Dinner is quiet, but not in the comfortable way it used to be. The air feels weighted, as if every clink of a fork or scrape of a chair is measured. My mom asks about practice, and I answer with one word. She does not push. She never pushes, and right now that feels worse than if she’d called me out.
When the plates are rinsed and she retreats to the living room, I slip into my room and close the door. I lie on my bed staring at the ceiling, replaying George’s voice from practice. Stop playing scared.
The words burrow deep, prickling every time I try to brush them away. I tell myself I am not scared. Not of him. Not of Connor’s door. Not of whatever truth my mom has been sitting on. But denial feels thin tonight.
By morning, the unease has not gone anywhere. It follows me to the rink, h
