The next morning feels heavier than it should. It is the kind of weight that settles in my bones, slowing me down no matter how fast I try to move. I drag myself through the motions of getting ready, but Connor’s letter keeps replaying in my head in broken pieces. George’s voice from last night keeps slipping in too. The truth will change everything.
By the time I finally grab my gear bag and head out, I already know I am late. The winter air stings my cheeks as I hurry down the street, my breath clouding in front of me. My skates knock against my hip with every step, the strap digging into my shoulder. The closer I get to the rink, the louder the sound of blades against ice becomes, sharp and quick like the ticking of a clock I am already behind on.
When I push through the double doors,
