A Step

ALICIA'S POV

I was halfway through unpacking when I found them.

Junior's jorts.

Faded denim, frayed at the hems, with a ketchup stain on the left pocket that never washed out. The ugliest shorts in the world, and he wore them everywhere.

Last summer, I'd tried to keep them before he left for college. I liked those stupid shorts more than I cared to admit, so I'd hidden them away, hoping he'd forget about them.

The next morning, he walked into the kitchen wearing them.

I stared at him over my cereal.

He grinned. "You really thought I'd leave without my favourite shorts?"

I rolled my eyes. "They're ugly."

"Just admit you like them. Who knows? I might even leave them for you.”

The memory came rushing back, and before I could stop them, tears filled my eyes. I quickly wiped them away, but my hands trembled as I continued folding my clothes and placing them beside his. Even now, I couldn't bring myself to leave his things behind.

Room 4B was small. One bed, one desk, and a window overlooking the quad.

Someone had packed half his things into boxes and left them by the closet. The rest was untouched. His hockey posters were still on the walls. His alarm clock was still set for 5:30 a.m. And there was a sticky note on the mirror, written in his messy handwriting.

Call Licia after the final.

I stared at it, wishing I could somehow go back to when that note meant something.

He never got to make that call.

I took it off the mirror and slipped it into my pocket. Then I sat on his bed, looking around at all the things he'd left behind.

My eyes started to sting. I pressed my hands against them and took a shaky breath.

I couldn't fall apart here.

I hadn't come all this way just to cry.

I needed to find out what happened to my brother. And whoever was responsible for his death was going to answer for it.

I kept unpacking, faster now, because if I stopped moving, I'd start thinking, and if I started thinking, I'd fall apart.

My hoodies went into his drawers, on top of the old receipts and gum wrappers he never bothered to throw away. I leaned my hockey stick against the wall, right next to the dusty outline where his used to stand. His black tape went on the desk. I wanted it somewhere I could see it.

I was on my knees, trying to shove my duffel bag under the bed, when I heard a key turn in the lock.

No knock. Nothing.

The door swung open, and I jumped to my feet so quickly I nearly hit my head on the bed frame.

Silas Varga stood in the doorway.

He'd clearly just come out of the shower. His dark hair was wet, pushed back from his face, and a towel hung around his neck. All he had on was a pair of gray gym shorts.

That was it.

For a second, I forgot what I was doing.

I knew he played hockey. I'd watched him on the ice all season. But seeing him in full gear from row D was nothing like seeing him standing in front of me like this. Broad shoulders, a chest that looked like he'd spent years building it, water still running down his skin.

My eyes wandered before I could stop them.

“Alicia?”

I quickly brought my eyes back to his face, my cheeks burning.

He looked just as surprised to see me. He stood there with one hand on the doorknob, like he wasn't quite sure he'd walked into the right room.

Then I noticed what he was holding.

A key, hanging from a ring wrapped in black tape.

My throat tightened.

Junior's spare key.

I'd know that tape anywhere. I'd watched him wrap it a hundred times at our kitchen table, his tongue sticking out in concentration, swearing whenever it twisted.

“Alicia,” he said.

“Silas.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

“I didn't know you'd moved in,” he said.

“Clearly.” I folded my arms. “Do you always walk into people's rooms half naked?”

Something almost like a smile crossed his face. He pulled the towel tighter around his neck.

It didn't help much.

“I live across the hall,” he said. “Junior gave me a key. I've been checking on his things.”

“Checking on them?”

“Someone had to.”

I didn't have an answer for that. My eyes shifted to the boxes beside the closet.

“You packed those?”

“Some of them.” He paused. “Not all.”

I turned back to him. “Then who packed the rest?”

He didn't answer. His eyes shifted to Junior's desk, settling on the top drawer. He stared at it for a moment before looking away.

“What did you come for?” I asked.

“Something I left here.”

“What?”

He took a step towards the desk, then stopped. His eyes met mine before he slipped the key into his pocket.

