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Xander, Freshman year, June 28th

T here’s a click in my ear and then a cheerful jingle. Behind a glass wall someone holds up three fingers, two, one–

“And we’re back for one last Slice of Campus Life before summer. Whether you’re a techie Badger or a distinguished Bat, we hope you’ll have a great break! Today at College Radio 4 we welcome two of our most recent student-body celebrities. Here are Alexander Hart and Nicholas van der Hoff. Say hi, guys!”

I swallow and try to force my voice to come out steady, but I can barely hear myself through the thick headphones they have us wearing in the cramped studio.

“Hi,” I emit shakily, but the word has already left my mouth, so there’s nothing I can do to change my first impression. I still clear my throat, hoping to ease the way for the rest of the conversation.

Next to me, Van der Hoff nods, then he seems to remember that he actually needs to say something out loud since no one will see this interview.

“Hello,” he manages.

The host gives both of us an encouraging smile. He’s a senior, as are most of the people sitting in the mixing booth behind the glass divider. I only recognize a few of them. No wonder, seeing as there are students from both universities: St. Bernard’s and Bonham Tech.

Even as a freshman, I haven’t felt this young in a while.

“So tell us a bit about yourselves,” the guy sitting across from us says cheerfully, and I heave a sigh. This feels like sitting in a circle at those get-togethers in the first week of college. It plucks on my nerves, but at least I have an answer prepared from all the other times I had to introduce myself: to my classmates, my roommates in the dorm, my new team.

“I’ll start?” I throw a glance over at the blond sitting next to me and receive only a one-shouldered shrug in response. I nod and continue: “Uh, okay...my name is Xander Hart, and I’m a freshman at St. Bernard’s. I moved here from Oregon and I’m–” I hesitate, drawing up my shoulders. “I study history.”

I turn to Van der Hoff next to me, giving him an encouraging smile. I hope I managed to break the ice for him.

“I’m Nicko and–”

“Oh, is that how you pronounce it?” The host interrupts, tilting his head curiously. “I thought it was Nico.”

“You’d be wrong then,” Van der Hoff says through gritted teeth. “It’s Nicko. Like knee and oval. ”

I tilt my head. It’s subtle, but the way Van der Hoff’s voice curls around the syllables does make it sound like two entirely different names.

“So I’m Nicko and I play hockey.”

The interviewer and I wait for a few blinks to see if he will continue with anything more substantial, but Van der Hoff just clenches his jaw.

I feel compelled to lean over and encourage him—because Nicholas van der Hoff has the same face as my best friend, Nate van der Hoff. I only see Nicholas when he’s visiting Nate in our cramped dorm room. Even with that limited insight into the second twin, I have come to realize that they’re very different people.

Whereas Nate would have had the entire studio in stitches with just a few sentences, his brother currently looks like he’s sitting at the dentist, getting his teeth pulled.

“And…and you’ve both been drafted to play for the New York Rebels, isn’t that right?” the interviewer finally asks to break the silence.

“Yes,” Van der Hoff dryly replies.

Surprised by his monosyllabic answers, I throw him another glance. Whenever Nicholas visits our dorm, he’s mostly quiet, but Nate always claims his brother is entirely different once you get to know him better, so I assumed he’d bring his A-game for the interview. Then again, I know Nate gets nervous before exams, chewing his fingernails down to the quick; maybe his twin is the same. I stretch out my leg to nudge him with my foot before leaning toward the mic.

“Yeah, once we’ve finished college, we’ll play in the NHL. I’ve been the twelfth overall draft. I play center, Van der Hoff plays right–”

“Left. I play left wing,” Hoff interrupts me, only to clam up again when I throw him a look, irritated that I have to find my flow again.

“We’re both really excited to have been picked. It’s a great opportunity to one day play for a team with so much history.”

“You’re rivals for now though. You play for the B-Tech Badgers, don’t you, Nicholas?” The host takes a moment to check the papers in front of him. He has a whole spreadsheet filled in with messy handwriting and colorful tabs. I wish I had taken him up on the offer to send me the questions beforehand.

“And I play for the St. Bernard Bats, that’s true,” I take the question when Van der Hoff merely nods. “But playing against each other can also teach you a lot about how someone plays.” I hope I sound diplomatic, because I have no idea what kind of player this Van der Hoff is.

