CHAPTER 48

Jarett's pov

The arena was never supposed to be this quiet.

I’d spent every night of the last four years in this building with the sound of sticks hitting boards and guys yelling and Helena’s voice cutting through it all.

Now there was nothing. Just the low hum of the freezers under the ice and the sound of my boots on the concrete.

The key in my pocket burned.

It didn’t make sense. It was an old iron, so It should’ve been cold. But ever since Maren put it in my hand on the bridge, it hadn’t stopped feeling like I was holding a piece of coal.

Debt was due.

I told myself I wasn’t afraid as I pushed through the side door.

The door clicked shut behind me and the sound was too loud in the empty hallway. It followed me down the corridor toward the locker rooms.

Locker 17.

That was us. That was where Dell left his tape everywhere and Mason had that stupid quote about heart taped inside his door.

That was where Helena stood on the bench before every game and looked at all of us like we were the only people in the world.

Going in there alone felt like walking into a church after you’d already sinned.

The black veins had made it to my shoulder now. I could feel them when I moved.

A cold line under my skin, like something was crawling. Every time I thought about the bridge, about Maren, they pulsed. Like she was reminding me I wasn’t free.

I passed the trophy case on the way. Our team photo from last year was still there. Helena in the center, clipboard in one hand, the other on Mason’s shoulder. All of us are grinning, sweaty, alive.

I stopped and looked at myself in that picture. I didn’t look like the same person who was standing here now. That guy hadn’t traded a year of his life to a witch yet.

The locker room door was unlocked.

It smelled the same. Sweat and tape and the orange cleaner the janitors used on the floors.

It was sitting right in the middle of the bench. Small. Black wood. An iron latch that looked like it belonged in a museum.

Locker 17, that was Dell’s locker.

My hand hovered over the latch and I could hear Maren’s voice in my head. "The deal is: I call, you go. You do. No questions."

If I opened it, was that a question?

The veins in my arm flared hot. Pain shot up to my shoulder and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound.

“Don’t be stupid,” I whispered to the empty room.

But my fingers were already moving.

The latch clicked.

Inside there was just a folded piece of fabric, deep red and old, and a photograph.

The photo was black and white and soft at the edges from being handled too much.

A woman stood in front of this exact arena, except the sign behind her was different. She had Helena’s eyes. The same sharpness. The same refusal to look away. And she was holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.

I turned it over.

*Evelyn. 1987. Don’t let them take her.*

The air left my lungs.

Evelyn. Grandma Evelyn. The name Helena said quietly sometimes when she thought we were all asleep.

I picked up the fabric. It was a scarf. It smelled like rosemary and old paper and something else I couldn’t name.

This wasn’t a random errand. This wasn’t “get me a box.” This was Helena. This was her family.

And Maren wanted it.

If I handed this over, what would Maren do with it? Use it to hurt her? Use it to take the last thing Helena had left of the only person who’d ever loved her right?

The veins burned again. A warning. "If you don’t bring me the box, the veins go to your heart."

I closed the box. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.

I had two choices and both of them felt like dying.

I could take the box back to the bridge. Give it to Maren. Go home and lie to Helena for a year. Let her keep coaching and laughing and being okay because I took the hit for her.

Or I could tell her right now. Wake her up and put the photo in her hands and let the curse finish what it started.

I thought about her this morning. Her hair was still damp, laughing while Mason tried to put her on his shoulders.

I thought about her at dinner, reaching across the table to squeeze my knee and whispering “Proud of you” like I deserved it. I thought about her in my doorway at 9PM in that team hoodie, asking if I was okay and me lying straight to her face.

I wasn’t going to be the reason someone took anything else from her.

I picked up the box. It was lighter than it should’ve been, like it was empty even though I could feel the weight of the photo inside it.

The drive to the bridge took ten minutes. It felt like an hour.

Maren was still there when I pulled up. Leaning against the broken railing like she’d never left. The mist had turned to rain and it was running down her black coat. Her hair was wet and her eyes were gold in the dark.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Traffic,” I said.

She held out her hand. “Give it to me.”

I didn’t. I held the box behind my back instead.

“What’s in it?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed. “We had a deal, Jarett.”

“I know,” I said. And my voice didn’t shake. “I’m here. I’m keeping my end. But I have one question.”

The pain hit immediately. It started in my wrist and raced up my arm, into my chest. I could feel the veins moving.

Maren smiled slowly like she’d been waiting for this. “You’re really going to do this?”

“I traded a year for her,” I said. “I’m not trading her to you.”

I opened the box right there in the rain. I pulled out the photo and held it up so she could see it.

“Is this about Evelyn?”

For half a second, Maren’s face changed. The calm, amused mask slipped and something old and furious was underneath it.

“You shouldn’t have looked,” she said, very soft.

“Then don’t make deals with people who love someone,” I said.

The lightning came next.

It started in my palm and shot straight into my heart. I dropped the box. It hit the pavement with a dull thud and the lid popped open. The red scarf spilled out onto the wet concrete.

I hit my knees.

The world went white around the edges. I could hear the river under the bridge. I could hear my own heart, hammering, then slowing. Then everything went dark.