moved once.
A nod that was not approval.
Just acknowledgement.
Tom shifted in the bed, still asleep, his hand twitching against the blanket. The monitor beeped softly. Beyond the door, a nurse laughed at the station, normal life moving along as if Crew’s entire past had not just walked into his future and asked whether he planned to repeat himself.
Marin’s voice came quiet.
“When were you supposed to go back?”
“After the Fourth. The morning of the fifth.”
“And now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could be before?”
“Yes.”
The word landed.
Crew felt it land in her.
He saw the tiny change around her mouth.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
Of course.
Of course he might leave before the smoke cleared.
Of course the same shape would return wearing a new reason.
Hockey.
Meetings.
Leadership.
A call from elsewhere.
Crew’s hand tightened around the phone.
“I’m going to call him tomorrow.”
Marin folded her arms.
“Good.”
“I’ll tell you what he says.”
Her eyes flashed.
Good.
Anger was better than that closed quiet.
“Will you?”
The words hit harder than they were spoken.
Crew nodded once.
“Yes.”
She looked at him for a long second.
Searching.
Measuring whether the answer was a promise or a reflex.
He let her.
Then she looked toward Tom.
“He should sleep.”
“Yeah.”
“And you should eat something that wasn’t a vending-machine apology.”
“I had a sandwich.”
“Half.”
Crew’s mouth almost moved.
“How do you know?”
“Because Talia watched you like a prison guard and texted me.”
Of course she had.
“Talia is thorough.”
“Talia is terrifying.”
“Both can be true.”
Marin’s mouth twitched before she stopped it.
That almost-smile nearly ruined him.
Then it was gone.
She looked at the chair beside Tom’s bed.
“You staying?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too fast.
Too automatic.
Marin heard it.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
Not because staying with Tom was wrong.
Because she knew the difference between devotion and self-punishment, and Crew had a long history of dressing one like the other.
“All night?” she asked.
“Probably.”
“Crew.”
He braced.
There it was.
The voice that turned his name into a warning and a hand on his chest at the same time.
“What?”
“You cannot keep your father stable by staring at him without blinking.”
“I know.”
“You cannot undo tonight by refusing to sleep.”
“I know.”
“You cannot earn forgiveness from anybody by becoming a hospital gargoyle.”
His mouth moved despite everything.
“Hospital gargoyle?”
“Yes. Pale. Watchful. Bad posture. Emotionally decorative.”
The laugh left him before he could stop it.
Soft.
Rough.
Needed.
Tom stirred in the bed but did not wake.
Marin looked away quickly, like she regretted making him laugh.
He did not.
Not even close.
“Emotionally decorative is harsh,” he whispered.
“You wore bobbing stars on a livestream.”
“For the roof.”
“Obviously.”
There it was again.
Their little shared phrase.
Stupid.
Perfect.
Dangerous.
The silence after it was warmer.
Not safe.
But less cold.
Crew looked at the chair.
Then at his father.
Then at Marin.
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to leave you either.”
He had not meant to say it like that.
Not now.
Not with his father sleeping between them and his coach’s message still bright in his mind.
Marin went still.
Crew held his breath.
There were moments when honesty arrived too early and still refused to go back.
This was one.
Marin looked at him.
No sarcasm.
No shield.
Just exhaustion and hurt and something he did not dare name.
“You might have to,” she said.
“Yes.”
The truth hurt.
He said it anyway.
“But I don’t want to leave the same way.”
Her expression shifted.
Barely.
“Meaning?”
“No vanishing. No pretending it’s nothing. No deciding that if I can’t promise the whole future, I should say less.”
She watched him.
He forced his hands to stay still at his sides.
Not reach.
Not plead.
“I don’t know what the next week looks like,” he said. “Or the season. Or after. But I know I want you to know what I know when I know it.”
Her eyes shone under the hospital room light.
“That is an ugly sentence.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“It’s an honest one.”
“Yes.”
Then, quieter, “That’s the problem.”
He nodded.
Because he understood.
Honesty did not make things easy.
It made them visible.
And visible things demanded choices.
Marin rubbed both hands over her face, careful not to wake Tom.
