☆ Evan ☆

Sam Fields tears his helmet off, and it lands next to mine. He's grinning, and his laughter rings through the air. Like he's a criminal mastermind—and all of this is going according to his plan.

But he isn't. He's a stupid, fucking moron of a kid, and he's going to get what he deserves.

"What do you want, Sam? Huh?" I challenge. My hands extend to both sides of me and I swallow the lump that has gotten lodged in my throat. I don't have time for that—time to consider my options. The rest of the team stands on the sidelines, and I can hear Lucas yelling from behind me. I tune it out. "What is this bullshit? Enough with pushing me around. We can settle this right now if you just tell me what you want."

Sam lets out an annoying laugh. It grates on my nerves. "I have no clue what you're talking about, McKenna. Maybe you should stop taking everything so personally. Am I damaging your ego?"

"How hilarious," I say blandly, my voice sweet with sarcasm, "but you can shut up now. You know, I don't think you care about anyone on the team. It's not about us, is it? So I guess we'll all just leave, and you can try doing it all yourself. See where that takes you."

Sam doesn't seem to be listening to me until I mention the team. And then he looks at me, the fury written in his eyes. "The team. Are you part of it? When I last checked, the only reason you get invited to tag along is that your girlfriend—sorry, ex-girlfriend—was there. It's funny how you're unable to catch the hint that I don't want you around. Not at the party. Not at the games. Nowhere."

"Wouldn't that be fucking great for you!" I reply, and the coy grin on my face doesn't feel forced any longer. "Oh, and while we're on the subject of the party—what makes you think I wanted to be there? It sucked, but there was one decent moment. It was the part when you proved how much of an asshole you are."

He shrugs. "I get it. You dropped out of soccer to fuck Delacroix."

I see scarlet. It paints my sight in a deep, red shade like before dawn if the sun was furious. I lurch forward, but Lucas skates towards me, tugging me backward. I shout, "You—fucking hell, like that's what's important. What's important is that you're trying to do the same thing to Delacroix that you did to your brother."

Speckles of light cling to the edges of my vision. Sam's gaze darkens; a storm cloud about to break open. "Who told—"

"What, did you think nobody would find out?" I taunt, despite Lucas still by my side, urging me repeatedly to drop it. "How do you figure that? Maybe Noah makes you feel guilty. Maybe you realize—"

Sam barrels towards me in a second. Barely a second—and his fist slices across my face. My body hurtles backward before a pair of hands catch me. My eyes water, and the dots of light dance in my vision. It tints red, but a new shade this time. Red like fresh blood.

"You don't want to go there, McKenna," Sam says, sneering over me. I pull myself back onto the ice with a stilted movement, and I can feel the tingle of blood running down my face. "What would you know? It's really unfortunate that your family is worse than mine, but you don't have to take it out on me."

"What did you just say?" I wrestle my body out of Lucas' grasp and glide closer to Sam. When he doesn't answer me, I lift my chin and wipe the blood from my cheek. My eye twitches. "Repeat it, Sam. I fucking dare you."

"I said," he says, "that I'm grateful I'm not the family failure. At least, your sister has a chance at mediocrity—which isn't saying a lot, but when I look at you, well..."

Before I can register what I'm doing—before I can convince myself that it's a horrible idea, I raise my fist and punch Sam in the face. The first impact hits him in the eye, and I lift my hand again.

"Evan, fucking hell! Cut it out!" Lucas intervenes and grabs my wrist before I can smash him in the nose. "It's not worth it."

He yanks me away from Sam. The referee, decked in the checkered black and white, skates over to me. And she takes me off the rink, onto the rubber flooring that connects it to the changing rooms. While I take my skates off, the referee says, "Go into the medical room and wait. It's the first one on your left."

"Fine." I wipe my hand across my face and pinch my nose for the bleeding to stop. Sighing, I use the wall to bring me to the medical room, collapsing onto the reclining chair near the doorway. The white walls pulsate, spinning until I have to shut my eyes.

"Shit," I mutter under my breath. The sting of my cheeks from before has returned, this time sharper. It pulses like it would a second before touching an electrical outlet that causes a shock. I need water to wash it out, and it doesn't help that I can't find a comfortable position in this chair.

I open an eye. In the hall, a familiar figure lingers, as if waiting for me to notice him.

"Here." Peter places a hand at the edge of my seat; the other wipes a spot of blood from my cheek with his sleeve. "That's going to bruise."

"No shit," I say with a heavy sigh.

He just smiles softly. It's almost sweet, the way he avoids meeting my eyes—at least, the eye that I can pry open. I lean back in my seat, hopelessly trying to shed my hockey uniform. The back of my neck beads with sweat. Blood is lodged under my nail beds.

"Did you see?" I ask, and Peter shakes his head.

