The locker room smelled of damp gear and the faint sting of disinfectant. George sat frozen beside me, his elbows resting on his knees, the pain in his ribs forgotten for the moment. The man from the SUV closed the door behind him with a slow, deliberate push.
“It was not an accident,” he said again, his eyes fixed on me. “Your brother’s last game. The one that ended everything. You’ve been told it was a bad hit. An unfortunate collision. But that is not the truth.”
My heart pounded against my ribs. I had spent years building walls around those memories, years telling myself that nothing could have been done differently. Hearing him speak shattered all of that.
“What do you mean?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He stepped closer, his boots echoing on the tiled floor. “Someon
