Page 19

Nicko, October 30th

“ B ack from the dead, I see,” Coach greets me on the first day I step back on the ice with the Badgers. He says it with a raised brow and a slight edge to his tone that has me pull up my shoulders.

While Nate simply wasn’t able to play for me during the first week of our switch, I specifically asked him to sit out the second one. I didn’t want him to win my place back for me, even when the thought of him having to put up with Aldridge was tempting. Hence, he dragged the symptoms of his stomach flu out for longer than any student athlete would dare to do.

I barely manage a nod at the lingering question, causing my teammates to mutter quietly among themselves while we wait for the first instructions.

For a moment Coach regards me with a thoughtful look. There’s no visible anger displayed on his face, yet I shiver under my gear. He dismisses the rest of the team with a quick flick of his wrist, leaving the warm up to the assistant coaching staff, but raises his hand to keep me from following them.

“What am I supposed to do with you, Nicholas?” he asks with a sigh, and I shrink into myself. This is exactly what I feared would happen. Except for last year’s injury I’ve played through most of my medical conditions—be it a bruised rib or sprained ankle. Taking two weeks off for a supposed stomach flu is not just unusual for me, it’s outright stupid considering my current standing with the team.

Still, I can’t find it in me to regret keeping Nate from playing in my place.

Coach doesn’t seem like he actually expected an answer, he just lets out another long sigh.

“You know why I let you play on fourth line?” he asks, and I frown.

To punish me . The bitter answer is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it. I know he has to do what’s best for the team, but I can’t bring myself to say that, so I press my lips together in a tight line.

“To take away the spotlight. I’m not stupid, Nicholas. After an injury like that, everyone wants to see how the 7th overall draft pick plays, right? Your teammates, other teams, the school, the Rebels, they all want to see it,” he counts off on his fingers, and I flinch at each point.

“And with a bull-headed boy like you? No.” He shakes his head at whatever imaginary scenario he conjured up, then focuses back on me. “Were you even sick in the first place?”

The question is so unexpected, I take way too long for a convincing answer. I know what I’m supposed to say—swear up and down that I could barely stand on my own two feet, that I gagged on the smallest sip of water and basically slept in front of the toilet for days. But I’ve never been a good storyteller. My cheeks already heat from the unspoken lie, and I finally give the most subtle shake of my head.

“No.”

Coach groans and wipes a hand down his face at this. “You know telling a lie would make life easier for me, yes?” he curses, and for a second my lips twitch.

I quickly bite down on it, though, when he narrows his eyes at me. I almost expect him to go further, draw another conclusion, but Nate never entered the rink in my place, so there’s no reason for him to suspect our switch.

“I should suspend you from the team for this.”

I hold my breath, biting down hard on the inside of my cheek. A suspension would put a definite end to my career plans, right here and now. No more hopes of getting back my place, but also no more doubts. No more of the awful “will they, won’t they sign me.”

My heart beats in my throat as I wait for Coach’s final judgment like a prisoner facing the jury. I barely dare to take another breath until he groans and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You will be with Zollweg and Kristiansson today.”

“What?” I honestly think I must have misheard. Or maybe my mind is playing a cruel trick on me.

“Do not make me repeat my words, Nicholas, and do not think this is a reward. It is not. I will think of a punishment,” he warns, his eyes boring into me before he gestures toward my teammates. “Now go. Go! You give me a headache.”

I take off in such a hurry I almost stumble over my own two feet when Coach demands my attention one more time.

“Nicholas!” he calls out, and I reluctantly look back at him over my shoulder. I’m too shocked to feel relief right now, but I also don’t want to give him a chance to change his mind.

“Yes?”

“Before the next stomach flu comes on, you talk to me.” It’s worded more like an order than an offer, and I scramble for an answer.

“No. I mean, yes! I will! But it won’t be necessary. No more stomach flus. Or any kind of flus!” I promise hectically, but Coach has already skated off.

By the time we finish up training and return to the locker room, a new lineup has been taped to the flip chart.

***

I always meant to ask

When you stayed here

You brought your own mouthguard, right?

…

And cup?

:)

NICKO!

