Chasing the Savior He Lost to the 13th Dare

I shattered my knee in a blizzard getting our hockey captain Carter the wristguard he demanded.

Everyone on campus knew I was his desperate little errand girl. I told myself he was just testing my loyalty because the injury left him scared to let people in—until I stood outside the locker room and heard him say while the guys were losing their shit laughing:

"Luke's sister? Her brother destroyed my leg. She gets to be my punching bag. Fair trade."

"This weekend at the party, round thirteen—I'm dumping her in front of everyone and kicking her to the curb."

My hand found the paper in my pocket—my diagnosis from three years ago: permanent nerve damage, right hand. The souvenir I got from saving his life.

Suddenly the whole thing felt obscene.

If he wanted to play games so badly, I was more than happy to blow up his final round myself.

"If I don't see that wristguard by midnight, I'm not showing up for tomorrow's championship."

Staring at Carter Hayes's ultimatum from ten minutes ago, I instinctively clutched the snow-soaked brown paper bag tighter against my chest.

To get him this limited-edition wristguard from some sketchy East Side reseller, I'd waited two hours in a minus-twenty blizzard. I'd even taken a nasty fall onto the icy curb dodging an out-of-control snowplow.

Now, blood from my right knee had frozen into a hard crust with my jeans. Every step sent needle-sharp pain shooting through my leg.

But thinking of his championship tomorrow, thinking of his chronically injured left leg, I didn't dare stop to check the wound.

On this blizzard night when no cabs were running, all I could do was protect the bag and drag my injured leg through ankle-deep snow for nearly three brutal hours.

When I finally pushed open the heavy doors of the ice rink, the clock on the lobby wall read exactly 11:55.

Made it. Just barely.

I let out a long breath, gripping the post-game recovery plan I'd spent three sleepless nights perfecting, and limped toward the captain's locker room.

The door wasn't fully closed—left slightly ajar.

I'd just raised my hand to knock when the conversation inside froze me in place.

"Carter, dude, that's pretty fucking cold. There's a red alert blizzard warning out there, and you actually made Emilia go to the East Side for that piece of shit?" Vice-captain Max's voice was thick with amusement.

"Not my fault she's throwing herself at me." Carter's laugh was sharp and cold. "If I told her to grab me a star from the sky, she'd probably find a ladder and try. Chicks with zero self-respect are pathetic as hell."

Wolf whistles erupted in the locker room.

Another player slapped a metal locker. "But seriously, that betting game you guys have going to mess with her—shouldn't you wrap it up soon? You really gonna make her do all thirteen rounds?"

"Today's East Side run in the snow makes twelve. So at the victory party this weekend, what's your move for the finale?"

"Gotta finish with a bang." The crisp click of a lighter. Carter's lazy chuckle. "The party's the thirteenth and final dare. I'll make her read a love letter in front of everyone at the party, then dump a drink over her head and tell the whole school she's nothing but a fucking joke. Then I'm done. She's gone."

The locker room exploded with laughter. Someone pounded the bench.

"Holy shit! Savage!" Max was gasping. "I can't wait to see Luke's face when that asshole realizes we've been playing his baby sister this whole time! After what he did to your leg in the high school finals—now you've destroyed his sister. That's some quality payback, my friend."

My heart seized. My raised hand froze mid-air. Even my breathing stopped.

"Right? Serves her right for having that prick as a brother." The team's "princess" Chloe's syrupy voice cut in.

"But Carter, every time I watch her touch your leg with those shaky little hands, I seriously want to throw up. Can you please just end this and kick her out already?"

"Relax. Luke's sister makes a decent free massage therapist." Carter's tone was casual cruelty. "I'll use her for tomorrow's championship, then I'm done. Won't even look at her again. She's trash."

Fabric rustled. Chloe giggled.

"You better mean that." Her smug purr, cut through with wet kissing noises.

"Of course I do," Carter murmured. "You're the one who saved my life on that ice without thinking twice. You're the only one who matters, princess."

I stood outside the door. Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.

The hallway heating blasted at full power, but my fingers had gone so numb I could barely hold the bag.

No tears. No trembling. Just this overwhelming wave of nausea rising in my throat.

A revenge prop. Free physical therapy. Round thirteen.

I looked down at the frozen blood on my knee. Then at the recovery plan I'd killed myself over for three nights straight. Suddenly it all felt so absurd I almost laughed.

I'd endured pain to please him. Thrown away every shred of dignity to prove I was worth keeping around. All to break through his walls. And the whole time, to them, I was just the punchline in an elaborate revenge plot against my brother.

But the most fucked up part wasn't even the three years of being their joke.

It was his absolute faith in Chloe's "heroic rescue."

He'd never know that three years ago, the person who actually pressed blood-covered hands against his torn artery on the ice—who held pressure until the paramedics arrived—wasn't her.

It was me.

Back then I didn't wear these black-framed glasses. Didn't have short hair. Carter was fading from blood loss and only caught a blurry glimpse before passing out.

Later, repairing the severed nerves in my hand from applying that much pressure took a year of medical leave. By the time I came back, Chloe had already stolen my place and he believed every word of her story.

I'd kept quiet to avoid adding stress to his recovery. Like an idiot, I swallowed it all and played therapist for three years.

I'd thought bending over backwards for him was love.

But now, listening to the flirting and mockery bleeding through that crack in the door, every sleepless night, every racing heartbeat, even this injury from tonight—all of it curdled into something that made me want to puke.

As if mocking this moment, my once-injured right hand started trembling violently.

The laughter inside got louder.

Max slapped the table hard. "Ten bucks says when you pour that drink on her at the party, she'll literally cry and beg you not to throw her out!"

"That's if she doesn't die in the snow tonight trying to deliver this shit." Carter snorted. "This weather? She might be frozen in a ditch somewhere."

The instant those words left his mouth, my hand stopped shaking.

I tore the recovery plan in half without expression and dropped it in the trash.

Then I switched the blood-stained, snow-soaked bag to my left hand.

Instead of knocking, I swung my numb leg up and slammed my boot into the door.