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ALDER

There’s blood on the ice. Is it mine? I drop my stick and pat myself uselessly—no pain. I’m aware that the ref has stopped the game, probably due to the blood. I glance at my brother Gunnar in the goal. He’s swigging water from his bottle, helmet off, and his face is tight.

Where’s my twin?

Last thing I knew, I was shouldering some Montreal asshole into the boards, snatching the puck from him, and sending it to Tucker. Without looking, obviously, because I never need to look with Tuck.

That twin connection? I swear it’s real.

I shove my way toward the refs, aware that one is whistling for the medical team. I see a pair of legs wiggling on the ice. Whoever it is, they’re sitting up. A few fingers of the fist around my heart loosen up.

I shove closer and freeze. I clutch my face, seeing my twin bleeding from the mouth.

Tuck’s blond hair is dark with sweat, and the electric blue eyes that mirror mine are filled with fear.

As I meet his electric blue eyes, he stops groaning.

I try to get closer to him as our new dentist approaches him in purple gloves.

She’s got a light strapped to her forehead, and people are all around her holding supplies .

I skate closer to my brother and watch him spit a tooth into her hand. He looks up at me and grins, missing one of his choppers. I bring a hand to my scruff-covered jaw and have to look away.

Someone gives me a water bottle, and I squirt it into my mouth while glancing at the big screen above center ice. The arena blasts music, and fans dance and apparently kiss. Yep. There goes the kiss cam.

Predictably, it scans over to the Partners and Wives section, where my older brother’s girl blows a big kiss to Gunnar.

They’re so in love it’s almost gross. Like one of those exaggerated relationships in the Fae smut books the women in my family keep talking about.

The crowd freaking loves it when Em and Gunnar act all swoony.

I glance back at Tuck, but he still has a mouth full of dentist hands—Lena’s hands. She’s more than capable of managing him right now.

I chug some more water, and my eye is drawn to the jumbo screen again. My boyfriend is here today. Adam wouldn’t sit with the PAWs, but I got him tickets right off the ice, near the team tunnel.

Am I jealous that the camera isn’t panning to him, and he’s not blowing me a kiss?

Yeah. I’m fucking jealous. But after the barbecue incident, I'm also grateful he showed up.

My family hates that Adam won't commit to me in any meaningful way.

They all want me to end things with him, but none of them has ever navigated dating outside the hetero norm.

Adam says he's not ready to be out with a celebrity.

I have to respect that, especially now when I might have seriously damaged his career with my big mouth.

I sigh as the kiss camera hovers on a pair of dudes making out. They’re receiving just as much applause as all the straight folks. I raise my fist to join in the whooping when I notice something familiar about one guy’s dark hair.

I stare at the screen, realization growing that I recognize the scruffy stubble, the collared shirt, and the hairy hand clutching the second dude’s face like he can’t bear not to be touching his lover.

Because that’s Adam making out with Brad Reid, the guy I met last month at a barbecue at Coach’s house. The same guy who was so bored and judgmental he couldn’t even pretend to be proud of his girlfriend–the pretty dentist with her hands in my brother’s mouth.

This isn't random.

The calculated look Adam flashes toward the camera tells me everything I need to know. After the PR disaster I caused him at the barbecue, he's making sure I feel the same public humiliation. He wanted me to see this; he wanted everyone to see this.

I look over to Lena, who glances up from Tucker right at that moment. Our eyes meet, and I tilt my head toward the screen. Then I watch her notice.

This is really too much. Our boyfriends are sucking face at my playoff game while my twin gets treated for dental trauma.

The longer I stare at the screen, the more I realize people are staring at me. I glance at the goal and see Gunnar wearing a pained expression. He mouths something to me. What?

I dropped my gloves and helmet at some point while a bunch of cameras are flashing at me. The video feed on the Jumbotron is frozen, Adam’s illicit kiss highlighted in 800 square feet of bright pixels.

I grab my hair, tugging and trying to understand what’s happening here.

At some point, an arm drapes over my shoulders. I try to punch it away, but I see it’s Tucker. He’s got bloody gauze in his mouth as he rests his forehead against mine.

“Bro.” His word is garbled. “Thith thuckth.”

Cappy skates over and hands Tuck his helmet, which he secures back onto his head. Banksy has my helmet and shakes my shoulders. “Come on, A-Stag. We’ve got a game to win.”

Are they serious? Are they really going to carry on right now?

Of course, they are. Tucker can deal with his tooth later. Nobody cancels a pro hockey game over something as insignificant as a lost tooth, and they certainly don’t stop when their bisexual defender sees his boyfriend cheating on him in front of 18,000 people.

I’m barely aware of the whistle-blowing to restart the game. I hear the puck hit the ice and the slap of Cappy's stick as he sends it up to Banksy.

I’m vaguely aware that Montreal gets control, and their winger is blasting toward me. I try to focus, but my legs feel like goo.

By the time I spring into action, chasing him down, it’s too late. He’s past me. He’s past Tucker. And the puck is in the back of the net, past Gunnar’s outstretched glove.

We lost.

Our season is over, and it’s my fault.