The napkin stays in my pocket the rest of the day. I cannot bring myself to throw it away, but I cannot read it again either. It feels like carrying a live wire in my jeans, one wrong move away from a shock. Every time my fingers brush the folded paper, the word Connor presses against me like a weight. And every time George’s voice cuts through my thoughts, “It’s the reason you’re still here” it finds a way under my ribs and settles there.
By late afternoon, the rink had thinned out. The echo of skates on ice fades as the last of the team clears the locker room. I head down the back hall toward the storage room to grab an extra stick before I leave, but halfway there, the low hum of the weight room catches my attention.
I glance inside.
It is him.
George sits on a bench, elbows on his
