Page 11

Nicko, October 21st

I ’m surfing on a crowd of hands.

They are sneaking between my pads and digging into my ribs. My ass is grabbed a few times, but I don’t care one bit as I'm being thrown in the air and then caught again and again and again. My stomach flip-flops with nerves every time, but the arms around me are strong and steady.

The Grizzlies have long since left the ice, but the small green corner is still going wild, banging their fists against the glass and hollering from the top of their lungs. It takes a moment for me to make out real words, snorting when I finally get it:

“Van der Hart! Van der Hart!”

Each word is punctuated with a synchronized clap of hands, the sound echoing in the now almost empty arena. Yet my heartbeat still drowns it all out, the adrenaline of playing and winning still chasing through my veins.

There’s a replay of my goal filling out the big screen, and the crowd goes absolutely nuts all over again when Hart passes me the puck with razor-like precision. Even though I know what’s going to happen next, I’m still surprised when I watch it land perfectly on my stick. The replay slows down to show me flip the puck upward just to smash it into the upper left corner a moment later. The faces of the D-men are frozen in shock.

It doesn’t matter that this Nicko is wearing a dark green jersey with a bat on the front and the number 17 on the back—I know it’s me.

I did that.

My first goal in a game since last December, and it feels so fucking good. Those Pioneers better scout the shit out of me after this game!

Or, well, out of Nate.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Hart laughs as he comes to a halt next to me. I am on solid ice again, my head tilted back to watch our second goal. This time I gave the assist and Hart took it in stride, hammering the puck into the net with full force.

It’s a beautiful goal and a damn nice assist. Man, I hope Adridge sees that clip—it would knock him right onto his pale pimpled ass.

For a small moment, I’m almost sad I didn’t play against my own team, just to shake that thought off quickly. They’re good guys, even when I didn’t click with them over the past few weeks.

But it’s really hard to miss them when Taylor bumps into my back, slinging an arm around me and yelling into my ear: “Hoff, you legend!”

***

“How’s your knee?”

Hart flops into the seat beside me. The whole team has gotten out of their suits and into comfortable clothes for the bus ride, so right now his black hair, still wet from the shower, is peeking out from under his hoodie. He brushes the longer strands off of his forehead, and a few droplets land on the pages of the book I have opened in my lap.

I don’t feel like reading. Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I cracked open a book. But Nate constantly buries his nose in one of these, so I randomly picked one off of his bookshelf.

“It’s okay,” I tell him as I wipe down the page with the sleeve of Nate’s SBU hoodie. It was tricky to divert the guys’ attention from my knee, since everyone kept asking about it after my fall. It bruised up pretty heavily—which actually helps to hide the surgery scars at first glance—but it’s not swollen, so I guess I was lucky. Overall, I expected more discomfort, due to how much ice time I saw this game.

“That’s good,” he hums as he pulls out some school books and a writing pad.

I go back to pretend-reading the book, but Hart doesn’t move. I glance over as I feel his eyes hover on me, the blue seeming brighter in the dim light of the bus.

“What is it?” I ask, consciously softening my voice. I’m very aware of the fact that things are tense between us. I acted uncharacteristically yesterday, not only for my brother but also for myself. It was a panic reaction, born from the stress of the situation and also the fear of getting discovered. My brother is a touchy guy, and I saw him hug Hart countless times in the past. I should have known that keeping my distance would alert Hart to the fact that something is different about his best friend.

Right now, he looks like a puppy that's trying to get picked up from the shelter. It’s a weird appearance for a big guy like him.

“We’re good, right?” he wants to know, fiddling with the pen in his hand. If he were anyone else, this would probably be adorable.

“Yeah, Xan,” I sigh, suppressing a grimace at the nickname. It feels odd in my mouth, like I’m not allowed to call him that.

“We’re good.”

***

I can’t feel my right arm.

About an hour into the bus ride, Hart has fallen asleep over his school work. I’ve long ago given up on Nate’s book, just sitting there motionless, since Hart’s head has dropped onto my shoulder. Every muscle in my right side is cramping from the tension as I try to hold my breath and not move.

I already attempted to gently push him off, but he’s out like a light, and shoving him would probably betray my promise about things being right between us.

The bus has quieted down around us; most of the others have dimmed the lights and are dozing while the coaches quietly recap the game in the front seats.

Carefully, very carefully, I reach for my phone.

I’ve already seen that my team lost another game. I’m not happy about it, but there is a small and ugly part inside of me that is relieved that they couldn’t win without me.