I snicker softly as I put my cell back onto the table, the screen facing downward so I won’t get tempted to pick it up again during lunch.

Across from me, Linden raises one of his fair brows. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” I answer quickly, shoulders raised in a half shrug, then grimace.

“Just something Nate said,” I add.

I don’t want my best friend to think that I’m keeping more secrets from him. Finding out about our swap hit Linden a lot harder than my other roommates, and not only because he’s worried about me ruining my own future.

Coming face to face with him at the dog pound and then lying to him about it really put a dent in our friendship. I know a simple apology won’t fix it, but it was a first step.

I’ve been back in my life for a week now, and over its course I’ve recounted every detail that happened during the swap to him—and dealt with his judgment. Based on their first meeting and our shared history, he isn’t the biggest fan of my drunken mistake with Hart, which is something we can agree on.

If anything good came out of this, it’s that we are spending a lot more time together. I didn’t even notice how far I withdrew from my friends until I came back to my eerily quiet room last week. It still costs me a lot of effort to linger around the living room in the evenings, trying to find my place in our little community again. I also had to realize that, despite living together for almost four months now, I barely know Marisol and Micah.

“Oh, I meant to tell you! Your brother was at the dog pound the other day. With that Hart guy.”

I focus so intensely on keeping my face neutral, it feels frozen in place.

“And?” I ask casually as I pick up my cutlery to dig into the spinach pasta. After another excruciating week of reflux, my stomach has finally bounced back from all the spicy noodles.

“He looked absolutely terrified of Violet.”

I snort, since I can imagine Nate’s face when being presented with even the smallest of dogs.

“Back in the Netherlands, our grandma adopted this overeager puppy. It scratched Nate when we were four. He’s been scared shitless of dogs ever since,” I explain. I’m honestly surprised that Nate agreed to accompany Hart. Looks like I’m not the only one who has some platonic groveling to do.

Although, since that incident at the party, I can’t help but wonder just how platonic Hart’s feelings are toward my brother. He obviously initiated the kiss thinking I was Nate, so the atmosphere must be pretty awkward over at St. Bernard’s.

I’m glad Linden and I got the kissing part out of the way fast, realizing we would make an awkward couple but pretty good friends just a few hours into our first and only date.

“He asked about you.”

“Huh?”

“Hart. He asked about you. Said he needed to talk to you, but you weren’t answering his messages.”

“Well, I’ve been busy. He needs to get in line,” I tell my friend. It’s kind of true—I’ve been busy declining a lot of dates Nate arranged for me. I don’t know if he was just bored or trying to drop a hint, but he really struck up some deep conversations on Grindr.

Too bad I’m not looking for a date. My schedule is filled to the brim with catching up on classes and training to turn this season around for myself. As long as the NHL is still on the horizon for me, I won’t waste a single thought about dating—not a girl, and definitely not a guy, either. One kiss already stirred up enough drama. The last thing I need is something to distract me from my goals.

Which is exactly why I ignored the DMs from xander_hart.official on my Instagram.

The nerve of adding that little “official” to his name!

“Maybe you should talk about it, Nicko. You’re going to be on the same team in a few months—wouldn’t you want to clear that up before meeting him again?”

“There’s nothing to clear up,” I protest, my cheeks warming from the confident way in which Linden talks about me being part of the Rebels’ roster next season.

“We made a mistake—I was drunk, he confused me for my brother, and we can all agree that under normal circumstances, none of this would have ever happened. If anything, he should talk to Nate about it,” I point out. It’s what I’ve been telling myself ever since I stormed out of that party.

Obviously, Hart meant to kiss Nate, so whatever unrequited lust he’s harboring for my brother was only directed at me because we’re identical twins. And if I hadn’t been so fucking drunk, I would have never gotten so turned on by the smell of his generic shampoo or the way his broad body engulfed me.

Only now, I can’t get it out of my fucking head. Which is why talking about it is definitely a bad idea.

Returning to my former starting position doesn’t magically fix my life.

I still need to catch up on two weeks of missed classes, and now as before, I have no idea where I will stand with the Rebels after my last year of college.