“I hate this week.”
“I know.”
“It was supposed to be cupcakes and a fundraiser and a parade.”
“And no hockey players.”
“Especially no hockey players.”
“Fair.”
She dropped her hands.
“But the roof is saved.”
Crew looked at Tom.
“Yes.”
“And your dad is stable.”
“For now.”
“For now counts.”
His eyes returned to hers.
She had borrowed Tom’s words.
For now is what everybody gets.
Maybe she had not meant to.
Maybe she had.
Either way, the phrase settled in the room.
Crew’s phone buzzed again.
He glanced down.
Not coach.
Group chat.
He should have ignored it.
But the preview caught his attention.
Sutton: We are downstairs. Not coming up unless invited.
Crew frowned.
Marin saw.
“What?”
“My team is here.”
Her eyebrows lifted.
“At the hospital?”
“Apparently.”
He opened the chat.
Messages stacked quietly for once.
Sutton: We brought food, phone chargers, and a sweatshirt because Wilder said hospitals are aggressively cold.
Wilder: I did say that. Quietly.
Frankie: I have not made a single graphic. Please note my sacrifice.
Cooper: We are in the lobby. No posts. No photos. No nonsense.
Hayes: Mild nonsense only if medically approved.
Beck: dude
Junie: I brought snacks. The respectful kind.
Milo: We’ll leave if you want. Just wanted to be nearby.
Crew stared at the screen.
Nearby.
Not pushing.
Not filming.
Not making content.
Just there.
His throat tightened.
Marin stepped closer to read.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough that he could smell her shampoo under the hospital antiseptic.
She read the messages.
Her face softened despite herself.
“Emotionally unsupervised,” she murmured.
“Yes.”
“But they came.”
“Yes.”
“Quietly.”
“So far.”
Her mouth curved.
Then faded into something thoughtful.
“You should go down.”
Crew looked at Tom.
Marin noticed.
“I’ll sit here.”
“No, you don’t have to—”
Her eyes cut to him.
He stopped.
Right.
Do not tell her what she did not have to do.
She knew.
Everyone knew.
She did not need him narrating her exits.
Marin’s voice softened by a fraction.
“I want to sit with him for a few minutes.”
Crew swallowed.
“Okay.”
“And Crew?”
He looked back.
“If you stay awake all night alone in this room while your friends are downstairs with actual food and chargers, I will tell Talia.”
His mouth moved.
“That’s a threat.”
“Yes.”
“I respect it.”
“Good.”
Crew hesitated.
Then said, “Thank you.”
She nodded once and moved to the chair beside Tom’s bed.
Crew watched her sit.
Watched her fold her hands in her lap.
Watched the old, familiar rightness of her beside his father hit so hard he had to look away.
He left the room before the feeling could become a request.
The hospital lobby was quieter now, but not empty. Vending machines hummed near one wall. A television played a late local news recap with the volume muted. The fluorescent lights made everyone look too pale, too tired, too honest.
Crew spotted his team immediately.
Hard not to.
Wilder was wearing a hoodie, hair a mess, hands shoved deep into the pocket like he had been ordered not to touch his phone and was physically restraining himself.
Sutton stood beside him, steady and sharp, one hand looped through his arm.
Frankie sat cross-legged in a chair with a tote bag full of snacks at her feet.
Cooper leaned against the wall. Hayes had two coffees.
Beck looked half-asleep. Junie had a blanket folded over one arm.
Milo stood slightly apart, watching the hallway.
They all looked up when Crew walked in.
No one spoke at first.
That was how Crew knew Sutton had threatened them.
Then Wilder stepped forward.
“I am not going to make this about me,” he said quickly, which was the sort of sentence that suggested considerable coaching. “I’m just going to say I’m sorry, and I’m here, and I brought phone chargers because Sutton said practical remorse is better than emotional monologues.”
Sutton nodded. “I stand by that.”
Crew stared at Wilder.
There was anger still.
Not hot anymore.
But there.
Wilder’s livestream mistake had lit the match.
But Crew had built the house out of dry wood.
That was the ugly truth.
Crew took a breath.
“Thank you for coming.”