Three days pass in silence.
I don't see Sophie. Don't hear from her. The absence is loud in a way her presence never was.
I go through the motions. PT with Rita, who doesn't ask questions but watches me like she knows something's wrong. Classes, where I take notes but don't remember anything. The dining hall, where the group sits with me but doesn't mention her name.
On the fourth day, Maya breaks the silence.
"She's not doing well," she says. We're at lunch, just the two of us. The others gave us space.
"I don't want to hear it."
"I know. I'm telling you anyway." Maya closes her notebook. "She's missing practice. Not eating. Her coach called her parents."
Something twists in my chest. "That's not my problem."
"Isn't it?" Maya looks at me with those sharp eyes. "Evan, I'm not saying you have to forgive her. What she did was fucked up. But you loved her—love her—and she's drowning."
"She made her choice."
"So did you. And now you both get to live with it." She stands up. "Just... think about whether this is really what you want. Because once you decide it's over, it's over. There's no coming back from that."
She leaves me sitting there with cold food and colder thoughts.
Day six.
I'm at PT, working through shoulder rotations, when someone sits on the bench behind me.
"Your form is shit."
I turn. It's Matias, in practice gear, watching me with those intense blue eyes.
"Thanks for the feedback."
"Is true." He stands, comes over. "You are... how you say... compensating. Using wrong muscles because you are afraid of pain."
"I'm not afraid."
"Everyone is afraid of pain. Is natural." He adjusts my arm slightly. "But fear makes you weak. You must push through, or you heal wrong."
Rita watches from across the room, doesn't intervene.
"Try again," Matias says.
I do the rotation. It hurts like hell, but my form is better.
"Good. Again."
We work through the exercises together. He's patient, correcting without judgement, and after twenty minutes my shoulder feels looser than it has in days.
"You are in pain," he observes. "Not just shoulder. Here." He taps his chest. "Heart pain."
"I'm fine."
"Is lie." He sits back down. "In Finland, we have saying. 'Kova kokemus tekee viisaan.' Hard experience makes wise. You are having hard experience."
"Yeah."
"But experience is not wisdom. Wisdom is what you do after." He stands. "Team misses you. Is not same without Chosen One. When you are ready—really ready—you come back."
After he leaves, Rita comes over.
"He's right, you know. About the compensating. And the heart thing."
"I know."
"So what are you going to do about it?"
I don't have an answer.
Day eight.
The Assassin game reaches its conclusion in the most anticlimactic way possible.
I'm walking to class when someone slaps a sticker on my back.
"You're eliminated," a voice says.
I turn. It's some freshman I don't recognize. He grins, waves and disappears into the crowd.
That's it. Game over. I lasted three weeks, which apparently is impressive, but I don't feel anything about it.
Later, I find out Maya won the whole thing. Of course she did.
"I eliminated forty-seven people," she tells me at dinner. "Including Sophie, week one."
"You eliminated Sophie first?"
"No. Third. But she was distracted. "Maya's expression goes soft. "She was already thinking about you."
The information sits heavy.
Day ten.
Tyler Brooks from Theta Sigma finds me after Economics.
"Ross. Decision time. You coming to the brotherhood or not?"
I look at him—his perfect smile, his confident stance, his designer clothes. I think about what Sophie said. About people who want to use your story versus people who want to be in it.
"Not," I say.
His smile doesn't falter. "You sure? We could really use someone with your narrative."
"My narrative isn't for sale."
"Everything's for sale man. Just a matter of price."
"Not this." I walk past him. "But thanks for the offer."
Behind me, I hear him laugh. "Your loss, Chosen One."
Maybe but it doesn't feel like a loss.
Day twelve.
I'm sitting in my room, trying to focus on homework, when there's a knock.
It's Lena, holding a piece of paper.
"Sophie asked me to give you this," she says. "I told her I wouldn't, but... she's my friend. And so are you. So I'm giving you a choice."
She sets the paper on my desk and leaves.
I stare at it for ten minutes before I finally pick it up.
It's a letter. Handwritten. Her writing is shaky.
Evan,
I know you said to stay away and I'm trying. I haven't texted, haven't called, haven't shown up at your door even though every part of me wants to. I'm respecting your space because it's the least I can do after violating your trust.
But I need you to know something. The bet ended the moment I realized what you meant to me. That was week one. Everything after—every coffee, every run, every moment at the hospital—that was me choosing you. Not for money. Not for a game. Just... you.
