Page 17

Nicko, October 28th

T here’s someone in bed with me.

A warm body is pressed against my back, a pair of arms wrapped around my middle. My first thought goes to Nate, even when I already know it’s not him. I will recognize my brother’s presence until my last breath, and while familiar, it isn’t his.

Then, for a horrible second, I think back to last night. Hart’s mouth smashing against mine in a frenzy, my hands pulling on his collar to drag him down.

Oh no. No!

Please, don’t let this be Hart. I will donate a part of my signing bonus to a good cause and start saying my evening prayers again, just, please not Hart!

The person next to me stirs as I try to wiggle out of the embrace, carefully feeling around. I’m still wearing a shirt and underwear, so that’s a huge relief. I try to lift my head next and immediately regret it when lightning bolts pierce my brain. A low whine escapes me and I sink back onto the pillow. Bright spots dance on the inside of my lids as I try to figure out where I am or what happened after I left the party.

There’s more rustling from beside me, followed by a yawn.

“Nicko?” Linden’s voice whispers, and I relax.

Thank God!

“Nicko?” he says again, and I groan to indicate that I’m alive. My mouth tastes like rotten pumpkin and bad decisions. I hope it wasn’t like that when Hart kissed me last night. The guy may think I’m a raging asshole, but I want to be remembered as an asshole with excellent dental hygiene.

“Are you alright?” Linden’s face looms right before my eyes when I open them. I give him a gentle push so he won’t be gassed by my terrible morning breath.

“No.”

I try to act dignified, but my movements are rather pitiful when I finally manage to sit up and survey my surroundings. I’m in my own bed. The only bed in the room. No second desk, no second dresser.

There is, however, a lot of evidence that my brother occupied this space for two weeks: half of my closet is strewn across the room; shirts are flung over the chair; discarded underwear piles up in one corner; and a single sock is used as a bookmark in Keeping Noah , which has somehow found its way up here.

“Do you need to throw up again?” Linden looks at me with a deep frown. His light hair is sticking up in all directions, undermining the authority he’s trying to convey.

I wordlessly shake my head, then clear my throat.

“How did I get here? And why are you in bed with me? I thought we agreed we’re not that kind of friends.” I add the last part with a small grin, which predictably causes my friend’s cheeks to flush bright red.

“Asshole! After Micah carried you up here, someone had to make sure you wouldn’t suffocate on your own puke,” he grumbles, giving me a light shove.

I cringe at the thought of my roommate carrying me. The last memory I have is of Mr. Skullyngton and–

“Nate?” I ask, and Linden’s face darkens immediately.

“We thought he really overstayed his welcome last night.”

***

The smell of fresh pancakes and melted sugar greets me when I enter the kitchen half an hour later. The shower has restored some of my will to live, and my stomach rumbles in happy anticipation of real and homemade food—although I’m not sure it can be trusted just yet.

“You don’t deserve friends like us,” Oliver informs me happily as he puts a Tylenol next to my water glass. I glance wistfully at his steaming mug, which earns me a look of disapproval. “No taking medicine with coffee.”

“I know,” I sigh, which, honestly, is an answer to both.

“So, don’t you have anything to say to us?” he prompts, after we have loaded our plates with pancakes. It’s a game day for the other three, so I should probably be relieved there’s a limited audience for this, but I still groan.

“You already know.”

“That you lied to us? Allowed a complete stranger to live under our roof for two weeks? Yes, we do know that by now,“ Oliver huffs and I duck. It sure doesn’t sound good when he phrases it like that.

“Nate isn’t a stranger,” Linden interjects, putting a calming hand on Oliver’s elbow. “He even fought a bunch of frat bros for you!”

“Should have known he got in trouble because of you,” I groan, which has Oliver narrowing his eyes at me.

“First of all, we’re discussing Nicko’s wrongdoings and not mine. And second, it’s not my fault that B-Tech’s frats think homophobia still looks cute on men these days.”

I bite the inside of my cheek at that. This. This is why I don’t do social media posts or home stories.

“But you’re okay? They didn’t... touch you or anything?”

“I’m fine, your brother went all knight in shining armor—it was actually adorable, until one of them punched him in the face. Now that I think about it, he might be my favorite twin.”

The thought of someone punching Nate makes my skin crawl. Gripping my fork tightly, I stuff a piece of pancake into my mouth to prevent any dumb comments from tumbling out.

Oliver doesn’t have any fault in this. I just wish these things would be nothing more than stories old people tell about their past. Not a real threat.

“I also introduced him to romance books. That should have tipped me off,” Oliver muses as he empties half a bottle of syrup onto his stack of pancakes.

“Sounds like he tried real hard to replace me,” I grumble.

“It’s not funny, you two! What the fuck were you even trying to achieve with this?!” Linden huffs.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I...Nate came down with that stomach bug, and he had an important game on the weekend. Don’t look at me like that! I mean a really important game. As in ‘scouts were going to be in the stands’ important!”

Linden and Oliver are giving me a skeptical look, and I sigh. I knew they wouldn’t understand—they both have their life figured out already and don’t plan on going pro in their chosen sport. They’ll both be doctors, Linden preferring animal patients over humans, and Oliver will probably have the time of his life terrorizing a whole hospital with cheesy quotes from gay romance novels.

