Page 16

Nicko, October 27th

I only stop when my lungs burn and my muscles cramp from exhaustion; leaning against a lamp post, I gasp for air. The cool night winds make me shiver in Nate’s jersey.

I clearly wasn’t thinking when I high-tailed it out of the party without a jacket, definitely too drunk to drive. Running in the rain has helped to clear my head, but my stomach growls in protest. I should have never drunk this much.

I should have never kissed Alexander Hart!

I groan when the memory I tried to outrun catches up with me.

“Fuck!” I curse as I bury both of my hands in my wet hair, turning in a slow circle—although I have to stop a moment later, when the booze is attempting to climb up my throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I expect someone to shout at me out of their window—I almost hope for it, since that would help me redirect my anger—but everything stays quiet inside the small houses around me.

“FUCK!” I yell louder this time, just for good measure. There’s a rustling in the nearby trees, then a bird flees the scene, fed up with the drunken college kid disturbing its sleep.

Oh God, I kissed Alexander Hart. Or, technically, he kissed me, but then my brain malfunctioned when I smelled his stupid store-brand citrus shampoo, and his stupid stubbled jaw brushed my cheek, and my hand pressed against his stupidly broad chest, because there is no other logical explanation for why I kissed him back.

I. Kissed. Him. Back.

I kissed the guy I almost got canceled over during freshman year. The Alexander Hart, who is going to be my teammate should the Rebels still want me.

The fucking idiot who…thinks I’m my twin brother.

“Oh, God,” I whimper as I realize the full consequences of my actions. Nate will probably be able to blame temporary insanity due to after-game adrenaline and alcohol, but I don’t have the slightest clue how I will explain this to my brother, let alone survive another night in the room Hart and I share.

I just want to go home and be done with this. Switching places was a terrible idea. We’re not fifteen anymore, and I should have known better than to go along with it!

Yet, even as I lean forward in a sudden fit of nausea and puke my guts out in the rose bushes of a well-manicured front yard, I don’t find any regret inside of me. Not about the games and not about one single goal I scored in all of them.

I am so fucked.

***

It takes me three tries to find an Uber who is willing to let me into their car in my soaked and shivering state. The driver doesn’t comment on my swaying form, but he rolls the windows all the way down, and I can tell by the nervous glances that he’s probably worried about his interior. I want to reassure him that I already vomited half my brains out, but my teeth won’t stop clattering as he navigates the dark streets to get me home.

Soft lights shine from behind our windows when the driver stops in front of the Nook. They’re giving the Halloween decorations an eerie glow as I carefully make my way up the front stairs. I would have preferred to sneak inside with everyone in bed, but it’s not even midnight yet. I spend a minute patting down my pockets, already freaking out about having lost my keys when I realize they’re inside. With Nate.

Fuck. My. Life.

With a heavy thump I sit on the first step of the front porch, too tired to round the house and look for an open window. My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and I’m trembling all over—drunk or not, I at least know this is not the right condition to attempt and climb the downspout. Still, I can’t bring myself to ring the doorbell or call Nate.

There’s another gust of wind, and I hike up my shoulders as the decorations rattle above my head. One of the plastic skeletons gets loose from its strings, crashing onto the wooden floor. Fake bones fly off in all directions.

Transfixed, I watch as the skull lands right next to me before rolling down the steps one by one, disappearing in the dark. Shrieks and laughter come from inside the house, and I realize too late that someone entered the hallway. Before I can move a single muscle, the door swings open and bright light illuminates my sad figure.

“Mr. Skullyngton crashed! Hey, who wants to name and sort all 206 bones with m– oh, hello there!”

I squint up at Oliver looming above me in a bathrobe. His usually dark hair is dyed a yellowish blonde, sticking out in all directions.

“What’s with your hair?” I ask, frowning when my words come out a lot more slurred than they sound in my own head.

“Oh my, you’re drunk,” he tells me with a raised brow before turning toward the house again. “NICKO! Your prettier version is sitting outside.”

I feel ridiculously smug about how he accidentally called me prettier than Nate. “ I’m Nicko!” I laugh, then scowl again when it comes out as “‘mmm Nicko!”

Something is wrong with my mouth. Or my brain? Kissing Hart must have killed a few cells up there.

“There’s no prettier version of me.”

I hear Nate’s laughter, and it causes a weird mixture of relief and panic inside of me. In a second this will all be over, and I will have my life back. I can be Nicko again, who sits unbothered in his biology classes and doesn’t have to think about his life goals. Nicko, who technically never kissed Alexander Hart.

But also Nicko, who secretly did kiss Alexander Hart, and who’s going to play left wing on fourth line again, because no one knows he scored three times in the last two games.

I reach for the handrail to heave myself into a standing position, but the moment I do that, everything lurches and I stumble sideways.

Two hands are reaching for me, and just the pressure on my back is enough to identify them as Nate’s. I don’t need to see him in order to recognize his presence, strong and unwavering and familiar.

“NICKO!” he shrieks, and I grimace because I’m a bit tipsy, not deaf. But just before I can tell him off, everything lurches again.

I really thought I emptied myself of all the Jell-o shots and pumpkin beer, but I’m proven wrong in the most painful way as it shoots up my throat and pours all over the sad remains of Mr. Skullyngton.