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Xander, January 13th

I t has been a rocky three weeks since Christmas, hockey-wise, at least. Although we won the first two games of the new year by the skin of our teeth, it seems that our lucky streak has come to an end.

“Oh, man, what a shitty birthday present.” Nate sighs as he slumps down on the bench next to me.

I huff in agreement. It sucks to lose on your birthday, but it’s not the only reason for my sour mood. Today’s defeat feels brutal. The last time we played against the Grizzlies we had an unexpected advantage: Nicko. It stings that we couldn’t do it without him.

I wonder if that thought is going through my best friend’s head as well as I slide down until I can rest my head on Nate’s shoulder. We might both be sweaty, not ready to muster the strength to make our way into the shower and wash the game off, but the contact is familiar and comfortable. I no longer feel the weird tingling whenever we touch. Last year’s misunderstanding has been entirely cleared up and put behind us.

It’s a relief, honestly, to have Nate back as my best friend. I have also made my peace with the rule breaking, since I have to thank that harebrained scheme of Nate’s for how my winter break went.

Not like I’d ever tell him about that though.

“Ah well, nothing like a party to cheer us up,” Nate says, shuffling as he reaches for his towel.

I sit up as well.

“Yeah.” I manage a smile, even though I don’t agree. A party is about the last thing on my mind. I’d rather get back to our dorm, have some takeout and a beer with Nate, and then crawl into bed to shut out any thoughts of losses.

“Just let me shower and get changed, then I’m all yours for the evening.” I throw in a wink as I push myself up from the bench.

Nate snorts and bats his lashes. “Uhh, a dream come true! Anyway, I thought we could swing by the Sigmas, maybe meet up with the guys,” he adds, launching into a plan for the entire night. I let him explain where we need to go and why, humming here and there as I strip out of my pads and finally step under the warm spray.

Half an hour later, we’re back at our dorm. I’m waiting at Nate’s car, going through some Instagram DMs. Earlier my moms called, and I still smile thinking about our conversation. Especially with the sucky birthday present of our loss, it felt nice to have them fuss over me. Even if it was just over the phone, my head feels clearer now.

“Ready to go, birthday boy?” Nate, finally done with changing, jogs over.

“Let’s.”

Since it’s my birthday, Nate insists on driving. His tentative creep down the road lulls me into a light slumber. It’s only when he hits a pothole that I startle awake. Peering through the window, I frown when I don’t immediately recognize our surroundings.

“Where is this party?”

“Here,” he grins as he gets out of the car. I raise my brows but follow him. He took us into the center of Bonham. The street lights are bright all around us, some of them projecting a rainbow onto the sidewalk. I take in the streamers and then the name of the club Nate has brought me to, turning to him.

“The Rainbow Cove? Really?”

“Come on, you didn’t think I’d drag you through Greek Road on your birthday?” Nate grins, pulling me over to the bright lights. He laughs at my expression, then his voice multiplies as several of our teammates step around a corner to join us.

“Happy birthday!” they shout and cheer, attracting the attention of a group of partygoers.

I flush as Baker and Taylor throw their arms around me, celebrating me like I shot a winning goal instead of just…existing.

“Guys, you didn’t have to,” I protest, trying to duck away.

“Oh, c’mon Hart, like we’d miss a chance to party,” Baker throws in. He wears a colorful scarf that looks like he might have stolen it from his grandma.

A few of my teammates glance around nervously as we make our way to the entrance, but they all shuffle along into the club. We occupy a booth where Nate climbs onto the table to raise a toast.

“To Alexander The Great . May he live long, shoot plenty of goals, and get laid tonight!”

The guys holler and whistle as we clink our glasses. I hope no one in this club knows who I am, because I can feel my cheeks glowing under all this attention.

Thankfully, once everyone has a few drinks in them, they all turn toward dancing. I let myself get dragged along.

The deafening music drones out every thought, and I love it. The atmosphere, the easy way in which people connect, bumping together with more or less intent, it all comes together, allowing me to relax.

Every now and then, there’s someone’s hands on my back, my shoulders or even my hips. But although I’m swaying along, enjoying the attention, it never feels right. There’s no drop in my stomach, no excited spark. I end up turning them all down, gravitating closer to my teammates to prevent more come-ons.

Tonight, I want to celebrate with them, not fall into someone’s bed.

Eventually, I find myself at the edge of the dance floor—sweaty, tipsy, and waiting for the bartender to turn my way. Someone leans against me. Expecting Nate, I reach around their waist with one arm before I turn to look.

A stranger smiles at me, and I hurriedly pull my arm back. “Oh, uh...hi?”

“Care for a drink?” The guy holds out a glass, smiling in a way that makes his intentions very obvious. He’s good looking, with wavy brown hair and dark eyes.

My gaze drops to his defined chest and then along an amazing set of abs. However, they’re framed by the ugliest shirt I’ve ever seen. Mismatched colors and random patterns clash on the unbuttoned fabric. Staring at them makes me dizzy, so I look back up.

He does his best to give me a sultry smile, cocking his hips to nudge into my side.

I bite my tongue, undecided. But again there’s no spark, no heat. I want to let loose, enjoy myself—but I don’t want him.

“I’m all set.” Raising my drink, I give the guy a polite smile. His face falls, but he lifts his own glass in return before wandering off to try his luck elsewhere.

The vibes are just off tonight.

I take a sip, humming when I notice my best friend studying me.

“What?”

“Not your type?” Nate asks, tilting his head and then jerking his chin after the other guy.

