Page 31

Nicko, January 20th

I stare at the phone in my hand, unable to process the information plastered across my screen. I blink once, twice, then tilt my head when none of it works. It’s still the same.

“Everything alright?”

I jump at the sound of the physio’s voice, realizing I froze in the middle of the room with my shorts around my ankles.

“Of course!” I assure her, and hurriedly step out of them so I can change into a pair of full-length compression pants. The tight material sticks to where Greta spread physio gel over my cramping calves, and I have to forcefully yank it up. Our game went into overtime yesterday, the soreness in my muscles a reminder of an extra period of hockey. So Greta spent the entire session prodding and kneading my body, leaving me loose like Jell-o. Aside from some stretches, we barely spend time on my knee anymore.

She reminds me every session that I’m basically wasting my money. However, I’m not ready to give up my private appointments yet, somehow stuck on the belief that the moment I stop seeing her, my body will quit functioning.

“St. Bernard’s just got their asses handed to them by UConn.” I hold out my phone to wave it at Greta.

Drying her hands on a towel, she cranes her neck to get a better look, then whistles through her teeth. “Damn, losing 5-2 at home? That stings.”

“Yeah,” I agree with a sigh, finally putting my phone away so I can pull the shorts up over my compression pants and get into my jacket.

“What’s with the gloomy face then? Isn’t that good for you?”

I nod. It’s very good for the Badgers, considering the Bats sat at the top of our conference since the start of the season. They’ve suffered two home losses in a row, dropping down to third place. All it takes for us is winning tomorrow’s game, and we’ll advance past them.

There’s a soft flutter in my chest at that thought. We’ve had a couple of good games since Thanksgiving, but I’m still apprehensive. Our season looked phenomenal last year, and then everything went to shit for me, so I don’t trust this.

“It is. But my brother plays for St. Bernard’s,” I remind her.

And Xander . I press my lips together as that unwelcomed thought echoes through my mind. I should rejoice at his loss, but instead I picture his defeated face. From what I’ve come to know about Alexander Hart, he’s probably blaming himself.

“Oh, well. Sorry to hear that, hon, but I'm a Badgers fan, so you better take advantage of this tomorrow,” Greta laughs as she gently boxes against my upper arm.

***

I do take advantage of it.

On Sunday we send the Bulldogs home with their tails tucked. I’m happily buzzed when I return to the Nook after a short but intense locker room celebration, wearing the sweat of my teammates with pride.

I’m hit with a confetti bomb as soon as I open the door. Blinded by tiny paper pieces, I rub at my eyes as a party horn goes off right next to my ear.

“Fucking hell!” I laugh as the arms of my housemates wrap around me, just in time for Olli to complain that “Ew, Nicko, you stink! Don’t you have showers at the rink?”

“It’s the smell of sweet victory.” I grin as I disentangle myself from Linden and Marisol. Since Sasha is at an away game, they’ve all come to the rink today, sitting with Nate. Their self-made signs made it ridiculously easy to spot them from the ice.

“You could’ve dedicated at least one of your goals to us!” Marisol pouts as she accompanies me to the living room. I ordered pizza for us on the way home, and going by the open boxes, it seems like my roommates couldn’t wait.

“Sorry for wanting a hatty all to myself.” I laugh when I say it out loud, because it still feels crazy. My first hat trick of the season! A year ago, my biggest achievement consisted of hobbling to the toilet with my crutches.

“Nicko never dedicates his goals to anyone. Not even me,” Oliver sighs as he flops onto the couch with a piece of pizza in his hands.

“You say it like you would deserve it,” Linden snorts.

“Of course I would! I always believed in him,” he protests and winks at me across the living room.

I open my mouth to object then close it again. He’s actually right.

“Aw, so cute,” Marisol coos, settling on the armrest of the couch. “But I still have a lot of questions about hockey. First: Why does your warm-up routine consist of humping the ice?”

***

Congratulations

That last goal looked incredible

But I would’ve made that shot

I’m lying on my bed, stuffed with pizza. My eyes scan Xander’s old messages for the third time in a row. Until now, I didn’t even look at his texts from before Christmas. The corners of my mouth twitch with amusement when I go through the DMs he sent me directly after the swap. They read in his typical smart-aleck fashion—he even took a screenshot from the NCAA rule book.

But I don’t see anything about twins and doppelg?ngers there, so I delete it.

What are you talking about

Your assist to Zollweg in third period?

I would’ve made that goal

I snort at his answer, turning to my side. Three tiny pieces of damp confetti fall from my hair. I pinch one of them between my index and thumb, absent-mindedly turning it over while thinking of a good comeback.

Bold of you to say since you couldn’t even make your own goals

You didn’t give the assists for them

So you are saying you wouldn’t miss on my assists?

Didn’t miss a single one so far

I laugh at first, then break off the moment I realize he’s right. During both games I played as Nate, Xander didn’t miss even one of my passes.

So you watched my game?

It was on NESN

Very good background noise

Almost fell asleep

I snort at that answer, rolling my eyes.

Oh I’m sure you did! So you could dream about a hatty like that!

It takes a while for Xander to reply, and I almost worry I took it too far. Or maybe he started one of his boring history essays. The kind that put me to sleep when he talked about it after practice.

You told the reporter you were looking forward to playing with me

My cheeks flush hot at this one. So he also watched the post-game interviews. Falling asleep my ass! It was the first interview I gave after my injury. My gut twists with nerves when I think of the reporter sticking a microphone directly in my face while I was still panting from the game.

If I would end up playing for the Rebels. I said: IF.

Are you planning on going free agent?

I roll onto my back again, staring up at the ceiling. I definitely don’t plan on going free agent, but if the Rebels won’t come through with a contract, that is exactly what will happen. I don’t expect another NHL team to pick me up instead. My best bet would probably be a farm team then. Or maybe a European League?

I want neither of those.

No

Good

Because I’m looking forward to playing with you, too