I know Nate is a good player; he’s been my right wing since we both made the starting line-up of the Bats. Nicholas van der Hoff, though? No idea. While our teams face off regularly, I haven’t shared a lot of ice time with him. I don’t know if that will change when we’re playing on the same team. Where we’ll fit in, or whether they’ll even intend to use us.

It’s no question for me that I have to make it into the starting line. Hockey is an expensive sport, and I owe my success to my mothers, who moved heaven and earth so I could get to where I am today. I intend to pay them back tenfold.

“How did you feel meeting the team?” the host asks, breaking into my meandering thoughts.

I swallow, thinking back on the publicity event that took place with all the new drafts to show us the rink we might one day play at—and to encourage and scare us at the same time. Do well and you’ll make it here; don’t…then best be on your way. At least I imagine that was the intention behind it.

“It was…intimidating, of course, seeing people you only know from TV, meeting someone who is like…right where you want to be? Insane!” I manage a laugh as I rub my sweaty hands off on my jeans.

“But uh, they’re all really nice. Welcoming, even to us newbies, right?” Again I turn toward my future teammate, almost on reflex. I’ve only lived with Nate for a year, but he has become my best friend. By now it’s second nature to ask for his opinion, and I see no reason why his brother should be any different.

But the familiar face is drawn into a hostile frown. Because that’s not Nate, and his twin is outright glowering at me.

I blink a couple of times, then continue: “It can’t be easy for them either, since they’re inviting in someone completely new, which creates new dynamics, and you have to make room and accommodate different play styles…,” I raise a hand to underline my words and then quickly let it sink again, hurrying to finish my point. “In the end no one can say how a team will get along until they’re playing together.”

“Good answer! Let’s get into the nitty gritty now; how hard is it to get where you two are? To get drafted?”

I laugh, now truly overtaken by a bout of nervous energy. Clearly that’s what they wanted to ask from the beginning.

“Oh, it’s fu...dging hard.” I wince. God, I almost swore in a public interview! I hurry to move past my faux pas, feeling my neck tingle from where my mothers would have given me a gentle slap for my language.

“I mean, you have to constantly work on yourself, training every day, going to the gym at least four times a week,” I count the points off on my fingers, “and that’s on top of your classes and homework and papers…” I trail off with another laugh, lifting my hand to run it through my dark hair and almost pulling the headphones from my ears.

“But uh, I mean, it’s great to have caught the attention of a team like the Rebels. In the end they know talent when they see it.” God, I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m bragging, but I won’t fake modesty. I’m proud to be where I am. I worked so hard for it.

The host still hasn’t said anything to cut me off, so I keep talking: “Obviously, it can be a little easier if you have someone who introduces you to the right people. Someone who knows the right people in the first place. A parent who used to play or coaches, for example.”

I feel Van der Hoff stiffen next to me but think nothing of it. It’s no secret that Mrs. Van der Hoff coaches the women’s team at Brown University, or that her husband played in the NHL before he went into journalism.

“That can give you a huge advantage, because they’ll know how to get you ahead of other players.” I pause to take my hands back from their useless gesturing.

“My mothers, for example. They did their best, and I couldn’t be more grateful, but there was so much we had to figure out through trial and error. It made a lot of things harder than they probably needed to be. I mean, they hadn’t even watched a single hockey game before I started playing.”

The host laughs, and I manage something like a short chuckle.

“Wow, that’s a whole lot of thoughts!” he exclaims, and I flush, ducking my head. It’s been a big part of my childhood, worrying about not knowing something that everyone around me did. Because their parents taught them. Or because they grew up in a household that lived and breathed hockey. Ever since my parents died, I haven’t had that.

“Yeah, for a long time I got by because there were a lot of good people in the foster-care sports program who helped me and my moms figure it all out. I just...I think that someone who has players or even involved fans as parents has a much easier time figuring things out and making their way into the NHL.”

“At least I got my draft because of my skill, not as some marketing stunt.”

I blink, perplexed. After my lengthy monologue I had almost forgotten that I’m not alone on the show.

Van der Hoff clearly hasn’t. His green eyes pierce into mine as he leans forward to his own mic. My stomach twists, but before I can stop him the host is on this piece of information like a vulture.

“What do you mean, Nicholas?”