My eyes follow the gesture, but the guy has already vanished in the crowd, so I just shrug.

“I’m not here to hook up,” I say eventually. Even if it might help get Nicko out of my head, I’m not ready to replace my fantasies yet.

“It looks like Baker might be though,” I point, hoping to distract Nate. Our teammate is dancing with another guy, though he’s laughing too hard for it to be serious. I pretend I don’t notice Nate’s look and make my way back to our booth.

***

It’s well past midnight when our group slowly disperses. The rest piles into Nate’s car, and he takes us back to the dorms.

Even after a shower I can still feel a faint buzz of alcohol, but I’m not wasted. I haven’t been this relaxed since Christmas.

Pulling out my phone to set tomorrow’s alarm, I grimace when I look down at a black screen. I root through my bag, feeling around for my charger, but come up empty. I groan when I don’t spot it on my desk either.

“Hey, can I borrow your charger?” I call over my shoulder, already on my way over to Nate’s desk.

“Sure!” Nate answers from the hallway. I nod absentmindedly and pull one of his drawers open. With a sigh I rummage through sticky protein bar wrappers and crumpled notes. Grimacing, I close that drawer and open the next one.

I find Nate’s charger buried under a stack of pink flashcards and other papers. I push them to the side when one catches my attention.

Get Your Master’s Degree in Creative Writing , proclaims a pamphlet. Dumbfounded, I blink at it, then pick it up and flip it over. There’s only a QR code for an informational seminar along with some choice quotes praising the availability and efficiency of the online course.

“Did you find it?”

I turn to Nate, still holding the leaflet. He stops in front of our mirror, fussing with his hair before finally looking over, then down at my hands.

He winces.

“You’re thinking about doing your MA?” The prospect of Nate continuing on with college feels like a shard of ice slipping between my ribs.

“I…yeah?” Nate raises his shoulders, then drops them in a shrug.

“Okay…what about the Pioneers?”

“I’m a third-round draft pick,” Nate snorts. “I was never going to make it onto their roster just like that.”

“You don’t know that,” I say automatically, then duck my head, raising a hand before Nate can object. “Sorry, I…okay? So you’re just not going to play hockey? At all?”

“No, I want to! It’s just…when I watch you and Nicko, I don’t feel ready for the NHL. I don’t want to warm the bench all the time, or worse, have people say I got in because my father played two seasons for the Pioneers.”

I wince at his words, but Nate keeps going, his hands gesturing wildly, like he’s trying to paint an invisible picture for me.

“I talked to Dad. He helped me get in touch with their team management over the summer. I could start out on their farm team. They want to experiment with me on new positions, see where I could fit in.”

“Wait,” I tell him, because my head is spinning with all this new information. I suddenly wish I hadn’t agreed to all those colorful drinks, so I could think about this with a clear head. “You already met up with them? Over the summer? So not only weren’t there any scouts when you made Nicko swap places with you, but you already knew you wouldn’t play for the Pioneers?”

“I already told you why I did it, Xan. I knew I didn’t have anything to lose, but Nicko needed an…an intervention! And it paid off!” Nate throws his hands up, probably frustrated we’re having this argument again, while I grind my teeth.

“Don’t you think that’s something Nicko would have wanted– no, deserved to know?”

“No!” The force of Nate’s answer makes me take a step back. He’s shaking his head as he snatches the brochure from my hands to tuck it into his closed laptop, safely out of view.

“He wouldn’t get it, Xan.”

“What? Come on, Nate, he’s your brother! You two talk every day! I’m sure he’d–”

“No, Xan!” Nate takes a hold of my shoulder, shaking me like that will rearrange his words in my head until they make sense. I don’t fight him but hold on to his arm instead. The contact is comforting.

“Look, I know Nicko is the better player,” Nate talks quickly so I can’t interrupt to insist that he’s just as good. “Whatever you want to say, just don’t. Everyone knows Nicko is the better hockey player—there’s a reason he is a Top Ten draft pick! You don’t have to lie about it to spare my feelings,” he tells me with a sharp look that has my mouth snapping shut.

“He has this lifelong dream of us playing in the NHL together, and I want that too, but it’s just not going to happen so easily. I need the extra time, and I need a plan B if it doesn’t work out.”

I sigh as I free myself from Nate’s grip to take a seat in his desk chair. Closing my eyes for a moment, I massage my temple with one hand.

“Okay, I get that,” I tell him, despite the pang of disappointment in my chest. I’m surprised he didn’t tell his twin brother, sure, but I’m more hurt that he made all these plans without confiding in me. “I still think you should tell Nicko.”

“I will.” Nate sets his shoulders, brows drawn low over his eyes as he quietly nods to himself. Like he needs to convince himself first. “But not while the season is still going. He just found his footing again, and I don’t want him to play his last games with a bad conscience. I know Nicko didn’t make the best impression on you–”

I snort as I think about the various impressions Nicko left on me—with his hands and lips.

“–but he has a soft core. He already withdrew from St. Bernard’s because of me.”

I perk up at that information. “He what?” I ask, but Nate just waves me off, his green eyes fixed on me.

“Promise me you won’t tell him.”

I huff out a bitter laugh at that. “It’s not like your brother and I have a standing date to exchange gossip.”

There’s a gleam in Nate’s eyes, gone so fast I’m sure I just imagined it.

“Promise me, Xan.”

“I promise,” I sigh, “but I still think you should talk to him, sooner rather than later.”