He walks like he owns something.
Not the school. Not the rink. Something heavier. Something invisible but sharp enough to slice through bone.
I stay rooted to the sidewalk, backpack slung over one shoulder, hoodie half-zipped against the morning chill. The cold wind cuts through my jeans, nips at my ankles, but I don't move. I can't. My breath fogs in front of me, shallow and tight. Because there it is again—what stopped me in my tracks.
That number.
Thirteen.
Bold. White. Framed on the back of his navy letterman jacket like it means nothing.
He doesn't see me. Doesn't pause. Just nods politely at the office lady holding the front door open and strides inside like he's been walking these halls forever. Like this town isn't new to him. Like he belongs.
But that number doesn't belong to him.
It belonged to Connor.
And me.
And everything that shattered the night the knock came and the uniforms said the words we couldn't unhear.
My lungs stop cooperating. My fingers curl into fists inside my sleeves, nails digging half-moons into my palms.
I don't know his name.
But I already hate him.
By lunch, the school is vibrating with gossip. Everyone's talking like the Second Coming just walked in wearing skates.
"He's from Ontario or something.played Juniors last season."
"His dad's an NHL scout, I swear."
"Did you see him? He's huge."
"I heard he's here for just one season, then it's off to the draft."
"He's so hot."
That last one lands in my gut like a punch.
It shouldn't bother me. Not the way it does.
But they're not just fawning over his face or the new blood on campus. It's the jacket. The swagger. The story everyone's ready to write about him before he's even said a full sentence.
It's the number.
My number.
Connor's number.
They don't know what it costs to wear it. What it took from us. From me. The hours. The bruises. The loss. What it meant.
And now he's walking around like it's just... a patch of thread.
I stab my fork into my salad, barely noticing what I'm eating. The cafeteria's loud and smothering. Someone's laughing too loud behind me. A tray crashes in the distance. The noise makes my teeth grind.
I keep my head down, hoodie up. I don't want to talk to anyone. I just want…
"Hey, you're Cassandra Lane, right?"
The voice makes me flinch.
I look up and freeze.
He's standing right in front of me, tray in hand, like he didn't just stomp over my brother's memory.
Thirteen. On his sleeve. Clear as blood on snow.
I say nothing.
He nods like he's used to silence. "Mind if I sit?"
Yes.
I mind a lot.
But my throat locks. The words don't come.
He takes the silence as permission and slides into the seat across from me.
I stare at him.
He doesn't flinch. Just opens his chocolate milk and takes a long sip like this is completely normal.
He's got that hockey hair. too long, artfully messy, like he doesn't care but totally does. Blue eyes, the kind that look like they see too much, too fast. His jaw is cut like a headline. He probably knows it.
But it's the attitude that scrapes at me. Calm. Confident. Like he's already earned the right to take up space.
I wonder how many rinks he's owned. How many times he's walked in and made people bend to the myth of him.
He holds out a hand. "George."
I blink.
Is this a joke?
He expects me to shake?
Instead, I push my tray back and stand up. My appetite's gone. My skin itches.
"Cool," I say, voice flat. "I was just leaving."
He doesn't try to stop me. Doesn't apologize. Just watches me go with this unreadable look in his eyes.
After school, I sit in the empty bleachers at the rink, staring at the ice like it's going to answer the storm in my chest.
I shouldn't care.
It's just a number, right?
That's what people would say. Just a jersey. Just fabric. Just coincidence.
But they didn't grow up chasing that number with someone who made the game feel like flying. They didn't lose a piece of themselves when the person who wore it disappeared forever.
I pull my knees up to my chest, chin on denim. The cold creeps in under my hoodie, settles in my bones.
Coach Halder walks by at one point. Doesn't say anything. Just gives me a look. Half sympathy. Half knowing.
He doesn't need to ask why I'm here.
Everyone saw the jacket today.
Everyone saw the number.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I keep seeing Connor. The last time we skated together. The way he shouted over the music in the car, all teeth and mischief. The way he handed me his spare stick with a smirk and told me I needed one that wasn't chewed to death.
And now someone else is walking around with his legacy stitched into his spine like it's nothing.
It's not fair.
It's not okay.
It's not his.
The next morning, I'm at my locker when the buzz hits again.
"He's trying out this afternoon. Coach already bumped someone off the first line to make room."
"They say he's a monster on defense."
"I saw him in the gym this morning, deadlifted like 300 easy."
"He's wearing the number again today."
I slam my locker shut so hard it echoes.
People jump.
I don't care.
Because if he thinks he can walk in here, take the spotlight, and pretend like he earned that number...
He's got another thing coming.
I head straight to the rink after the last bell, fists balled in my sleeves, heart drumming war songs against my ribs.
I don't have a plan.
Just rage.
Just fire.
Just Connor's voice echoing in my skull.
And when I push the doors open and see him on the ice, shoulders broad, carving clean arcs like he was born on blades, it hits me like a gut punch.
He's good.
No.
He's great.
But I don't care.
Because that number, thirteen, is still wrong on him.
And when he skates past the boards where I stand, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat dampening his hairline, he glances over—
And winks.
Winks.
Like this is a game.
Like he's already won.
My heart stutters.
Not with fear.
Not with nerves.
With something colder.
Sharper.
Resolve.
If he thinks he can wear it without bleeding for it...
He's got another thing coming.