Page 26 of Head Over Skates

“No, not forever, Owen. I gotta go.”

With that, she hangs up, and I’m left staring at my phone screen like an idiot. Feeling like I just got sucker punched in the gut, I toss my phone aside and rake my hands through my hair, blowing out a long breath. Well, that was a freaking disaster.

I can't believe she banned me from seeing my own brother. Cyrus needs me, whether she wants to admit it or not. I'm the only positive male role model in his life. If I'm not around, who's going to teach him to throw a spiral or stand up to bullies? Not our deadbeat dad, that's for sure. The thought of Cyrus growing up without me there makes my chest ache.

I push up from the couch and start pacing, too amped up to sit still. I've gotta fix this somehow. Make Shannon see reason, get her to lift this ban.

I wish I could march over there right now and talk some sense into her. But it would only make things worse. Once Shannon gets an idea in her head, there's no changing her mind.

With a heavy sigh, I try to push my swirling thoughts about Cyrus aside. If I let that phone call with Shannon fester in my head, I'm gonna lose it.

The last 24 hours have been a dumpster fire. First Emily’s backhanded blog post, then losing the game against Quebec. Then the robbery.

I have to find out who took our trophy. For the team, yeah, but also for myself. I need to feel like I can fix something, anything, after being so helpless with Cyrus.

My mind starts churning through potential suspects. Could it have been that slimeball Georges Lemieux trying to get in our heads before the playoffs? He practically admitted he was going to steal the trophy when he got in my face after the game.

Or maybe their coach, Claude Rousseau? He's had it out for Coach Knight ever since that blowout back in '97. This seems like the kind of petty thing he'd pull just to get revenge.

Then again, Nancy mentioned something weird about Mark being there last night. He's been acting kinda squirrely lately. And he'd have access to the arena after hours.

I shake my head, trying to connect the dots. None of it adds up. But I can't sit here doing nothing. I've gotta start digging and find some real evidence.

For Cyrus's sake, I need this win. I have to prove to myself and to Shannon that I can still protect my baby brother, even if she's slamming doors in my face.

My leg bounces with restless energy as determination courses through me. I'm getting to the bottom of this heist if it kills me. No more sitting around feeling sorry for myself. It's time to take action.

I grab my keys and head for the door, ready to launch my own investigation. Lemieux, Rousseau, Mark—whoever did this—they don't know the storm that's coming for them.

The next night,I pull into the arena parking lot after hours. This mystery has consumed my thoughts all day. So has Emily’s soft, pink lips. But I push that waaay down. I need to find out who stole the Memorial Cup to get justice for the team. And if I can crack this case, it'll prove to Shannon I'm not as irresponsible as she thinks.

I stride towards the employee entrance, trying not to look too conspicuous. Hal’s there, a little surprised to see me.

“Hey Hal,” I say in greeting. “I forgot to take home my dress suit the other night and if I don’t get it to the dry cleaners first thing in the morning… Ya know.”

He doesn’t need to know I have more than one suit.

“No worries, Cap.” he salutes me. “I won’t leave my post tonight, not even for a wiz.”

“We don’t deserve you, Hal,” I say, patting him on the back as I enter the arena.

The hallway is empty and eerily quiet without the usual pre-game buzz. I creep along, peering into dark offices and storage rooms as I pass. So far, so creepy.

I'm nearing the area near Mark’s office when hushed voices drift out from around the corner. I freeze, pressing myself flat against the wall. Who the hell is in there? I inch closer, straining to make out the words.

"... almost got caught. We need to be more careful," a female voice whispers sharply.

There's a snort, then a second voice—also female—retorts, "Um, we were careful. Janitors have terrible vision. It's fine."

What the...? Is someone planning another heist? My pulse quickens. I have to get visuals on these perps.

Holding my breath, I slowly peer down the hallway. Two figures are silhouetted against an open doorway, tip-toeing like little lemurs. One is petite with a long blonde ponytail—Emily! My eyes narrow. Why is she sneaking around?

The other one has wild, dark hair sticking out in all directions. I don't recognize her at all. The girls continue whispering to each other, oblivious to my presence.

What the heck are they up to? I should confront them, but I need more intel first. I discreetly pull out my phone, ready to snap some evidence.

Just as I'm about to hit record, the brunette whips around. "Hey!" she shouts.

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