Page 20

Nicko, November 21st

“ T he answer is usually 42.”

I drop onto the bench next to Milo, which makes the boy jump. He obviously hasn’t noticed me making my way over here after everyone else left the ice. Over the past weeks he has buried his nose deep into his textbooks, never even glancing in my direction—if he showed up at the rink at all.

His blond head raises slowly now as he frowns up at me. He’s chewing absent-mindedly on the end of his pencil, which reminds me of Nate. We never had a problem keeping our stuff apart.

“Why 42?” Milo asks hesitantly, his eyes darting down to the math question in front of him. There’s not a lot of equation-solving going on, but the margins are filled with little drawings of pucks and hockey sticks.

“Is that out of your dad’s playbook?” I laugh when I discover a tiny sketch of the rink, showing one of the drills we ran today.

Milo gives me a curt nod before slamming his notebook shut. Turning away from me, he starts stuffing his school books and pencil case into his backpack.

I watch him quietly for a moment, then offer with a sigh: “Old folks like me believe 42 is the answer to everything. Except for why you’ve been avoiding me these past weeks.”

At first, I didn’t notice Milo was actively dodging me. A twelve year old probably has better things to do than sit in on his dad’s hockey practices. Also, my head was swimming with tasks after swapping back to my normal life. But whenever Milo did show up, he never even looked up once, always slipping out of the stands right before the end of practice.

“Am not,” he tells me sullenly. He has zipped up his pack now, ready to go, but since I’m still fully suited up, there’s no room for him to squeeze past me.

I raise my brows at his obvious lie, not adding anything else. There’s a moment of silence stretching on between us, which has Milo squirming in his seat.

“Am I just not cool enough anymore?” I ask with a crooked grin.

Milo’s lips don’t even twitch at my joke, which, okay, tough crowd today. Or maybe I really am not cool enough for a Middle Schooler anymore. That would be a tiny blow to my ego.

Ever since I participated in the summer training camp, I feel a weird responsibility toward Milo. It was fun to see his improvements on the ice and chat hockey with him.

Growing up with a twin, I never had much contact with children younger than myself. We have a bunch of smaller cousins in the Netherlands, but we only ever see them on zoom calls, so I was hesitant about interacting with Middle Schoolers. And in large part it was exhausting as fuck—but also hilarious. Kids have this way of just speaking their mind, direct and uncomplicated. I really liked that.

“Maybe I’m not cool enough,” Milo mumbles, and even with the defiant way he’s squaring his shoulders, I can hear a hint of sadness in his voice.

“You? Oh, c’mon, that can’t be true. You’re the coolest winger since…” I trail off and point at my own jersey, giving him a wink.

“Why didn’t you come to my game then?”

“Your game?” I blink, surprised by the force of his accusation. Milo whirls around, fixing me with his stare. He’s probably trying to come across as tough, but his lower lip is trembling. It takes me another moment to remember the last conversation we had, since that day is mostly overshadowed by hiding from my teammates in our storage room. Definitely not my proudest moment.

“Oh, fuck.” I slap a hand over my mouth when the curse slips me, quickly looking around, but Coach is nowhere to be seen.

“I know worse words than that,” Milo assures me seriously, “especially in Bulgarian!”

Well, I do believe that, but it doesn’t mean I want Coach to catch me swearing in front of his son.

“Milo, I’m sorry,” I sigh heavily as I lean forward to put my face into my hands. Suddenly I’m shivering in my gear, despite the sweat running down my back.

My promise completely slipped my mind after switching lives with Nate—I wouldn’t have made it since the Bats were playing the Grizzlies that day, but at least I could have sent my brother in my place. I cringe the moment the thought forms in my mind. No, I’m actually glad I didn’t send Nate and lie to another person in my life.

Still, I fucked up.

“Something came up and I– I’m going to be honest here, okay? I totally forgot. Shit, buddy, I really am sorry.”

My heart sinks when Milo takes my apology with a quiet nod, his head hanging now as he stares at the tips of his dirt-smeared sneakers.

