Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1
Growing up, Luke always felt a little different. Not in the bad way—at least not at first. Just in the way where life always seemed a little more intense for him. He was the kind of kid who couldn’t sit still during dinner, who skated laps around kids twice his size at age seven, who laughed with his whole chest and made every day feel like it was game day.
His life rang true to the cliché “eat. sleep. hockey.” But for Luke, it wasn’t just a slogan on a sweatshirt—it was his rhythm, his heartbeat, his entire sense of self. He had his routines: early morning cereal with a stick in his hand, taping his blade while humming the same off-key song, falling asleep with ESPN playing softly in the background.
And then there was Quinn.
Luke adored Quinn.
He followed him like a shadow, skated harder when Quinn was watching, wore his older brother’s hand-me-down gloves even when they were too big. Quinn was three years older, already deep into high school, a little quieter, a little wiser. He was steady. He was safe. Luke would never admit it out loud, but when things felt too loud, too overwhelming, too much—Quinn’s voice could calm him down in seconds.
It had been that way for years. There was a photo somewhere in the hallway upstairs—Luke barely four, gripping the edge of Quinn’s oversized jersey from behind the bench at one of his mite games. He’d insisted on wearing eye black and shin guards that day even though he wasn’t playing. Quinn still remembered how Luke used to fall asleep in his lap at tournaments, his sweaty helmet pressing into Quinn’s hoodie.
Now he remembers Luke falling asleep on him all the time. In the car after practice or a game, on the couch at home during movie nights, on the way back from school when the days felt too long. He didn’t mean to—he always meant to stay awake—but his body just gave out. Quinn never minded. He’d just wrap an arm around him, pull him close, and make sure he got to bed.
But lately… everything had started to shift.
It crept in slow, the way storms sometimes do.
Luke had started dragging his feet in the morning. He didn’t race Jack to the car anymore. His gear stayed half-unpacked some nights because he didn’t have the energy to clean it. Quinn had chalked it up to growing pains, new training regimens, hitting that awkward stage of being too big for the kids’ drills but not quite old enough for varsity ones.
Until it started to feel like more.
Luke wasn’t just tired after practice—he was exhausted. He’d crash within minutes of getting into the car, his head lolling against Quinn’s shoulder before they even hit the highway. Sometimes he didn’t wake up when they pulled into the driveway. Quinn would have to lift him out gently, guiding him inside like he was half-conscious.
One particular night—it was just after Luke’s eleventh birthday—he remembers the ache in his bones being so deep he wanted to cry. But he didn’t. He just climbed into the backseat of his mom’s minivan, next to Quinn in his usual spot, curled up without a word.
Luke’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as the humid summer air inside the minivan. The sharp tang of cold ice and worn leather lingered faintly on his sweatshirt, mixed with the sweet scent of pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. His breath came in slow, shallow sighs, chest rising and falling against Quinn’s side.
Quinn felt the slight weight of Luke’s head pressing against his shoulder, warm and soft despite the cool plastic of his hockey gear. His fingers absentmindedly traced the stitching on Luke’s jersey, feeling the rough fabric under his skin as he watched the faint tremble of his brother’s muscles — tight and restless, too tense for a boy who should be carefree at eleven.
Outside, the hum of traffic and distant honks blurred into a quiet drone, but inside the car, everything slowed. Quinn’s heart thudded softly as Luke’s body gradually relaxed, surrendering to sleep with a sigh that slipped past aching joints.
He tightened his arm gently around Luke, careful not to disturb him, but wanting to hold him close — to protect him from the ache that Quinn knew was lurking just beneath the surface. The little brother who always wanted to be strong was finally letting himself rest, even if just for a moment.
He didn’t remember falling asleep. Only that it was dark out when he opened his eyes again, and Quinn was still there beside him, one hand resting protectively on his shoulder.
“You okay, Moose?” Quinn asked quietly, brushing Luke’s hair back.
“My body hurts,” Luke mumbled, the words dragging out like they were too heavy.
Quinn frowned. “I know practice is hard and you’re starting weight training, but let’s go inside and eat something, alright?”
Luke nodded without much fight and followed his brother into the house.
Their house wasn’t big, but it was full. Full of hockey sticks leaning against the stairwell, gear bags that always smelled faintly of sweat and Febreze, jackets thrown over chairs, and a calendar covered in game schedules and dentist appointments. The living room light was soft and warm, casting a familiar golden hue across the floors.
After dinner, after Algebra II and a painful thirty minutes of trying to memorize biology terms that refused to stick, Quinn found his mom curled up on the couch, scrolling through her phone. Jack was already upstairs, headphones in, probably watching film clips of his own practice.
“Mom,” Quinn said quietly, glancing toward the stairs. “Do you think Luke’s okay?”
She looked up, immediately attentive.
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
Quinn hesitated. Then it all spilled out—his quiet observations that had turned into constant worries.
“He’s just... different lately. He sleeps so much, like, after practice he’s out cold in the car. He sleeps eight hours at night, sometimes ten on the weekends, and he’s still tired. He tells me he doesn’t want to play video games, and that’s weird—he loves playing with me. He said his body hurts after practice. And like... it’s not normal. He even gave up his spot playing to Jack the other day, and I’ve never seen him do that. Not once.”
His mother nodded, brows drawn, listening without interrupting.
“And this morning,” Quinn continued, voice softening, “he said he felt like a skeleton when I woke him up. I asked what he meant and he said he felt all tight. I didn’t understand, but it didn’t sound like just tired. It sounded... scary.”
There was silence for a moment, and then his mom placed her phone on the side table and looked up at Quinn with gentleness.
“I know, honey. I’ve noticed a few things too. He’s a growing boy, and sometimes that comes with weird pains, but you’re right—if something’s off, we need to check. I’ll call the pediatrician tomorrow. We’ll set up bloodwork and make sure everything’s okay. Sound good?”
Quinn nodded, feeling a small wave of relief wash over him. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she added, reaching over to ruffle his hair the way he always did with Luke. “You’re a good big brother.”
Later that night, Quinn climbed the stairs and peeked into Luke’s room.
His little brother was already asleep—curled up on his side, hands tucked under his cheek, soft breaths barely making a sound. The room looked the same as always: posters of his favorite players on the wall, a mess of clean socks and half-read comic books on the floor, his stick propped up in the corner like it had its own spot in the family.
Quinn stepped in quietly, pulling the blanket up over Luke’s shoulder. He paused for a long moment, just looking at him.
Luke’s face still looked young—babyish even—framed by the soft glow of his nightlight. But there was something in the way he curled up, the way his brow furrowed even in sleep, that made Quinn’s chest ache.
He was only eleven. He should’ve still been all energy and jokes and swinging his legs under the dinner table. Not this.
Not this tired.
He closed the door quietly and whispered to no one, “I’ve got you, Moose. I promise.”