I fell for the guy who showed up to tryouts hungover and somehow became a superstar. The guy who fights through pain that would break most people. The guy who makes his friends feel seen and valued and important. I fell for YOU, Evan. The real you, not the Chosen One, not the mysterious freshman, just... you.
I know sorry doesn't fix this. I know I have to earn back your trust, if that's even possible. But I want you to know that I'm here. When you're ready—if you're ever ready—I'm here.
I love you. I'm so sorry I didn't say it under better circumstances. But it's true.
- Sophie
I read it three times.
Then I fold it carefully and put it in my desk drawer.
I'm not ready. But maybe someday I will be.
Day fifteen
I'm cleared to skate.
Not practice, not drills, just skating. Rita says it's good for range of motion, for building confidence, for remembering what I'm working toward.
I go to the rink at 6 AM when it's empty. Lace up skates that feel foreign now. Step onto the ice.
And immediately almost fall.
My balance is shot. My shoulder screams in protest. Everything feels wrong.
I push off anyway.
The first lap is terrible. The second one worse. By the third, I'm sweating and angry and ready to quit.
"Your edges are sloppy."
I turn. Sophie's standing at the boards, wearing practice gear, holding her goalie stick.
"What are you doing here?" My voice comes out harsher than intended.
"My ice time. 6 AM slot on Tuesdays." She doesn't move closer. "I can leave if you want."
I should tell her to leave. Should protect the space I've built around myself.
But I don't.
"Stay," I hear myself say.
She nods slowly and skates out. Heads to the net. Starts her warm-up routine like this is normal, like the last two weeks didn't happen.
We exist in the same space without speaking. Me doing laps, her doing goalie drills. The silence isn't comfortable, but it isn't hostile either. It just... is.
After twenty minutes, I skate over to the boards for water. She does the same.
"You look good out there," she says quietly. "Considering."
"I look like shit."
"Better than two weeks ago." She fidgets with her water bottle. "Rita told me you've been doing the exercises."
"You talk to Rita?"
"She called me. Said you were healing but not healed. Asked if I knew what was wrong." Sophie looks at me. "I told her the truth."
"Which is?"
"That I broke something important and I don't know how to fix it."
The words hang between us.
"I read your letter," I say.
Her eyes widen. "You did?"
"Three times."
"And?"
"And... I don't know yet." I set down my water bottle. "I want to believe yo, Sophie. I want to believe that what we had was real. But every time I think about it, I remember that it started as a lie. And I don't know how to get past that."
"I know." Her voice is small. "I don't expect you to just... forgive me. That's not how this works."
"Then how does it work?"
"I don't know." She looks out at the ice. "Maybe it doesn't. Maybe I fucked up too badly and there's no coming back from it. But I had to try. Because losing you is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
Something in my chest cracks.
"You really love me?" I ask. "Not the Chosen One, not the hockey player—me?"
"Yes." She finally looks at me, and her eyes are clear. Honest. "I love that you're sarcastic when you're nervous. I love that you show up even when you're terrified. I love that you care about your friends so much it scares you. I love you, Evan. All of you."
The words hit like physical things.
"I love you too," I hear myself say.
She goes very still. "What?"
"I love you. I've been trying not to, trying to hate you, trying to convince myself it was all fake. But it wasn't. Not for me. And I don't think it was for you either. Not really."
"Evan—"
"I'm still hurt. I'm still angry. And I don't know if I can trust you yet." I look at her. "But I want to try. I want to figure out if we can fix this. Because walking away from you was the hardest thing I've ever done, and I don't want to do it again."
"Are you sure?" Her voice trembles. "Because I can't—if you're not sure, I can't—"
"I'm not sure about anything right now. But I'm sure about this." I close the distance between us. "We start over. Slow. You earn back my trust, I work on forgiving you. We figure it out together."
"Okay." She's crying now, but it's different than before. Softer. "Okay. We can do that."
"One more thing," I say.
"Anything."
"No more lies. Ever. Even if the truth sucks, even if it hurts—no more lies."
"No more lies," she promises. "I swear."
We stand there at the boards, close but not touching, and something shifts. It's not healed—not yet. But it's healing.
"Can I hug you?" she asks quietly.
I nod.
She steps forward carefully, like I might break, and wraps her arms around me. I hug her back with my good arm, and she's shaking, and I realize I am too.
"I'm sorry," she whispers into my shoulder. "I'm so fucking sorry."
"I know."
We stay like that for a long moment. Then she pulls back, wiping her eyes.
"So what now?" she asks.
"Now we take it slow. Coffee. Talking. Rebuilding."
"No morning runs?"
"Not yet. I'm not ready for that much normal."
