I slammed my locker shut. The echo hits like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. A few freshmen stop and stare, probably wondering what my problem is.
He wore it.
Number 13.
Conner's number.
George Hale stepped onto our school's ice in my brother's jersey number like it didn't carry weight. Like it wasn't the last thing Conner wore before the world unraveled. Like he had any right.
My chest tightens. I press my back to the cool metal of the locker, my heart pounding so loud it drowns out my thoughts. I came here just to watch. That's what I told Mom. That's what I told myself.
But I'm not watching now.
I push off the locker and head straight for the rink.
The double doors creak open, and the cold air punches me in the face. The sounds flood in. skates slicing across the ice, coaches barking, sticks cracking against pucks. The kind of noise that used to feel like home.
Now it just sounds like everything I've lost.
The tryouts are already in full swing. Girls weave through cones, snap passes, crash into the boards. And there he is. George. Flying down the ice like he owns it. Confident. Smooth. Fast.
He cuts left, spins, and lands a clean shot. He looks good. Too good.
And then he turns.
Thirteen.
Stretched across the back of his jersey in bold white.
My stomach flips.
"Are you skating or sightseeing?" a girl mutters as she brushes past me.
Coach Halder glances toward the door. He spots me immediately. His eyebrows lift slightly like he isn't sure if I'm real.
"Lane," he calls. "You here to try out?"
My throat goes tight. I didn't plan to answer yes. I hadn't even planned to step onto the ice.
But George Hale is wearing my brother's number. And if he thinks that's something he can do without consequence, he's wrong.
"Yeah," I say.
Coach Halder tilts his head toward the locker rooms. "Ten minutes to suit up."
The locker room smells the same. Sweat, rubber, something sour underneath. My bag's already here. Packed hours ago when I swore I wouldn't need it. Just in case.
Now my fingers move on their own. I gear up quickly, silently, like I never stopped doing this. The jersey is a little tighter than I remember. My skates still fit like second skin.
By the time I step back into the rink, my stomach is twisting itself in knots.
Some girls notice me. A few whispers. One girl does a double take.
"Is that Cassandra Lane?"
"I thought she quit."
"Didn't her brother...?"
I kept my head high and glided to the blue line like I belong here. Like I never left.
Coach Halder gives a sharp nod. "Let's see what you've got."
The drills started fast. We're skating, passing, and shooting. It's chaos, and I'm already behind. My footwork is shaky. My timing's off. My first pass slips wide.
But I will stay with it.
And after a few minutes, I start to remember.
The ice feels less like glass under my feet and more like muscle. My stick becomes an extension of my hand again. I landed a clean shot. Then another. And then I hear my name.
"Lane. Next drill. Pair with Hale."
Of course.
George skates up beside me, helmet tilted back just slightly, mouth curved like he's trying to decide whether to grin or not.
I don't give him the chance.
"You look good in number 13," I say.
His eyebrows rise. "Thanks?"
"But if you think you can keep wearing it without bleeding for it..." I step in closer, my voice low. "You're dead wrong."
He stares at me, blinking once. Then again.
"I didn't pick the number," he says. "Coach handed me the jersey."
"You could've said no."
"I didn't know it mattered."
"Well, it does."
We skated the next drill without saying another word. But I feel him watching me every time we switch.
Scrimmage begins. It's fast and aggressive. We're thrown into mixed lines. I skate like my legs are on fire. Every time I touch the puck, I dig deeper. I shoot harder. I block like I'm made of brick.
Someone checks me into the boards, and I bounce back up. The next time I get the puck, I drive it into the net so cleanly the goalie doesn't even move.
George sees it. I know he does.
He scores too, later. Cuts through two defenders and buries a shot in the top corner like he's done it a thousand times. He's not just good. He's legit.
And I hate how much I respect it.
When the whistle finally blows, Coach Halder announces that the team list will be posted tomorrow morning. Most of the girls scatter quickly, pulling off helmets and gloves as they trudge to the locker rooms.
I move slower. My chest aches. My legs are on fire. My fingers sting from gripping my stick too tight.
But I did it.
I made it through.
I strip out of my gear and toss my hoodie back on before stepping outside. The hallway is quiet, the air colder now. My heart's still racing.
Footsteps catch up behind me.
"You didn't have to come at me like that," George says.
I stop walking. "You didn't have to wear his number."
He lets out a breath. "Look, I didn't know. Halder gave it to me. I didn't even think about it."
"Well, maybe you should have."
He stands in front of me now, arms crossed. "So what, are you gonna fight every person who wears 13 from now on?"
"No," I said. "Just the ones who don't know what it means."
He's quiet for a second.
"I'm not trying to replace anyone, Lane. I'm just trying to play the game. Same as you."
"You're not the same as me."
He nods once. "Fair enough."
We're quiet again. He shifts his weight like he's going to leave, then looks back at me.
"You skated hard today," he says. "Didn't expect that."
"You played clean," I say.
He smiles, just barely. "You gonna make the team?"
"Are you?"
"I guess we'll both find out."
Someone yells his name from down the hall. George steps back.
"See you tomorrow," he says.
And then he's gone.
I stay there for a moment longer, staring at the empty space he left behind.
I don't know what happens next. I didn't plan for any of this.
But I know I'm not backing down.
Tryouts aren't over.
Not for me.
Not for him.
Not yet.