“Is there something I can do to make up for it?” I ask as I undo my gloves to carefully place a hand on his bony shoulder.

Milo takes a deep breath, kicking his feet under the bench before turning toward me again. His blue eyes are glistening as he searches my face.

“What came up?”

“Huh?”

“You said something came up. What was it?”

I hold my breath for a moment, weighing my options. Officially, I was the one who came down with a stomach bug—which is also what excused me from training. But I also don’t want to present Milo with that lie.

“My brother needed me. You know Nate, right?”

Again, Milo nods, this time with a hint of eagerness. “Right wing from St. Bernard’s, third round draft pick. 76th? For the Pioneers.”

I laugh at that, holding out my hand before he can launch into my twin’s stats and averages.

“Damn, kiddo, you’re a hockey fanatic! Well, see, he had a rough time, and I had to help him out that weekend. He gets very nervous before games, and this one was really important for him.”

Milo sucks his lower lip into his mouth, chewing on it for a moment. “I get really nervous before games, too,” he tells me softly.

“I know. But you don’t have any reason to be nervous, because you are doing great.”

It’s the truth. Milo’s biggest weakness is his size. But what he lacks there he definitely makes up for with skill. He’s a great stick handler and a little weasel on the ice, slipping right past the defenses. There are almost no external similarities between him and his famous father, but Coach definitely put all his NHL genes into this one.

“Did you train with him?”

“Huh?”

“With your brother. Because he did your move at the game.”

“He did?” I feign surprise, but the hairs at the back of my neck are rising at his innocent question. I expected our parents or teammates to catch on, but definitely not the twelve-year-old coach’s son.

“Yeah! When he scored the goal against the Grizzlies, he copied your move! Dad and I watched the tape,” Milo tells me, his blond brows drawn together in disapproval. “But you still do it better. Dad said so, too.”

I can’t help the laughter rushing out of me, relief flooding my veins. So he hasn’t caught on. Of course he hasn’t! Nate and I switching places, me playing my twin’s games...that would be crazy! No one would suspect we’d actually do something like that.

Right?

“I’ll tell him that,” I promise before repeating my question from earlier.

“But what can I do to make up for it? I mean it, Milo. I broke a promise and that wasn’t okay.”

Milo thinks for a moment before he gives me a bashful smile, his shoulders drawn up halfway to his ears. “Can I come to your NHL opener next year?”

I gape at the boy sitting before me, stunned into silence. The way he just phrased that so confidently, like my career isn’t currently all up in the air, has me choking on a lump in my throat.

“Sure,” I breathe. “I’ll save you the best seat.”

***

I feel incredibly light as I step out of the big glass doors and into an almost empty parking lot. The whole team had left by the time I entered the locker room, so I skipped the shower and just quickly packed up my duffel to avoid getting locked in over Thanksgiving recess.

I debated going home with Nate, especially since I know he feels nervous about making the drive to Rhode Island on his own, but I still have classes until tomorrow afternoon. And for the long weekend, dad announced he had two podcast interviews lined up while mom will be busy sorting through material for the upcoming Brown games.

I don’t want them to feel guilty for having to cut our family time short, especially when we’ll have more than enough of it over Christmas break. I could have gone with Linden, but Micah and Oliver are staying in the Nook as well, so we will celebrate Thanksgiving together—self-prepared turkey included. Micah texted me a grocery list earlier, and I hope that my unshowered hockey player stench will keep the after-work shoppers at a distance as I hunt down the ingredients.

I hum softly as I make my way over to my lonely car sitting in the faraway corner of the lot. My breath comes out in little white puffs, traveling up toward the dark sky. The air has this crisp feeling to it where it almost burns in my lungs, leaving a taste of fresh snow on my tongue. Maybe we will see a few flakes that will actually stick around. The thought has me smiling.

Everything is easier in winter, when the world doesn’t swelter under the heat of the sun, and the valid excuse of icy roads and early darkness allows me to huddle up in front of the TV instead of going out.