Nate’s phone is blowing up with text messages and Instagram notifications. Most seem to be congratulations about his big win, but I barely recognize a name. There’s one from each of our parents, telling him how well he played.

I feel my neck tingling with unease. There’s no one else in this world who has seen us play more games than our parents. If anyone would be aware of our different styles and techniques, it should be the two former pros who taught us. But then I remember dad was invited to comment on a Dutch sports event this weekend. It was also a game day for the Brown’s women’s team, so chances are they only read about my goal.

Just as I thanked them both with the characteristic abundance of emojis my brother uses, my own name pops up on the screen, followed by only two words.

Good game.

I stare down at the cell, wondering if Nate is somehow angry with me or trying to imitate me. If our roles were reserved, that would be my go-to message, but at the moment it feels a little underwhelming.

Just as I question myself, the little dots start dancing in the bottom left corner, indicating that he’s typing again.

And a very nice goal!

Who taught you that shot? ;)

I grin as my fingers fly over the keys.

Definitely not my lame-ass brother!

Pah.

Speaking of ass…

I frown at that change of topic, confused about what will come next, when suddenly the picture of a naked ass blows up on the screen. I jump in my seat in surprise, my sudden movement causing Hart to stir in his sleep. There’s a soft sigh leaving his lips, then he turns his head to bury his face against my shoulder.

I catch a whiff of his shampoo as he moves, a generic citrusy smell. It fits him and the image he’s trying to portray of himself—solid and predictable.

For a moment I hold my breath, biting the inside of my cheek, and once more resist the urge to throw him off. The moment he opens his eyes, I will fucking kick him into the aisle. I silently count to thirty and when nothing happens, I carefully tilt the cell again to peek at the screen. With a few taps, I delete the incriminating image.

HAVE YOU LOST YOUR LAST brAIN CELL?! WHAT WAS THAT??

I should be the one asking all those questions!

When did you plan on introducing us?

I stare at the phone, completely dumbfounded and taking a good minute until the penny drops. With a groan I rub a hand over my face, my cheeks burning under my fingertips.

Considering my brother’s poor math skills, it was probably just a matter of time until Nate would figure out I was hiding Grindr behind the appearance of a calculator app.

Never.

That’s not very nice of you. I always introduce you to all my girlfriends!

Oh yes lucky me

Fuck you! You have a dozen pics of this guy’s dick and you didn’t even plan on telling me you were seeing someone?!

JFC calm DOWN

I’m not SEEING him

I tried to set you up with Ava last semester!

Who?

The Kappa Tau girl from my study group? Black hair, blue eyes, nice curves?

Ah

Yes and it was horrible

I am hurt.

Wounded!

I suppress another groan. This is exactly the reason why I don’t talk to Nate about my dating life. First, aside from some Grindr chats, it’s basically nonexistent. And second, he always adds an extra-large spoon of drama to everything.

It’s hard for Nate to understand that not everyone operates like him. That not everyone throws his heart out there so freely, unafraid to get attached and then dumped or ridiculed.

Well, you have a date next week.

WHAT???

NO!

Wait

WITH WHOM?!

With Michael. He’s a really funny guy!

Who’s michael

Are you kidding me, Nicky?! The guy in the picture! With that fine ass?!

I tilt my head back and groan, throwing my cell into my lap so I can massage my temples. I probably should have seen this coming from a mile away. Nate is the type of guy who can’t be single for long, so obviously he has tried to push guys and girls on me from the moment I came out as bisexual to him. Worst of all, I know he has good intentions, probably being very proud of himself right now for securing his hermit brother a date with the guy I only know as big_teddy_m .

Didn’t know his name was michael

Of course you didn’t. You only treated him as jerk-off material so far!

That’s not true!

I immediately regret my words, but before I can try and delete the message, my brother is already typing again:

Oh yeah?

A moment later an onslaught of pictures is filling up my screen again, all of them trusted favorites from our chat history. Even though I have never seen big_teddy_m’s face, he wasn’t exactly shy about advertising his other features.

The one with the bulge in low riding sweatpants—explicit but still leaving the best part to the imagination—is one I come back to especially often. Right now, I’m scrambling for the delete button.

“What are you doing?”

I let out an embarrassing squeak at the low rumble. Next to me, Hart snorts as I press a hand onto my mouth. Some of the guys curse in our direction, but thankfully none of them bothers to raise their heads.

“Asshole!” I hiss at him.