He remains tight-lipped as he searches the perimeter. A nurse comes into the room, forcing Peter into silence. He wraps a bandage around my arm, then attaches a strip of gauze to my nose with medical tape. It takes all of two minutes, after which the nurse informs me that Coach Hayes will be coming soon.

Which totally isn't ominous at all.

"I was in the hallway," Peter says, like no time has passed between us. And maybe the ceiling is swirling like water circling the drain, and maybe I'm trying to pretend that everything is fine. It's what I've always done. "But it doesn't matter. Lucas explained it to me earlier. I don't need to know what you did."

"But you want to," I reply. I extend my fingers and curl them into a fist again. The bandage wraps around my thumb, coating my wrist in a pasty white. The left side of my face thuds with every piercing breath I take. It's the same place that Carolyn hit.

But I'm trying not to go down that pathway in my mind. It splits in two directions; the first option, where I am exactly like my mother. And the second, where I admonish myself for not punching Sam twice. There's no logic to it, in reality. I would end up here no matter what I chose.

"Of course, I want to know," Peter answers. My chest clenches at the inevitable. When he finds out, and I fall backwards into an abyss filled with dread. I count the seconds under my breath until the silence shatters into a million tiny pieces. Every day—every hour, minute, and second—I get closer to the ending.

But everything ends eventually. And I don't know why it makes me ache to think about it. Maybe I'm halfway between escaping this chasm that I'm in, and halfway between staying there, and for the life of me, I've forgotten which way is up.

"Just..." Peter says, sighing. "Can we agree that lying isn't working for you?"

I grit my teeth. "I know." I can build on a lie, but I can't take back the truth. It's a feeling that lingers, settling into my bones until it drives me insane. "I was brought up to lie. I'm sorry. It's not a conscious decision. I'm not even sure who I'm trying to protect—you or myself."

Peter Delacroix has two types of silence. The first is the kind I experienced when he was angry, and he was purposefully leaving me to figure it out on my own. The next is the usual kind, like right this instant. It could last forever, or maybe even longer. We're just two people coexisting—in the same room, to our respective sides—but there's no expectation. None of the opening up bullshit.

"Well"—he laughs uneasily—"I don't think that's a problem. I don't need you to save it. I can handle this myself, Evan."

It's been a while since he's actually said my name. I guess I'd forgotten the way he says it—similar to the way he says Éric. There's a hidden rhythm to it, like it's two words that have drifted apart and then fused into one.

"Sam Fields happened," I say.

And he chuckles. "Yes. He did."

Coach Hayes enters the medical room. His brows are furrowed, and the intensity of his footsteps marching against the floor, and his arms crossed over his chest—it plummets me back to reality.

"McKenna," he addresses me first, then turns to Peter and nods. "Delacroix, I presume?"

He pronounces Peter's name wrong; De-la-croy. Peter doesn't bother correcting it.

"Can either of you explain this? Fields says there was an argument," Hayes continues.

Peter glances at me. I scowl and reply, "Yeah, okay, an argument is not what happened. It was more like he was trying to rile me up. I'm guessing I won't be allowed back onto the ice, though."

"It's best if you head home. I suggest we set a time to discuss it, once the dust settles," Hayes says. Turning to me, he adds, "Perhaps sometime this week?"

I nod, and Hayes departs back into the hallway.

"Can you drive?" Peter says.

Sitting up, I try to force my eye open. Half of my vision blurs with a red overlay, and I can only manage to keep it open for a few seconds before it seals shut. "Doubt it."

After I fetch my gym bag from the locker room and toss my keys over to Peter, he drives me home. I spend the ride with my eyes closed, lying against the headrest, eager for the end of the day.

On my phone, there's a missed call. I lift the speaker to my ear, taking care to avoid touching my skin and listen to the voicemail.

A robotic voice announces that the message was sent today at four fifty-one P.M., and is exactly fifteen seconds, followed by the beep.

On the other end, Adrian's voice speaks as if in a rush. "Evan, it's your father. I know I said I was coming back to Northwood in November, but my plans have changed and... I'll be on a plane this Friday. Call me back when you get this."

I delete the voicemail and slip my phone into my pocket.

Peter turns into my apartment building, and I hobble out. The wind picks up, gusting past me and practically stealing the car door from my hands as I open it. The sky is dull like the tip of a pencil eraser that has turned charcoal from the graphite. I barely feel the cold, what with the blood rushing to my eye and the buzz in my hands that hasn't yet faded.

"Are you sure you'll be fine? It's probably a long walk back to the school," I say.

"I can handle it," he confirms.

Inside the apartment, I knock back a glass of water and some pain medication. The bruise around my left eye is a deep, veiny shade of purple. It's a circle like a coffee stain, only it's crusted with blood.