Even with the abundant free time they held, I never really liked summers. Probably because playing hockey in the driveway on inline skates isn’t the same as chasing down the ice at the rink.

I press the button to unlock my car when I’m a few feet away. The interior light turns on and illuminates a figure leaning against the driver’s side door.

I jerk backward in surprise, a high-pitched gasp leaving my mouth as I simultaneously throw my fists up, ready to fight.

“Jesus, Van der Second, calm down! It’s just me.”

I would recognize that condescending tone anywhere.

I still take a cautious step backward, waiting at a safe distance until Hart moves into the beam of a street light. Holding his hands high in mock surrender, he raises a brow at me, tilting his head.

“I’m unarmed.”

“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are!” I curse. My heart is hammering away in my chest, leaving me light headed. I slide my duffel from my shoulder to get to my water bottle.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss after I’ve taken a big gulp, my fingers finally steady again as I point the bottle at him.

“You weren’t responding to my messages.”

“What?”

“You weren’t responding to my–”

“No, I heard you.”

“Well?”

“I didn’t respond to your messages so you stalk me? Because heaven forbid Alexander The Great Hart is being ignored!” I throw up my hands in utter disbelief. The audacity of this guy!

“Don’t be ridiculous, Van der Hoff,” Hart grumbles, one hand rubbing his neck. “I didn’t stalk you. I just– we should talk about a few things here. Since we’re going to play together next year.”

If we’re going to play together next year , the mean voice whispers in my ears again, but I’m not going to share my doubts with him.

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” I cross my arms over my chest as I wait for him to get out of my way.

Hart, however, leans against the driver’s side of the car, effectively blocking my only escape route.

“Really? How about an apology?”

“No, thank you.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Especially on the ice, yes.”

“With a bloated ego.”

“Coming from The Great.”

“Stop calling me that, for fuck’s sake!”

I grin at his outburst. Hearing Hart swear is like watching a pastor steal candy—it just doesn’t go together. He’s usually so focused on being this good hockey posterboy. Drawing his brows together in disappointment is as far as he will go. It’s also why he doesn’t get into fights on the ice; probably doesn’t even know what the sin bin looks like from the inside.

I can only come up with one other time he lost his shit, and that was three years ago.

“What, you don’t like being called great? That’s news to me. I do like the sound of it. And all the room it leaves for additions! Alexander The Great Asshole. Alexander The Great Puckhoarder. Alexander The Great Attention Whore. Alexander The Great Egomaniac.”

“That’s rich coming from you, of all people.” Hart laughs, a bitter sound that makes the fine hairs stand at the back of my neck. “Considering your little stunt could have gotten Nate and you both kicked out of the NCAA.”

“ My little stunt? I did this for Nate. But you wouldn’t know about doing things for others, right? At least not when you can’t post about it on Instagram.”

Hart doesn’t have any siblings, so how would he be able to understand? Every time I think of Nate moving on to the NHL without me, my stomach burns with envy.

But I’ll get over it. My brother deserves to have his hard work recognized by the right people. Because contrary to what Hart thinks, having hockey player parents doesn’t mean we have our seats saved for us. If anything, people would relish the fact that neither of the Van der Hoff twins managed to get signed.

“At least I don’t have a problem standing up for myself. Unlike you, who can only sneak looks at nudes when he thinks his teammates are asleep around him.”

My face burns when he reminds me about the busride. I didn’t look for nudes, but there’s no point in arguing about it.

“Jealous because you aren’t getting any, Hart?” I sneer, but for a split second my mind goes back to the way he leaned his head against my shoulder, and I suddenly have the subtle note of his generic shampoo in my nose.

Hart lets out his I’m too old for this shit sigh, then pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s the head coach of a middle school hockey team. “Can you stop being a child for once and have a serious conversation?”

I can’t help but snort at that. “Serious conversation my ass! You’re only here to vent and blame me for the problems you created.”

