Page 46 of Into Ruin

We’re having an unusual cold snap for autumn, and I hunker down against the sharp wind. The weather doesn’t help my darkening mood. There are a million counterarguments coming to mind to convince Royal that what Camden and I are doing isfine. Besides the bullying.

But finally, the arena comes into sight, and I head for the players’ entrance.

I haul open the door and step inside. I let out a breath, the warmth—and that’s saying something—basking my face. But where to find my brother?

They don’t practice until this evening, so… locker room?

My stomach twists, and I glance over my shoulder, like Camden Church would be waiting in the shadows to blame me for this.

Great.

I pause at the entrance to the locker room, my weight shifting back and forth.

Going inside seems a bit presumptuous, right?

Eh. A quick phone check reveals absolutely zero messages, and no one responds when Iknock. Because who knocks on a locker room door?

So… in I go.

“Royal?” I call out.

I haven’t been in here before, but there’s a long entryway with cabinets, then it opens into the large room. It has cubbies all around the perimeter, the players’ names in plaques on the wood. Their gear is all set up, the practice jerseys and helmets, stick tape and random shit. FSU-branded towels.

Everything is in the school colors, purple and white. It’s not super overwhelming. The purple isn’t in-your-face loud. I find Royal’s cubby,R. Lawsonon the plaque. And right beside his isC. Church.

Typical.

Together always.

I can very clearly remember when Royal found it hard to make friends. When he was always chasing after the team, trying to force himself in where he didn’tquitefit.

It seems easier with Camden. And maybe Lucas and Connor, too.

Camden doesn’t have a ton of stuff in his locker, but his skates catch my attention. It explains why they were missing from his bag last night. The blades might’ve needed sharpening or replacing.

There’s not much else in his cubby. What Idoknow is, Royal probably has candy stashed somewhere in his. Or those electrolyte gels—no, no, they’re more likely to be found in his hockey bag, which he’ll carry in himself.

Whenever he gets here.

Shit, I didn’t think I’d beat him. I check my phone and double-frown as the low-battery alert pops up. Did I forget to plug it in last night after filming?

My cheeks heat.

That’s thelastthing I should be thinking about when Royal is about to stage an intervention.

Late as always, Royal enters the locker room. The hinges squeal upon opening, and there’s awhooshas the door swings shut.

I sidestep so it’s not super fucking apparent that I was analyzing Camden’s space, instead studiously fixating on Royal’s stuff. Specifically, his purple helmet.

“There you are.”

My shoulders hike, and I whirl around.

Not my brother.

Max. He strides toward me, his expression neutral. Not happy. Not angry.

I stand up straighter.

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