Elaine's bedroom door creeps open. She gasps when he sees me, her eyes wide. Her voice is meek when she asks, "You look... oh, am I allowed to swear?"

"Is it a bad swear?"

She leans against the doorway and ponders over it, her fingers tapping against the white walls. "It's not a bad swear. It's, like, maybe a medium-level one."

I shoot her a half-smile. "Okay. But you only get one, so choose wisely."

Without even thinking about it, and without missing a beat, she laughs and tells me, "You look like shit."

And I can't disagree with that.

☆ ☽ ☆

A soft coating of snow powders the road like flour in a sieve as I dial Adrian's phone number. Its ringing drones as I pace in circles. The bright teal road sign in front of me reading Belladonna Street clangs against a pole in the squall of wind.

Adrian visits Northwood as a vacation when he can get the time off from his job, (and usually, time off is just code for currently unemployed).

Even though my eye is healing, I haven't been allowed to drive, and thus Adrian was supposed to get a taxi from the airport to meet me. But I haven't heard from him.

Predictably, his phone goes to voicemail. His message has changed. He sounds terse and gruff, as if speaking while on his way out the door. "It's Adrian McKenna. That's all you're getting. Here comes the beep."

I heave a sigh into the receiver. "Hi," I say, and I can't seem to figure out what comes after that. "You're probably on the plane right now. Just call me later."

Stupid. So stupid. I hang up, stomping back down the street in the direction of the house where Adrian is staying. Maybe he passed through town without stopping. Maybe we missed each other by a second, like two cars side-by-side at the same stoplight. Headed in opposite directions, but temporarily at the mercy of the red light that will eventually turn green and tear them apart.

As I approach the complex, I spot a taxi pulling to the roadside. Adrian steps out, his suitcase clacking against the ground. He thanks the driver at full volume and after the taxi peels away, he mutters under his breath, "What a jerk."

He turns to me. In the time since I've last seen him, my father has changed. His hair is black, swept back above his thin eyebrows, and he's grown a beard in his absence. Patting me on the shoulder, he says, "What in the goddamn hell happened to your face?"

We make haste for the tiny house at the corner of the street. It's painted white and freckled with grey, in a bungalow style that has two entryways. Adrian heads to the lower door, wiping his shoes over the entry mat before opening the door.

The inside smells of fresh linen, and even fainter, of coffee grounds. The antechamber opens to a linear hall that connects the dining room to the kitchen. It's the basement of a house; a stairway in the corner leads up to the main level, but it's set up with a living space. The appliances are bare and cleaned; the table lacks placemats. The fridge wears a few handmade magnets painted like the tiny leaves of a flower.

"The owners are snowbirds—in the summer, they stay here, and the winter, they head to somewhere in the States. I have the place for the next few weeks, or at least until I land on my feet," Adrian says by way of explanation. He swings open a cupboard, removing an emerald tulip-shaped cup, then continues rifling through the bare cabinets and drawers. He locates the kettle in the bottom cupboard and a box of abandoned camomile tea bags. "Up for tea?" he asks.

"Sure. How was the flight?" I attempt to ask. It reverberates in the husk of a home. The water in the kettle bubbles furiously, trying to breathe. The whistle of the steam escapes, as though a puff of smoke in a disappearing act.

"Not bad. That taxi driver had never heard of Northwood. I had to give him directions," he answers, scoffing. "What an experience."

I slide into the chair at the head of the table. Adrian lingers in the kitchen, resting his elbows on the countertop. He chuckles lowly and says, "You didn't answer my question about what happened to you."

I groan. "It's nothing. I got into a fight."

"When I was your age, I did the same. Don't tell me it was your mother. If it was, I swear I'll—I'll pop a hole through three of her tires so that her insurance won't pay for it," he says, heading back to his suitcase. Cracking it open, he sets the folded clothes aside on the wooden floor.

"It wasn't her this time. It was a sports thing," I reply. "Actually, that's what I wanted to ask—would you mind coming along to the school for a meeting? I would rather not involve Randall or Carolyn."

He doesn't even blink when I use their names instead of saying 'my parents.' From the depths of his suitcase, he takes out a folded red hoodie and a tiny snow globe. "We can get to that later. I don't want you to worry so soon. Here, I brought you these." The clothes are from Alberta's art university. And he passes the snow globe to me. It fits in the palm of my hand; shaking it startles the confetti of snow to swirl in a miniature hurricane. The scenery displays a grove of trees, a lot like the view from outside the kitchen window.

"It doesn't matter?" I say quietly.

"Not right this instant," he says. In the kitchen, the kettle clicks. He pours the tea into the cup and sets them on the table.

I inhale the warmth of the steam. On the far wall above the fridge, a disconnected analog clock flashes repeatedly.