“It can wait.”

I wasn't sure I believed him. The way he'd looked at that drawer said otherwise.

But I let it go. I had nothing to go on yet. No proof, no answers. And the last thing I wanted was to let him know I was already asking questions.

So I sat on Junior's bed and softened my voice.

“Can I ask you something?”

He leaned against the doorframe. “You're going to anyway.”

“The night before the final. There was a team dinner, wasn't there?”

His jaw tightened. Just slightly. I might have missed it if I hadn't spent my whole life learning to read my brother's face.

“There was,” he said.

“Nobody mentioned it. Not the captain, not Coach, not the college. Everyone told my parents Junior spent his last night resting.”

“It wasn't important.”

He said it so quickly, almost like he'd rehearsed the answer.

“It was the last dinner of his life,” I said quietly. “How is that not important?”

Silas looked down. A drop of water fell from his hair onto Junior's carpet. For a moment, I thought he might actually tell me something.

Then his phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then several notifications came in at once.

He glanced at the screen, and whatever had been on his face disappeared.

“What is it?” I asked.

He hesitated before turning the phone towards me.

COACH'S SON IS IN. Starts practice Monday.

Another message appeared underneath.

Guess who's getting number 11?

Number 11.

Junior's number.

My brother hadn't even been gone a month, and they were already giving his number to someone else.

“Can he even do that?” I asked. My voice came out shaky. “Just walk onto the team in the middle of the season?”

“He's the coach's son,” Silas said flatly. “He can do whatever he wants.”

He slipped his phone into his pocket, and his expression changed again. Whatever surprise had been there was gone.

I looked at my hockey stick leaning against the wall, beside the empty space where Junior's used to be.

Then the idea came to me so suddenly that I said it before I could talk myself out of it.

“I want to join the team.”

Silas stared at me.

Then he laughed. Not in a mean way. He genuinely seemed to think I'd said something ridiculous.

“You're serious?”

“I've been a team captain for three years. I was preparing for the national team trials. I can skate just as well as any of them.”

“Alicia.” He shook his head, still wearing that half-smile. “There has never been a woman on that team. Coach would never allow it.”

“The coach just let his son join halfway through the season. The rules seem pretty flexible around here”

His smile disappeared.

Good. He understood what I was getting at.

Because that was the point, and he knew it. I didn’t care about the jersey. I didn’t care about the ice. I needed to be inside. In the locker room. On the bus. At the next team dinner. Close enough to hear what they said when they thought nobody was listening.

Close enough to find out which of them had poisoned my brother.

Silas studied me for a moment. I could almost see him weighing his options.

“You’ll never get on the team,” he said finally. “But there’s another way in.”

“What way?”

“Girlfriends.” He said it simply. “Players’ girlfriends go to team dinners, parties, away games. Nobody questions them. Nobody watches what they say around them.”

I blinked. “You want me to date one of them?”

“No.” He pushed away from the doorframe. “I’m saying you date me.”

The room went quiet.

“Fake,” he added. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I repeated.

My heart was doing something stupid. I ignored it.

“Why would you help me?”

“Because Junior was my best friend.” His voice dropped. “And because you’re going to do something reckless either way. I’d rather know where you are when you do it.”

He held my gaze. I wondered if he understood what he was offering. Pretending to be my boyfriend meant bringing me into a part of his life he might not be ready to share.

It sounded like the truth.

That was what scared me.

“Then let's be clear,” I said. “We act like a couple when people are watching. Outside of that, we keep our distance. And if I catch you lying to me, we're done.”

“Fine.” He held out his hand. “Anything else?”

I looked at his hand, then at the desk drawer he'd been so careful not to open.

“Yeah,” I said, taking his hand. “Wear a shirt next time.”

The almost-smile came back. He turned towards the door.

Then he stopped.

“There’s a team dinner on Friday,” he said without turning around. “Same restaurant. You’re coming as my girlfriend.”