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Sorry if it’s not appropriate.

It’s fine.

I sent.

Thank you.

If I went to Cam, and my father discovered it . . .

Screw him. I’d already tried to avoid Cam, and it hadn’t made any difference to my father’s behavior. He was not dictating mine any longer.

Zoe wouldn’t have reached out if it wasn’t dire.

I turned on my heel and broke into a jog down the path.

My phone pinged again.

Something bad happened at home.

I’m going to him.

Hopefully, she wouldn’t tell anyone. She didn’t seem like the sort, not in these circumstances. Something bad had happened at home. Cam’s parents, perhaps? Little truly fazed him, but those he loved, he truly cared about.

I broke into a sprint across the plowed street. Several athletes glanced over from the paths. Didn’t matter. I bolted up his apartment building’s path, through the door, and took the stairs.

I only slowed on his floor, passing several people coming the other way.

At his number, I braced against the frame, breathing heavy, and knocked. “Cam?”

“Ren?”

I didn’t know what to say, only that I had to be there. For him.

The door opened.

He wore a clean, crisp shirt and pressed trousers, dressed smartly for the celebration, but I’d never seen him look so wrecked.

His face had lost all its color and light. His lashes were wet from tears. Dried tracks stained his cheeks. Damp circles marked his collar.

His face fell, lips going down at their corners.

I stepped in, wrapped my arms around him, and pulled him close, hugging him tight. The sobs came so hard his whole body shook. Then his weight shifted, his legs going weak. I had him. I had him, and I wasn’t letting go. I marched him backward and kicked the door closed. His body heaved, racked by sobs. He said something, over and over, but it was muffled by my coat.

“I’ve got you,” I whispered into his damp hair. “It’s going to be alright. I’ve got you.”

Something terrible had happened, that much was obvious.

He had his bags out on the bed, clothes thrown at them in no real order. The apartment was in disarray, the same as he was.

I walked him to the bed and sat with him. When the sobs eased and he let me go, I pulled off my coat, hung it by the door, and quickly returned to his side. He sat motionless, head down, staring at the floor. Not reacting. Not talking. As though all the laughter and life had been pulled out of him, leaving an empty shell behind.

Whatever was going on, it was devastating enough for him to contemplate leaving.

Was it my father?

It was possible.

Had the committee already been in contact with him? Told him his time at Sapporo was over?