I obviously knew reclaiming my spot wouldn’t solve all my problems, but there was a small part of me that had hoped . Hoped that I would wake up the next morning and everything would be as it was a year ago. It always looked like the first and only step to take.

***

“The first step was actually the day after surgery,” Oliver points out nonchalantly when I tell him about it.

I’m currently lying on the floor of our living room, right leg propped up on the couch. It’s where I collapsed after coming home from training. I decided to take a leaf out of my brother’s book and ask Zollweg and Kristiansson to stay for an extra hour of drills. We only played on a line together for a few months before my injury took me out.

They had their rhythm going with De Andre, and we have to find our own way again. It worked well enough for yesterday’s home game, but even when celebrating the win with my teammates, I couldn’t help but think that we wasted a few chances. Chances that Hart would have capitalized on. I don’t have to like Hart to admit that the guy has a savage wrist shot and some sort of seventh sense of where I need him to be for every pass.

Needed. Where I needed him to be.

It’s over, and if the hockey gods have any mercy on my soul, the Rebels won’t put us on the same line—should they ever remember they drafted me at all.

I groan at my own thoughts, rubbing a hand down my face. Speaking of unfixed things: there are also plenty of unread messages from Hart in my Instagram DMs, urging me to talk .

“You’re probably somewhere in the middle of the way right now.”

It takes me a moment to register that Oliver is still talking about my recovery as he returns from the kitchen, ice pack in one hand and a romance novel in the other. He started a new one, although it appears similar enough to Keeping Noah .

“Why do they all look the same?” I ask as I point to the bare-chested men displayed on the cover of Finding Philipp . “And how am I only half the way? It’s been almost a year now! Other players are back in less time.”

“And others are not,” Oliver counters, one brow raised as he dumps the ice pack onto my knee. It’s wrapped in a dish towel, and I scrunch up my nose at the unidentifiable dark stains.

“Everybody is different, Nicko. And for some this,” Oliver taps his temple, causing me to roll my eyes, “takes longer to catch up with the rest.”

“I didn’t fall on my head.”

“Uncomfortable truth time–”

“I hate uncomfortable truths!”

“I know, cutie.” Oliver sighs as he drops onto the couch right next to where my leg is resting, then pats my shin.

“Your body might have fully healed—no, let me explain!” He holds up one finger to stop my protest.

I snap my mouth shut again with a huff.

“Your body has healed, but your mind has not. That was your first major injury; it’s scary.”

“I’m not scared.”

Oliver snorts at that. “God, you’re a difficult patient. But fine. You’re pressured then. Pressure you’re putting on yourself.”

“There’s only half a year left!”

“See, this is what I mean.”

I grind my teeth, since I don’t want to have this argument all over again, staring up at the ceiling with a deep frown etched on my face.

“You played very well over at St. Bernard’s. Any idea how that happened?”

I actually do have an idea, but unfortunately it has a lot to do with a certain black-haired, blue-eyed, holier-than-thou pain in the ass.

I don’t know what made my game better around Hart, just that we clicked like two damned puzzle pieces on the ice.

Granted, I still feel the irrational urge to strangle him with the laces of my skates when I think of his quirks—the way he dishes out disapproval at the gentlest swear word, or how he peruses the New York Times every morning to read articles out loud like a goddamn news host. And that fucking Wordle!

But I also miss the challenge of keeping up with his freakishly long strides. Or teasing him about his weak backhand.

“No.” I answer sullenly, not ready to admit any of this.

“Well, I can tell you then: You had nothing to lose, Nicko. Because you weren’t worrying about your teammates and the Renegades–”

“Rebels,” I correct him, but Oliver just waves me off.

“Renegades, Rebels—tomato tomahto. What I mean is, you just played your weird stick game, and it looked like you had fun. So, maybe try and have fun again?”

I sigh as I finally get up into a sitting position, raking both hands through my hair.

“Right. Is that a doctor’s order?”

My roommate is giving me one of his cheeky grins, brown eyes sparkling with mischief.

“ Future doctor’s order. Hey, if you make it to the NHL, I will start charging for healthcare advice!”

Huffing out a laugh, I throw the ice pack at him, disgustingly stained dish towel and all.