Page 83 of What We Knew Then
The arena explodes.
My teammates crash into me near the boards, helmets knocking against mine while the crowd roars loud enough to feel in my chest. I skate past our bench and Coach catches my shoulder as I glide by.
“Perfect read,” he says, voice low but sharp with approval. “Keep playing exactly like that.”
I nod once, trying to act like my heart isn’t trying to break through my ribs.
Because tonight is just another game.
Afterthefinalbuzzer,the locker room is chaos—music, shouting, guys reliving every play like it already belongs in a highlight reel. I’ve barely finished unlacing my skates when Coach pokes his head inside.
“Maxwell,” he calls. “Couple peoplewant to say hello.”
A few minutes later, I’m standing in the hallway outside the locker room, hair still damp and in my team sweats. Two men in suits introduce themselves, clipboards tucked under their arms.
They ask about the game, about the goal, about how I’m feeling this season. I keep my answers short, steady—like this isn’t the kind of conversation I’ve been imagining since I was a kid.
One of them nods toward the rink behind me. “That was a hell of a performance tonight.”
“Thank you, sir,” I reply.
“Think you can keep this up the rest of the season?” the other prompts.
Looking around, I can’t fight the smile on my lips. “I really hope so.”
The two of them laugh. I try to channel a calm and collected sort of mood. Inside, though, everything feels sharp and electric. Because for the first time in a long time, it actually feels like it might be possible.
A few months ago, I couldn’t even think ahead to the next week. Now? I can almost feel the NHL jersey on my skin.
Chapter 50
CORA
Thefirstsignisthe light. It fractures.
One second the sidewalk in front of me is normal—cracked concrete, the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across campus—and the next, it’s like someone dragged a shard of glass across my vision. A thin, shimmering slice cuts through the center of everything I’m looking at.
I stop walking. No. No. Not now.
Students pass me while laughing, backpacks over their shoulders, heading to dinner or practice or anywhere that isn’t the slow-motion disaster currently unfolding inside my skull. The aura flickers again, brighter this time, zigzagging across my right eye like lightning that won’t stay still.
I fumble for my phone.Lane. If anyone can get me home fast, it’s him.
My thumb hovers over the screen but the words won’t stay still long enough to read. The letters slide apart, swimming in bright, jagged fragments.
I blink hard. The screen is almost impossible to decipher.
I tap where I think his name is and miss. The phone opens something else entirely—music, I think. I close it and try again. The aura blooms wider, a halo of blinding white static chewing through the middle of my vision.
“Come on,” I mutter, my hands suddenly clumsy and useless.
Lane. Brinn. Anyone.
I tap again and the phone vibrates in protest as I hit the wrong button for the third time. The icons split into two. Then three.
My stomach drops. I’m running out of time.
Panic flares—if the aura is this bad, the pain isn’t far behind. And when it hits, I won’t be walking anywhere.
