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Nicko, October 22nd

I ’m half an hour away from getting my own life back.

The diner we agreed to meet in is still mostly empty when I arrive. I had to call an Uber instead of taking the car, because Nate is a scaredy-cat about driving in snow, and we had the lightest dusting of powdery flakes overnight. My heart squeezes with happiness when every step makes a soft crunching noise as I walk up to the entrance.

There’s something peaceful about the first snow, when the whole world stops in wonder to watch it fall.

The clock on the back wall shows it’s a few minutes past seven. The waitress, a curvy girl in her early twenties with cute curls framing her face, is still busy with starting the coffee machine. A neon sign behind her spells out “bats there’s no way around it as a student athlete. But it’s the first time someone actually complimented one of my goals outside of my team, let alone treated me to a coffee over it.

Most Tech students are far more excited about the football team.

“It was a beautiful goal,” Nate hums as he drops into the opposite seat. “Maybe you can make another one next week?”

I raise my brows at that, about to tell him that I plan on scoring two for the Badgers, when he pulls his hood back, effectively rendering me speechless.

I blink at the face that, stripped of fancy beauty products and contacts, should look exactly like mine. Only now, there’s a giant bruise adorning Nate’s left eye, the dark purple a stark contrast to his skin. The swelling hides his green iris almost completely, and for a moment I have the urge to reach out and brush my fingertips over it.

“What the fuck happened to you?” I ask, my stomach dropping as I take in the discoloration of his cheekbone.

Nate licks his split lip, then grins sheepishly before quipping, “Looks like you can enjoy your fame a little longer.”

I sink back into the booth as his implication hits me like a blueliner in front of an open net: I’m Nicko. But right now, I don’t look like it.

If I return to my life as planned, everyone will spot the difference right away. Hart will spot the difference right away, since the Nate he knows was completely unharmed when climbing into bed last night.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me,” I groan as I bury my face into my hands. My head is already racing with all the possible consequences of being trapped in my brother’s life: another week of missing out on my classes; another week of training and playing with the Bats instead of working on getting my spot back.

Another week of living with Hart.

“It’s just until the bruise has faded enough to cover it up,” Nate tries to reassure me, but I don’t want to hear any of it right now.

All I can think about is how fixing my own life becomes more and more unlikely.