They don’t know what it’s like to be drafted in the third round, where statistically most players don’t make it to the NHL. They don’t know how hard Nate worked for this. Hell, until a few days ago, I didn’t know either! I wasn’t aware he took runs at the asscrack of dawn or stayed for extra drills with Hart after training. I also assumed he went the easy path, picking a literature major, until I got stuck with his reading assignments. Having all of that taken away just because he missed his chance to prove himself in front of the right people is not fair.

“But that’s forbidden , Nicko. You two could get into so much trouble!” Linden looks seriously worried, like he thinks I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. Only that I told the same to Nate—just to betray my words with my actions. And I would love to say I did it all for him, but there’s a quiet voice in my head reminding me of what it took to finally agree to this.

I think by now we would be better off without him.

He’s just not playing the same anymore, you know?

Devils’ left wing Jacques Autin expected to join Rebels in two-for-one trade.

Then quit.

The words are echoing in my mind as I chew on my pancake. The treat has suddenly turned into a piece of old gum in my mouth, rubbery and almost impossible to swallow.

“I’m pretty sure Nicko is aware of that,” Oliver says dryly.

“But why do it then?! I mean, it won’t help Nate if the Pioneers think he’s a better player than he actually is!”

“He’s not bad!” I protest.

“I never said that. But he’s not you , Nicko. He doesn’t do this thing where he flips the puck up with his stick and then slaps it right past the goalie like a...a…“ Linden flaps his hands in search of words.

“Like an ice sniper on skates,” Oliver provides helpfully, taking his chance to dip into the chocolate spread on Linden’s plate.

“Ice sniper,” I snort, but my cheeks flush from the compliment. Except for Sasha, my roommates don’t know the first thing about hockey. Yet they show up to my games, trying to understand what’s going on.

“Well. Unlike me, Nate comes with two healthy knees.”

This time it’s Oliver who throws his hands up with a big groan. “That again.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you sound like a broken record, Nicholas! For the past year we have put up with your moping because yes, what happened to you sucked. It was unfair, you were scared for your career, all of that. But it’s not our fault. And most of all—it’s over! Put it behind you, man.”

“Oliver,” Linden warns, grabbing his elbow, but my words already drown him out.

“You have no idea what it’s like!”

I’m seething. Put it behind me? He makes it sound like I just lost a tooth on the ice—annoying but replaceable. In reality I’d lain awake in my hospital bed at night, staring at the sterile walls and wondering if I was watching my career burn before it began. Even now, months later, the fear creeps up on me every time a muscle in my legs jumps unexpectedly.

What if it happens again? Can they fix it a second time? A third if they had to?

“No, I do not,” Oliver juts his chin out. “But other athletes do. There’s hundreds of people going through the same thing every year, Nicko! You’re neither the first nor the only player to ever tear his ligaments. Your injury wasn’t career ending; the problem is up here .”

I stare speechlessly at Oliver as he reaches across the table to tap my forehead. It takes me a second to react before I slap his hand away.

“Oh yeah? If it’s just me being paranoid, why did Coach pull me from my starting spot? You think the Rebels will sign a fourth liner with a medical history?!” I hiss at him. My fork is shaking between my fingers so I forcefully put it down onto the plate. The loud clunk it makes as it lands rings in my ears.

“Have you ever thought about the fact that it wasn’t meant to punish you? Maybe he was just giving you time to get back in the game.”

“I didn’t need time! I–”

“Well damn, he should be sorry then, for trusting his experience instead of letting a twenty-two-year-old brat make major decisions for his hockey team!”

That’s it; I’m done here.

I get out of my seat so abruptly; it causes the chair to topple over. My pancake isn’t even half-eaten, and my head still throbs like Hart’s horrible music is locked up in my brain, but I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t just sit here with Oliver flinging one barb after the other at me, backing me into a corner I don’t want to be in.

They don’t understand that my draft spot won’t mean shit if I don’t get to sign that contract. They don’t understand that I can’t just pick any other career out there.

Because I don’t want any other career! I want to be on the ice. I want to play in those big arenas and clash with huge D-men on the blue line.

I want to do it again and again and again until I’m a fucking grandpa and have a room full of Stanley Cups and awards. I want to play with the best, and I would still want to do it if they didn’t pay me a single fucking cent for it. If hockey gets taken from me, I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself.

These past two weeks have been the first time in months where I didn’t think about contracts and surgeries whenever I stepped onto the ice. Suddenly it wasn’t about saving my own career but Nate’s, and somehow that made everything so much easier.

But that’s over now. I’m Nicko again. Nicko, who is just some left winger on fourth line, in a team that thinks he’s still broken.

I think by now we would be better off without him.

If it’s just in my head then why would they want to get rid of me? I would love to ask Oliver that, but I’m too scared to say those words out loud and let him know how pathetic I really am.

So instead of talking, I do the only thing that has worked for me in the past weeks—turning to run away.

“Nicko, wait!” Linden calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs.