I set my phone down and stare out the window at the campus stretching before me. Students moving between classes, living their normal lives, completely unaware that days ago I put a bullet in my father’s chest and felt satisfied doing it.
The restlessness crawls under my skin again, that feeling of not fitting anywhere. Too damaged for normal life, too normal for the violence I’ve seen.
Somewhere in between, trying to figure out who I’m supposed to be now.
A girl who goes to class and takes notes and pretends the world makes sense?
Or the one who pulls triggers and doesn’t apologize?
Maybe both.
Maybe neither.
My phone buzzes one more time. Koa.
Koa: Where are you?
Me: Campus. Getting coffee.
Koa: Come home soon.
The word “home” makes something ache in my chest. Because it’s not home—it’s his dorm, his space, a temporary shelter while I figure out my next move.
But the way he says it, like it could be home if I wanted it to be...
That’s almost worse than the violence.
Because it makes me hope.
And hope is the most dangerous thing I’ve felt in days.
I finish my coffee, throw the cup away, and start walking back to Koa’s dorm.
Back to the place that isn’t mine but might be, to the boy who betrayed me but saved me, to a life that doesn’t make sense but is the only one I have.
The restlessness doesn’t fade.
But for now, I know where I’m sleeping tonight.
And in this fucked-up world, that’s something.
50
Koa
The ice doesn’t lie.
That’s the first thing my old coach taught me when I was fourteen and angry at the world—the ice shows you exactly who you are. It reveals every hesitation, every weakness, every moment you’re not fully committed. You can’t fake it out here. Can’t charm your way through a play or talk your way out of a mistake.
Out here, you’re either good enough or you’re not.
And right now, I’m fucking unstoppable.
The whistle blows and I explode forward, stick handling the puck like it’s magnetized to my blade. Jenkins tries to cut me off at center ice but I’m already past him, using that burst of speed that made scouts interested in me freshman year. The cold air burns my lungs in the best way, sharp and clarifying.
Two defenders converge on me as I cross the blue line. I fake left, drop my shoulder right, and split them so clean they crashinto each other behind me. The goalie—Thompson, senior, solid but not spectacular—squares up in his crease.
I wind up and release.
