Chapter 10

Caleb's POV

Stop. Stop thinking about it.

It's probably nothing. Tyler hooks up with random girls all the time. The odds of it being Emma are—

But I couldn't stop. Because now all I could see was Emma underneath Tyler. Emma's hands in Tyler's hair.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm losing my fucking mind.

Didn't matter. The images kept coming.

"Earth to Caleb."

Tyler was snapping his fingers in front of my face. I hadn't even noticed him get that close.

"You good, man? You've got that look. The one you get right before you check someone into next week."

"I'm fine."

"Bullshit." Tyler grinned. "You look like you want to murder someone. What's up? Draft stress? Or is it—"

He didn't finish.

Because that's when it happened.

Tyler was still horsing around with Alex, throwing fake punches, laughing like an idiot. Alex was giving it back, grinning, playing along.

Then Tyler's elbow connected with Alex's wrist.

There was a soft snap.

Something green fell to the ice.

Alex's smile died instantly.

He dropped to one knee, reaching for the broken bracelet like it was made of diamonds instead of cheap thread. His fingers closed around it carefully, almost reverently.

"Shit, dude, I'm so sorry!" Tyler bent down too, his grin finally faltering. "It's just a bracelet though, right? I know this place downtown that does repairs. They're amazing, I swear. We can get it fixed good as new—"

"Don't." Alex's voice was cold. Flat. Nothing like the easy warmth from thirty seconds ago.

He scooped up the pieces and stood, closing his fist around them.

Tyler reached out. "Alex, come on, let me—"

"Don't touch it."

The words came out sharp. Final.

Tyler froze, hands up like Alex had pulled a gun. "Okay. Okay, man. I didn't mean—"

"I know." Alex's jaw was tight. "Just... don't."

He shoved the broken bracelet into his pocket and turned away.

Tyler seemed to sense it too. He backed off, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's not from your mystery girlfriend, is it? The one you're always texting?"

I saw Alex's hand twitch toward his pocket. Protective. Possessive.

"Coach doesn't let us date," Alex said evenly. "You know that."

"Yeah, but rules are made to be broken." Tyler was trying for his usual cocky grin, but it came out weak. "I mean, as long as you don't get caught—"

"I'm not like you, Tyler."

The words weren't mean. Just honest.

Tyler shrugged, accepting it. Then he turned to me, desperate to move past the awkwardness.

"Come on, Caleb. Back me up here. You're telling me Captain America over here has never bent a rule? Never snuck a girl into his room?" He spread his arms. "You're both way too good-looking to be monks. Especially you, Cap. You've got that whole brooding bad boy thing going. The girls eat that shit up."

I stared at him.

Thought about Emma's perfume on his clothes.

Thought about him touching her.

"Drop it," I said quietly.

Something in my voice made Tyler's smile die. "Whoa. Okay. Touchy subject. Got it."

He muttered something about needing a shower and skated off toward the tunnel, leaving me and Alex alone on the ice.

Alex was still staring at his pocket. At the broken bracelet hidden inside.

The silence stretched.

"It's from someone important," he said finally. Quietly. "Someone I fucked up with."

I didn't say anything. Just waited.

Alex had never been the type to overshare. He kept his cards close, his personal life locked down tighter than mine. But something about the way he was standing there—shoulders hunched, hand pressed to his pocket—made me think he needed to talk.

He skated away before I could respond.

I stood there alone on the ice, stick in hand, staring at the spot where Alex had been standing.

Someone I fucked up with.

The words echoed in my head.

I thought about the way Alex had clutched that broken bracelet. Like it was evidence. Proof of something he couldn't let go of.

I knew what that felt like. Holding onto broken things. Using them as excuses.

Like a fucking hockey stick.

My jaw clenched.

I'd found the GoPro six months ago.

The evidence.

I'd plugged it in on a whim. Scrolled through old footage. Skating drills. Shooting practice. A bunch of random clips I didn't remember filming.

Then I found it.

The Aspen trip. Four years ago. The storage room.

The footage showed me walking into the storage room. Emma was already inside, trying to reach the skis on the top shelf. She'd climbed onto a wooden box, stretching up on her toes.

I watched myself move toward the equipment rack. Watched my skate—the one I'd been carrying, not wearing—swing out as I turned. Watched it knock into the bottom shelf support. The shelf wobbled. Just slightly.

Emma slipped off the box at the same moment, arms flailing for balance. Her shoulder hit the shelving unit.

That's what did it. The whole thing tipped forward. Slow motion. Inevitable.

The hockey stick—already cracked from when I'd slammed the garage door on it the day before—was leaning against the wall directly below. The falling shelf landed right on top of it.

Snap.

Clean break. Right through the weakened section.

Emma's hand shot out as she fell, fingers brushing the broken pieces.

But she hadn't broken it. The shelf had. The shelf I'd destabilized when I bumped it.

She'd just been there. Wrong place, wrong time.

And I'd blamed her anyway. Yelled at her. Made her cry. Spent four years treating her like she'd destroyed something precious on purpose.

Why?

I knew why.

Because the moment I saw Emma Hart—all big eyes and nervous energy—I'd felt something I had no business feeling.

Attraction. Want. A pull so strong it scared the shit out of me.

She was supposed to be my sister. My family. Off-limits in every way that mattered.

But my body didn't give a fuck about what she was supposed to be.

So I'd pushed her away. Made her hate me. Because hate was safer than whatever the alternative was.

Hate meant distance. Distance meant control.

And I needed control. Because without it, I'd do something unforgivable.

Like walk into her room. Like tell her the truth. Like touch her the way I'd been fantasizing about since I was sixteen and she showed up at our house wearing a sundress that made me want to—

Stop.

I dug my stick into the ice. Hard. The blade scraped against the surface with a sound like nails on a chalkboard.

She's your stepsister. David's daughter. Family.

You can't have her.

You can't want her.

You can't—

"Caleb?"

I jerked my head up. Alex had skated back over, concern written across his face.

"You good, man?"

No. I wasn't good. I was the opposite of good.

I was a guy who'd spent four years punishing a girl for something she didn't do. A guy who'd let her think she was the problem when really, I was the problem.

I was the one who couldn't look at his stepsister without wanting to cross every line that existed.

"Fine," I said. "Let's run it again."