The ride back to 114 Oak Street was silent except for the low rumble of the bus and the occasional shift of gear bags. I sat near the back again, ribs throbbing with every breath, shoulder stiff where Kane’s final hit had landed. The pain was manageable. The real ache lived deeper—in the way Coach Harlan had clapped me on the back like I was a prize he’d successfully displayed, and in the way Caleb had stormed off the ice without looking at me again.
He sat three rows ahead, shoulders rigid, staring out the window like the passing streetlights had personally offended him. His hands were clenched into fists on his thighs. I knew that look. It was the same one he wore every time he pinned me against the boards under the guise of “correction.” Only now it was worse—because he wasn’t just ang