Hart only chuckles, his voice rough from sleep. The sound makes the fine hairs on my underarm stand and I shudder in my seat, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie further down.

“Why are you checking out guys online?”

Okay, so he saw. Great. Just fucking great. Nate, you stupid idiot.

“I wasn’t! Nicko sent those to me.” I grind my molars as I stare down at the locked screen, silently cursing my brother. “He’s talking to this guy on Grindr and–”

“Your brother is on Grindr? ”

I wince when he says the last part loud enough for some heads to raise around us. The sleepiness is gone now, and Hart is sitting up straight in his seat.

“Why wouldn’t he be?” I huff defensively, just as Taylor is turning around in front of us.

“Who’s on Grindr?”

“Van der Second,” Hart provides flippantly, my stomach clenching at the nickname. I fucking hate it when he calls me that. It makes me feel interchangeable, like in his eyes I’m the cheaper version of a product. I really wish he knew he capitalized on the spare’s work today.

“Yo, your brother’s gay?”

I hold my breath, my knuckles turning white from how tightly I grip Nate’s phone as I brace for a snarky comment. That’s all, though; nothing more is coming as Taylor blinks at me in question.

“He’s bi,” I answer hesitantly. My sexuality isn’t a secret—and yet I’m not fully out, either. I never planned to get stuck halfway in the closet, one foot out the door, the rest trapped inside. But unlike Hart, who never shuts the fuck up about it and uses every chance he gets to advocate , I also don’t want to blow it up into a big thing.

I always figured I would deal with this once it really mattered—if I ever meet a guy I plan on introducing to my family. I don’t want everyone to focus on my private life instead of my game. I don’t want teams to shy away from signing me just because they’re afraid I might date a man one day and stir up a big media circus.

“Uhm. Okay. But he’s not out?”

Taylor puts his chin onto the backrest of his seat, apparently settling in for a conversation.

I gnaw on my lower lip as I try to come up with the right answer to this question. This is so awkward—talking about my sexuality from my brother’s point of view while two pairs of eyes are resting on me. The worst thing about this is that I know Nate would have done a better job of it.

“Well…” I draw out the word to stall for more time. “He’s not firmly in the closet. It’s more like...sort of an open secret? Like who knows, just knows? But he doesn’t want it to become…” I gesture with my hands, as if that will help me find the words I need.

“But he doesn’t want to be featured in a media special of his future NHL team about LGBTQIA+ athletes,” Hart jumps in. There’s a note of bitterness in his voice and I flinch.

This again.

“Everyone has the right to come out on their own time,” I quote Hart’s social media posts, but the words sound hollow and empty. My heart is thumping so heavily in my chest, I feel light-headed. I don’t want to talk about any of this. Not as Nicko and not as Nate, either.

“Sure. But no one has the right to portray another player’s coming out as a popularity campaign,” Hart argues. His words are calm, but I can see the muscle in his jaw tick as I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. For a moment, my gaze lingers on the sharp outline, trailing it to his neck, before jerking my head in the other direction.

Only that’s what it was , I want to tell him. You sold yourself out to save the Rebels’ asses and you still don’t get it!

I can’t say any of that, obviously, so I settle for a soft, “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“In that interview on campus radio, you mean? It kinda sounded like he did,” Taylor comments, before turning toward Hart. “You don’t seem surprised by this. Did you know he was bi?”

I can feel Hart’s eyes on me before he gives a hesitant nod. “Yeah, Nate told me when we met in freshman year.”

“I thought knowing that about him would make you more comfortable. You were so awkward around me at first,” I grumble. It feels weird to speak for my brother in this way even when I know his intentions.

“Aw, that’s so cute,” Taylor coos the same moment Hart tells me, “You shouldn’t have done that. I’m sure your brother didn’t want me to know.”

“I know, I know,” I roll my eyes. “But Nicko forgave me.” Which is true. Nate did feel bad about outing me in front of his roommate without my consent, and I begrudgingly have to admit that Hart never abused that knowledge.

“But if you knew, why didn’t you call him out during the interview then?” Taylor asks curiously.

“Outing someone live on air is a horrible thing to do, don’t you think? I would’ve been worse than him then,” Hart points out.

Taylor weighs his head, considering that for a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he says with a sigh before reaching out to lightly punch Hart’s shoulder. “But hey, if you’re lucky, they’ll drop him over his injury. And with how Nate’s been playing today, the Rebels should think about signing him instead!”