Chapter 2 The Call (Sofia)

The call comes during story time.

I'm reading Where the Wild Things Are to my first-graders, doing the monster voices that make them giggle, when my phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it. Rule number one of teaching: phones stay silent during class time.

It vibrates again. And again.

Emma, my six-year-old daughter, sitting cross-legged in the reading circle because the after-school program is in my classroom today, looks up at me with worried eyes. She knows. Kids always know when something's wrong.

"Miss Martinez?" One of my students, Jayden, raises his hand. "Your phone is buzzing a lot."

I set down the book. "You're right. Let me check it might be important. Can everyone sit quietly for just one minute?" The room goes silent in that way only elementary kids can manage when they sense adult panic. I pull out my phone.

12 missed calls. 8 text messages.

All from Charlotte General Hospital.

My hands shake as I open the first text: This is Charlotte General ER. Please call regarding Daniel Martinez. Family emergency.

Danny. My little brother. The only family I have left besides Emma. The one who helped me escape Marcus two years ago. The one who promised he'd always protect us.

"Emma, sweetie, come here." My voice sounds far away. "We need to go."

I don't remember calling my principal. Don't remember the emergency sub arriving or getting Emma into the car. The next thing I know clearly, I'm doing seventy on I-77, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white, while Emma sits in her booster seat asking questions I can't answer.

"Is Uncle Danny okay?" "I don't know, baby."

"Did he get hurt in hockey?" "I think so."

"Is he going to die like Daddy said you would?

That stops me cold. I glance in the rearview mirror. Emma's big brown eyes stare back at me, and I see the fear she inherited from me. The same fear I learned from Marcus.

"No, baby. Uncle Danny is not going to die. And Daddy was wrong. Nobody's going to die." I say it with more confidence than I feel. "Uncle Danny is tough. Remember? He's a hockey player."

"Hockey is scary," Emma says quietly. "People get hurt."

She's not wrong. I've been to exactly two of Danny's games in his entire professional career. Both times, I spent ninety

minutes with my heart in my throat, watching grown men slam into each other at full speed, waiting for the hit that would take my brother away from me.

The hospital parking lot is chaotic. News vans, team buses, reporters with cameras. My stomach drops. If there are reporters, it's bad. Really bad.

I park in the first spot I find, grab Emma's hand, and run.

The ER waiting room is full of people in Charlotte Checkers gear. Teammates, I assume. Staff. Some woman crying into her phone. I push through to the reception desk.

"Daniel Martinez. I'm his sister. They called me."

"Third floor, ICU waiting room." The receptionist doesn't even look up. "Elevators to your left." ICU. Intensive care. The words don't compute.

Danny is twenty-four years old. He's supposed to be indestructible. He survived our father. Survived helping me leave Marcus. Survived every hit, every fight, every game.

The elevator takes forever. Emma's hand is sweaty in mine. "Mommy, I'm scared."

"Me too, baby. Me too."

The ICU waiting room is quieter. A few people in suits, team management, probably. A chaplain in the corner. And sitting alone by the window, still in his hockey pants with blood on his jersey, is the man who destroyed my brother's life.

I know it's him before anyone says a word. Know it from the way he sits too still, like he's holding himself together by force. Know it from the blood. Know it from the guilt written all over his face.

Tyler Rodriguez. Number 23. The Roanoke Reapers' enforcer. The man whose job is violence.

Our eyes meet across the waiting room, and I see him register who I am. See the recognition, the shame, the… That's when I drop Emma's hand and cross the room in five strides.

"You," I say, and my voice comes out steady even though I'm shaking. "You did this."

He stands slowly, and he's bigger than he looked on the ice. Six-three, maybe two-twenty, all muscle and danger. Everything Marcus was. Everything I taught myself to fear.

"Ma'am, I"

"Don't." I cut him off. "Don't you dare apologize. Don't you dare tell me it was an accident or part of the game or whatever excuse you people use for destroying lives."

"Sofia," One of the men in suits steps forward. "Please, let's not."

"Is he awake?" I don't take my eyes off, Rodriguez. "Is my brother conscious?"

"He's in surgery," the suit says. "They're relieving pressure on his brain. The next forty-eight hours are critical."

Brain surgery. My baby brother is having brain surgery because this man, this enforcer, this professional thug decided to do his job.

"Get out." My voice breaks on the words. "Get out of this hospital before I call security."

Tyler Rodriguez doesn't move. Just stands there, looking at me with those dark eyes that probably scare everyone on the ice, but right now just looks broken. Like he's the victim here.

"I said get OUT!"

"Mommy?" Emma's voice was small and scared. I forgot she was watching.

Rodriguez looks at her, and something crosses his face. Pain. Recognition. Then he grabs his jacket from the chair and walks toward the exit.

He stops next to me. I can smell the sweat and blood on him. Can see the split knuckles on his right hand from some fight earlier in the game. Can see every reason I should be terrified.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Then he's gone, and I'm alone with Emma and strangers and the knowledge that my brother might not wake up.

And the last thing I think before the doctor appears with news is: If Danny dies, that man is going to pay for what he's done.

I don't care what it takes.