Chapter 4

Emma's POV

The footsteps were getting closer. Louder. Multiple voices echoing down that narrow hallway, and I could pick out individual words now—something about protein shakes, someone's girlfriend, the usual locker room banter that made my stomach clench tighter.

I shoved through the emergency exit door so hard it slammed against the concrete wall. The stairwell swallowed me whole—narrow, dim, smelling like dust and old paint. My breathing echoed off the cinder block walls as I pressed my back against the cold surface.

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. You're fine. You made it out.

Except I wasn't fine. I looked down at my shirt—my favorite vintage Fleetwood Mac tee that I'd bought at a thrift store in Tampa—and wanted to scream. Dark patches stained the fabric. Sweat stains. And other things I absolutely did not want to identify. The smell hit me in waves every time I moved. Sharp. Sour. The kind of stench that clung to your nostrils and refused to let go.

I lifted my arm and immediately regretted it.

Oh god. I smell like a frat house basement. No—worse. I smell like whatever biohazard experiment was happening in that laundry hamper.

My hands were shaking as I started down the stairs. Each step felt mechanical. Automatic. My brain was too busy replaying the last five minutes on an endless loop.

Breaking into the locker room. Diving into a hamper full of God-knows-what. Watching some random hockey player strip down to his compression shorts. Getting caught. Being called a Puck Bunny.

Great. Fantastic. Today's humiliation quota is officially maxed out. Social death, check. Labeled as a creepy stalker, check. Should I just buy a plane ticket back to Florida now or wait until this gets even worse?

I reached the landing between floors and stopped. Leaned against the wall. The concrete was ice-cold through my ruined shirt, but I didn't care. I needed something solid. Something real. Because everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.

And then his voice echoed in my head again.

"I don't have a sister."

The words hit different now. In the chaos of escaping, I'd been too panicked to really process them. But now, alone in this stairwell that smelled like industrial cleaner and regret, they sank in deep.

"That person isn't my sister."

My chest tightened. Not the sharp pain of a panic attack—I knew what those felt like. This was duller. Heavier. Like someone had reached in and squeezed my lungs just enough to make breathing difficult.

Of course he still hates me.

I pushed off the wall and kept moving down the stairs. My sneakers squeaked against the concrete steps. Each squeak felt too loud in the silence.

He can't even call me his sister. Not even to his teammates. Not even as a joke.

I remembered the phone call. Four years ago. I'd been sitting in my mom's kitchen in Clearwater, doing summer homework, when Dad called. His voice had been so excited. Almost giddy.

"Babe! I've got news. Big news."

I'd put down my pencil. "What's up?"

"I got married."

The world had tilted sideways. Not in a bad way—just unexpected. Dad had been dating Victoria for almost a year, but I hadn't thought they were that serious.

"Married? When?"

"Last weekend. Small ceremony. Just us and a few friends." He'd paused. "I wanted to tell you in person, but... well, I'm telling you now. And here's the really cool part—you have a brother now."

Brother. The word had felt foreign. Strange. I'd been an only child my entire life.

"His name's Caleb," Dad had continued, his enthusiasm bleeding through the phone. "He's your age. Plays hockey. Really talented kid. I think you two are going to get along great."

I'd tried to imagine it. Having a sibling. Someone to share holidays with. Someone who understood what it was like to have divorced parents and complicated family dynamics.

Maybe this won't be so bad, I'd thought.

That was the day Caleb became my brother on paper. Aspen was the week he made sure I understood he never would in real life.

The memory shifted. Pulled me back four years to that winter—

We were at Aspen. Some fancy ski resort Victoria had booked for our "first family vacation." The kind of place where everything was wood and stone and designer rustic. Where the hot chocolate cost twelve dollars and came with artisan marshmallow.

The cabin had floor-to-ceiling windows looking out at snow-covered mountains. A fireplace that crackled and popped. Leather furniture that probably cost more than my mom's car.

Victoria had been in full stepmother mode. Smiling. Suggesting activities. Trying so hard to make everyone comfortable that it made the whole thing more awkward.

"Why don't you two go get the ski equipment from the storage room?" she'd said that first morning. "Caleb can show you how to pick out the right size."

Dad had nodded enthusiastically. "Great idea! You two can bond."

Caleb had looked at me for the first time since we'd arrived. His ice-blue eyes had been completely blank. "Fine. Let's go."

The storage room was in the basement. Down a narrow hallway that smelled like cedar and mothballs. Caleb had unlocked the door and flipped on a light—a single bare bulb that swung from the ceiling, casting weird shadows across walls lined with equipment.

Skis. Snowboards. Helmets. Poles. Everything stacked and crammed into a space barely bigger than my bedroom closet.

"The boards are in the back," Caleb had said. His voice was flat. Bored. Like he'd rather be literally anywhere else.

I'd followed him in. Tried to make conversation. "So... you ski a lot?"

"Sometimes."

"Cool. I've never been. Is it hard?"

"Not really."

Every answer was a wall. A door slamming shut.

He'd moved to the back corner where the snowboards were stacked vertically against the wall. They were tall—taller than both of us—and he'd had to reach up on his toes to grab the one he wanted.

I'd wanted to help. Wanted to do something useful. So I'd stepped forward, climbed onto a wooden crate to get a better angle—

And my foot had slipped.

The crate tipped. I'd thrown my hands out, trying to catch myself, and my elbow slammed into a metal equipment rack. The whole thing shuddered. Ski poles clattered. And then I heard it—a crack. Sharp and final.

I hit the concrete floor hard. Pain exploded up my arm.

"Shit," I'd gasped. "Shit shit shit—"

Caleb had spun around. And that's when I'd seen it.

A hockey stick. Lying on the floor next to me. Broken clean in half.

The wooden crate I'd been standing on had tipped into the rack. The rack had knocked into a shelf. And the shelf had sent the stick—which had been propped in the corner—crashing down.

Right where my knee had landed when I fell.

The wood grain was exposed at the break point. Splintered. Raw. The shaft had snapped right above the blade, and both pieces lay there like an accusation.

My heart had stopped. Actually stopped.

"I didn't—" I'd scrambled to my feet. "I didn't mean to—I was just trying to help—"

But Caleb wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the broken stick. His face had gone white. Completely colorless. He'd dropped to his knees and picked up both pieces with shaking hands.

His fingers had traced the break. Slow. Deliberate. Like he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"I'm so sorry," I'd said. My voice had cracked. "I didn't touch it on purpose—the rack fell and—"

"Get out."

The words had been quiet. Too quiet.

"Caleb, please, I can fix it—"