Ledger exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I . . . never thanked you. For saving me. All those times I had tournaments, and the old man tried to fuck up my hockey career.”

I shrug as if saying it doesn’t matter.

“It couldn’t have been easy,” he says, watching me.

“You might think I did it to help you,” I mutter. “But selfishly, I was making sure you got the hell out. So I could have a little peace.”

The words come quick, automatic—the lie I told myself for years. But the second they leave my mouth, I feel it. The truth.

The real reason I stepped in was because deep down I hoped to win a brother. I was hoping for some kind of respect. Also, to make sure his dream didn’t die under my father’s twisted hands.

Because no matter how much I hated Ledger, I hated him less than I hated seeing someone else’s dream get destroyed.

And that’s one of the reasons when I was recruited to be a part of the organization I accepted. I wanted to save people like my brothers, like Therese. My current therapist claims I like to fix people and their lives while trying to ignore my own problems, my own traumas. Except, the moment Blythe stepped into my life, that’s all I’ve been wanting to do: deal with my past so that I can have a life. I just didn’t know exactly why—now I know it was so I could offer Blythe something.

So I could learn how to love her.

“We’re cool,” I tell him. “I’m not saying things between us will get fixed immediately, but we can work on it.”

“I . . . thank you for considering it," he says, hesitation thick in his voice. It drags a chuckle out of me.

"Was the mean hockey player afraid I’d tell him to fuck off? Or that I’ll punch him in the face?”

Ledger places his hands on the back of his neck and stretches, his mouth pulling into something almost self-deprecating. “After everything I did? I figured you’d break my nose—maybe worse. Malerick said you’ve got mean skills. Apparently, you can take me down in less than two moves if I piss you off.”

I grin. “And don’t you forget it.”

His smirk fades slightly. “Again, thank you. For being there for Mom. And . . .” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I get it now. Why she left you part of her inheritance. You were hers, too.”

The words hit like a punch to the ribs, pushing all the air out of my lungs.

Therese told me that once—maybe twice while she was in hospice. But hearing it from him . . . from one of her sons . . .

It feels different.