She laughs, watery but real. "Okay. Slow. I can do slow."
We skate a few more laps together, side by side but not quite together. It's awkward and careful and nothing like before.
But it's a start.
Day sixteen.
I wake up to my phone buzzing. Multiple messages in the group chat.
Jax: DUDE
Jax: DUDE DUDE DUDE
Ollie: turn on the news
Maya: holy shit
Lena: this is bad
Sam: sending healing energy to everyone involved
I open my laptop, pull up the local news.
The headline makes my blood run cold.
NORTHWOOD UNIVERSITY UNDER INVESTIGATION: HAZING ALLEGATIONS AGAINST MULTIPLE ORGANIZATIONS
I scroll down. There's a photo of the Theta Sigma house. Another of the hockey locker room—varsity, not club.
My phone rings. It's Marcus.
"Evan, don't come to practice today."
"What's going on?"
"The university's launching an investigation into athletics programs. Someone reported hazing in varsity hockey. They're looking at everyone—varsity, club, women's team, all of it."
"We don't haze—"
"I know. But they're checking anyway. And..." He pauses. "There's something else. They're also investigating recruitment violations. Someone reported that varsity players were recruiting for fraternities using team influence."
My stomach drops. "Theta Sigma."
"Yeah. And Evan?" His voice goes quieter. "They mentioned you specifically. Said you were being recruited, that there might have been... incentives offered."
"I turned them down."
"I know. But they still want to talk to you. Administration's calling people in for interviews. You're on the list."
After he hangs up, I sit there staring at my laptop.
The investigation details keep loading. More allegations. More names. The athletic department under scrutiny. Possible sanctions. Possible suspensions.
Then I see it. Buried in the third paragraph.
"The investigation was reportedly triggered by an anonymous tip submitted two weeks ago by a student athlete who witnessed multiple violations."
Two weeks ago.
Right when everything with Sophie fell apart.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a number I don't recognize.
I answer.
"Mr. Ross? This is Dean Martinez from Student Affairs. We need you to come in for a meeting tomorrow at 9 AM. It's regarding the ongoing investigation into athletic programs. This is mandatory. Do not discuss this with anyone beforehand."
"Okay."
"9 AM, Student Affairs Building, third floor. Don't be late."
She hangs up.
I'm still sitting there, trying to process, when there's a knock on my door.
It's Sophie. She looks panicked.
"Did you see the news?" she asks.
"Yeah."
"Evan, I need to tell you something." She comes in, closes the door. "The anonymous tip—the one that started all this—"
My blood goes cold. "Sophie, what did you do?"
"I didn't—" She stops, takes a breath. "It wasn't me. But I know who it was."
"Who?"
"Tyler Brooks. From Theta Sigma." She's talking fast now. "After you turned them down, he was angry. Really angry. He started digging, trying to find dirt on you, on the team, on anyone connected to you. He found out about the varsity hazing stuff—apparently it's been going on for years—and he reported it. But he specifically mentioned your name because he wanted to—"
"Destroy my reputation," I finish.
"Yes. And Evan..." She looks genuinely scared now. "He has evidence. Photos, texts, recordings. And some of it involves you."
"I haven't done anything wrong."
"I know. But he's twisting things. Making it look like you were involved in recruitment violations, like you knew about the hazing and didn't report it, like—"
There's a sharp knock on the door. Then another.
"Campus Police. Open up."
Sophie and I exchange a look.
I open the door.
There are two officers standing there, along with Dean Martinez.
"Evan Ross?" the officer asks.
"Yes."
"We need you to come with us. Now."
"What? Why?"
"There's been an accusation of assault connected to the athletic program investigation. You're being brought in for questioning."
"Assault? I didn't—"
"Save it for the interview. Let's go."
I look at Sophie. She's pale, terrified.
"I'll call someone," she says. "I'll figure this out, I'll—"
"Now, Mr. Ross," the officer repeats.
I grab my phone and wallet. Follow them out of the dorm.
Behind me, I hear Sophie on her phone. "Maya, something's wrong. I need everyone. Now."
The officers lead me down the hallway. Students are staring. Someone's filming on their phone.
"Am I being arrested?" I ask.
"Not yet," Dean Martinez says. "But this is serious, Mr. Ross. Very serious."
They put me in the back of the car.
As we drive away from the campus, I watch Webster Hall disappear in the side mirror.
I see Sophie standing outside, phone pressed to her ear, watching me leave.
And I realize that just when I thought we were finally or way back to each other—
Everything's falling apart again.
But this time, it's so much worse.