“The problems I created? I didn’t have any problems before you two decided to swap lives! Who do you think you are that you can lie and fuck with people’s minds like that? Mary-Kate and Ashley?”

I furrow my brows in confusion. “Who?”

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to give me a lecture, then snaps it closed again, shaking his head. “...nevermind.”

“Look,” I groan, because I’m done freezing my ass off in the parking lot. I need to work on that grocery list before I have to fight Karens and Felicias over the last lettuce. “Whatever you think we have to clear up: Go tell it to Nate.”

“To Nate?”

“Well, yeah? He’s the one you thought you were coming on to, wasn’t it?”

“I wasn’t coming on to you.”

“Huh?” I feign surprise. “Funny how I remember that differently. Because you shoved your tongue down my throat.”

“You bit me.”

“And you liked it!” I state smugly, although the stunned silence that follows makes me shift in place. Hart is staring at me, eyes wide like the proverbial deer in the headlights. He might have tried to block out the memory, but I vividly recall the way his hard-on pressed against my groin as he buried both hands in my hair.

“I wouldn’t have liked it had I known it was you!” he’s shouting now, and I cringe, quickly looking around to make sure none of the coaching staff has left the rink in the meantime.

“Keep it down, you moron; the campus doesn’t care about what you like!” I hiss as I step up to him to get into my car. This exchange needs to end before he gets Nate and me kicked out after all.

“Oh, suddenly scared of the consequences of your own actions?”

“You sound like you’ve waited your whole life to drop this line on me.”

“No, what I’ve been waiting for is for you to acknowledge when you’re in the wrong. Just like when you spewed shit on that interview!” He underlines his words with a smack to the side of my car.

Just in time the interior lights go out again, leaving us both in the dark.

“RIP to you then, because I stand by that. The only reason the Rebels were so eager to recruit you as their rainbow poster child was the giant shitstorm they had on their hands then. You were nothing more than a welcome solution to a pesky problem, Hart. If you want to whore out your private life to fix their business, fine, but stop dragging me for stating the truth!”

I try to squeeze past him to get into my car, but that bastard is blocking me with his arm. I’m completely done with him, though. He’s been riding the backlash from that fucking interview for three years now, not hesitating to paint me as the bad guy when he basically insinuated nepotism handed me my draft spot.

“Oh, I see, there’s always an explanation for your shitty behavior. So I guess you also wouldn’t have any regrets about parading around as Nate, huh? Because you were basically doing him a favor and not profiting from it at all,” he jeers, his face distorted by a mixture of shadows and rage.

“What the fuck would be my profit? Losing sleep from your snoring? Smelling your dirty socks? I officially missed two weeks of training and playing with my own team—now back the fuck off!” I ram my shoulder against his chest to get him away from my car door, but Hart doesn’t budge, holding on to its handle while also leaning into me.

We’re so close, I can feel his hot breath ghost over the exposed skin of my neck. For a moment, the images of that party flash before my eyes, the way his gaze fixated on my throat just before he moved in to press his mouth on mine. My stomach squeezes with an unexpected explosion of lust. Lust and pure rage.

“Conveniently enough you also trained with us. Got to spy on our tactics!”

I rear back with laughter at his argument. The audacity of This. Fucking. Guy!

”I helped you! If anything, my own team should feel betrayed. God! Every goal you scored in those games came out of my assists,“ I remind him as I push him with one hand. He’s only wearing an open leather jacket layered on top of a thin athletic shirt, so I can feel his chest muscles jump under my fingers before he takes a step back.

“If it hadn’t been for me, you would have lost that game against the Grizzlies. I even worked with you on your weak-ass backhand—just to actually make it challenging when we play each other the next time.”

And with that, I finally pull my car door open to slide into the driver’s seat. Hart is calling out after me, but it’s drowned out by the howl of my engine as I hightail it out of the parking lot.

The ghost of his hot breath against my sweaty skin stays with me all the way to Walmart.