“It’s true that my parents both used to play professionally and my mother now coaches the women’s hockey team of Brown University,” Van der Hoff starts again. It feels like he’s gearing himself up on the other side of the line, just waiting for the puck to drop. “I learned everything I can from them, because who wouldn’t.” Finally, he looks away, over at the host.

“It is hard to get the attention of an NHL team, and it’s even harder to keep it. But it’s all about skill, not nepotism. My parents could teach me, but they didn’t play for me.” Hoff looks at me again, and I’m baffled by his anger and the volume of his words. I don’t know what I said that he would have taken personally.

“And I was picked for how I play rather than whether I can win someone brownie points on the diversity scale.“ Van der Hoff adds a splash of gasoline to the spark simmering in the recording booth.

“What are you implying?” Tension prickles under my skin. This is the most I have ever heard Nicholas van der Hoff say in one go, and I wish he would have kept his mouth shut.

“Oh, I mean that you had a very different interview a few weeks ago,” Van der Hoff’s green eyes glint viciously. “Isn’t that so?”

My cheeks burn, and now I’m glad that no one will see this. I look to the host, who is openly staring at Van der Hoff, and try to intervene: “We should get back to the topic–”

“No, wait. I want to hear this!”

Van der Hoff huffs. “I’m talking about the Pride special on Hart.”

I turn slowly, facing him head-on, consciously looking him over. The huge headphones make a few strands of light blond hair stick out on the right side of his head. I’ve never hated another person more than this guy right now, who’s bringing up my sexuality while we’re live on a radio talk show.

And he still keeps fucking talking. Like he needs to make up for being quiet earlier.

“Last year a bunch of NHL players planned a Pride Night charity event, but it all turned into a huge disaster when other players went full homophobe over it. There was a leaked video that went viral on social media,” Hoff explains to our uninformed host.

The memory of it churns my stomach and renders me mute, so he can go on uninterrupted. “And only two weeks later they drafted the one rookie who’s openly gay.”

“I was drafted like anyone else; Resnikoff had nothing to do with it!” I snap, shaking my head. The star player of the Rebels had been caught in a video calling those efforts of inclusivity a disgrace . I remember the words echoing all over social media as everyone added their opinion. But whatever side of Resnikoff was uncovered for the world to see had not come through the Rebels’ channels. They had reassured me of that.

Next to me, Van der Hoff rolls his eyes with a derisive snort. “If you really believe that, you’re an idiot.”

“Now that’s–” the host starts, but I cut him off with a growl.

“If you think that I get advantages for being openly gay then you’re the idiot!” The only person I’m aware of is Van der Hoff next to me, whose green eyes are glaring angrily.

“That isn’t…I can’t believe you’d let yourself get used like that, and then claim it actually supports some kind of cause? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“At least I’m not hiding who I am! I’d have killed to see someone like me stepping up when I was younger!” I take a breath, but I’m not done yet. “You’re jealous they spent all their time on me when they should have been focusing on you, is that it?”

We’ve both completely forgotten about the host. Cables twist and strain as I invade Van der Hoff’s personal space.

“So you can be the Van der Hoff everyone talks about? The big star?”

“You– That’s not– Shut up!”

“Oh yeah, that’s convincing,” I snort, shaking my head and pulling the headphones half off.

“You arrogant–”

We both wince at the same time as a shrill beep blares in our ears, suddenly ending our fight. I’m tearing the headphones off as fast as I can, pulling out a few dark hairs in the process.

Van der Hoff knocks his microphone over when he jumps up from his chair.

“Fucking asshole!” he spits, trying to get in my face, but when standing, I have a good few inches on him. That doesn’t stop him though. Even if he’s a dick Van der Hoff is a hockey player through and through. His fingers twist in my shirt and I grab his shoulders. My hip hits the edge of the desk as we grapple.

“Hey, hey! Stop!” The host tries to get up as well but gets tangled in all the wires on his side.

I hardly notice.

There’s only Van der Hoff trying to headbutt me. I do my best to jab my elbow in his side and trip him up until there are several hands and arms pulling us apart.

“Hockey players! It’s in their blood!” the host desperately shouts over us. The jingle sounds again, followed by the first chords of a song.

“That’s all for today! Tune in next time for A Slice of Campus Life! ”