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Nicko, March 13th

T he next few days pass in an absolute blur.

It’s been years since the Bats and Badgers have faced off in the tournament, and the campus is buzzing with excitement. Strangers walk up to me and congratulate me on finishing at the top of our conference and going to the regionals. People in class hold out their hands for a fist bump when I pass them. A group of guys insists on paying for my lunch. Girls sneak their numbers into my backpack. Our team’s social media manager isn’t deterred by my scowl any longer and has me participate in a silly TikTok dance.

Mom puts a message into the group chat saying how proud she is. In a private text she cautions me not to put too much stress on my knee since my long-term career is more important than the championship win. Dad asks if we want to go to Amsterdam in the summer, and when we have to report for training camp with our respective teams.

I experience all of it from afar, like there’s an invisible barrier between everyone else and me, all this chatter muted by one single thought: Two more wins, and we’ll be in the Frozen Four. Two more games, in which I might face Xander and Nate. From now on, each game could mark the end of my career as I planned it. If the Rebels won’t come through with a contract, I will have to look for a team overseas or figure out how to actually use my degree.

If there was ever a bad time to feel completely exhausted, it’s now. I need to be on the top of my game, more alert than ever. But my bones feel like they’re filled with lead when I get up from the locker room bench and shoulder my duffel.

In the hallway, Zollweg is posing next to the trophy case as our social media team has him repeat the same moves over and over again. He raises his hand in a quiet goodbye, and I give him a curt nod as I hurry past.

I don’t know what I expected after the weekend’s social media shitstorm, but when I entered the rink the next day, everything was just…normal. Zollweg didn’t spit any hateful comments or slurs. He didn’t even look at me funny. Instead, he bumped my fist and patted my back. Talked up the team.

By now, I’m questioning what I saw that day. Maybe the like came from another profile with a similar username, or maybe he accidentally liked that post when he scrolled through Instagram. A wrong swipe of the thumb, and it happens without noticing.

I was probably reading way too much into it, but a lingering feeling of unease stays with me every time our eyes meet.

When I finally reach my car, I throw my duffel in the trunk before sinking into the front seat. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath through my nose, trying not to think about all my hurting body parts. Right now, there’s nothing I crave more than the comfort of my bed, where I know a citrusy hint is still lingering in the fabric of my pillow and sheets. But I have a proper meal to cook first and a bunch of mobility exercises to do. If these will be my last hockey games before beer league, I absolutely cannot risk my form.

Reaching into my pocket I pull out my cell to check for new messages. With our packed schedules there is no opportunity for meeting up with Xander during the week. Yet I find myself smiling when I see his name on my screen. I’m quick to bite my lower lip, but there’s nothing I can do—it’s so broad my cheeks hurt. Xander texted me a brief one-liner about how he was thinking of me in training when his coach singled him out to work on his backhand. It should horrify me that my first reaction isn’t a snarky remark, so I close the chat again until I can think of something teasing to say.

I’m about to put my phone away when I see the notifications for over a dozen unread messages in our family chat. I’ve muted that one because Nate discusses everything going on in there with me, so I usually get the information twice.

My first thought is that something bad must have happened—maybe Greg fell again or our grandparents aren’t well.

But when I open the conversation there’s no bad news. Instead, mom has shared a Twitter link with several question marks underneath. My thumb hovers over the screen. I can already feel my gut sink.

It’s like the split second before a crash, when you know something terrible and potentially life-altering is about to happen. All my senses tell me to ignore it and just put my phone back into my pocket, yet I press my finger onto the blue hyperlink leading me to the social media profile of an AHL team.

I frown as the site of the Utica Utonagans opens up, my eyes scanning the most recent Tweet. My body catches on before my brain, fingers shaking as I reread the short text congratulating my twin brother on making it to the next stage of the tournament and wishing their rookie good luck for the upcoming games.

The Utonagans.

A farm team.

Signing Nate?

“What the fuck,” I breathe as I hectically try to return to our family conversation, my head suddenly swimming with a thousand unanswered questions.

***

“What. The. Fuck?!”

I burst into Nate’s dorm room like a hurricane. The door flings open with so much force it bounces off the wall. I’m so angry, I forgot to pretend to be my brother when I stormed past Marv.

Nate is sitting at his desk in front of his laptop, eyes wide when he takes me in. His damp hair is unstyled and wavy, a sign that he probably just stepped out of the showers. He’s also wearing his glasses. We must actually look alike right now, and the irony isn’t lost on me.

For a moment neither of us is saying a word, and then Nate springs into motion as he catches on to why I’m here. He’s making a careful step toward me while holding out both hands like he’s trying to calm a gunman.

“Nicky, Iet me explain–”

His words are interrupted by my high-pitched laugh. It sounds manic to my own ears, mirroring my jittery insides.

“Explain? Explain?! Damn right you’re going to explain! Fuck!”

“Nicko? Is that you?” Xander’s voice calls out from behind me. Instinctively, I turn toward it and find him exiting the bathroom, with a towel slung around his hips and wet hair dripping onto his naked shoulders. There’s a smile on his face that shatters as soon as he takes in the fury and hurt I’m so obviously wearing right now.

“Hey,” he says, his voice so soft, it makes me want to put my hands over Nate’s ears so I can pretend he’s using that tone just for me. “What happened?”

It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue, about to break out of me. All the confusion and fear and anger that smashed into me once I understood—really understood —that damned Tweet, with all its implications and consequences: Nate isn’t going to play for the New Jersey Pioneers next season.

He’s not going to go to the NHL. We won’t meet on the ice again. Instead, he’s going to be an extra hundred miles away from me. And maybe no Van der Hoff will ever play in the NHL again. So many awful possibilities, and I can’t decide which one I hate most.

But then something in Xander’s features shifts. His eyes dart toward Nate, a glint of understanding and guilt sparking up in them.

All those words get pushed back down when rage takes over me.

“Did you know?!” I yell at him. Xander flinches, making him look small all of a sudden. I instantly regret my tone, but similar to a bulldozer on the roll, my overspilling emotions are not easy to stop.

“I–” he starts, but I’m already shaking my head at him.

“Stupid question. Of course , you knew!”

“Just...calm down for a second and listen, okay?” Nate has made another step toward me, hands still raised.

“Fuck being fucking calm, Nate!” I curse as I retreat to Xander’s side of the room so I don’t have to stand close to either of them. “When did you negotiate with the fucking Utonagans? Why didn’t you tell me? What happened with the Pioneers?!”

Nate lets out a deep sigh as he presses the heels of both his hands against his eyes. “This will sound bad, but we discussed contracts in fall and–”

My mouth drops open, and I pray that I misheard. “In fall?! Like the fall we had half a year ago?! ”

Instead of correcting himself and telling me that he didn’t keep this kind of information for months, Nate winces as he buries his hands into his hair. “I was going to tell you, Nicky! Just...just not yet! Not before the end of the season. Fuck, I didn’t know they were going to put out that Tweet and now–”

“I thought you had Pioneer Scouts coming to your games! You said they were happy with your performance!”

“Oh, I’m sure they would have been happy with your performance, Nicky,” Nate snorts, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

“Stop calling me that when I’m angry at you!” I know exactly what he’s trying to do—butter me up and make it sound entirely reasonable that he lied to me. “You told me that we had to switch identities because there were Pioneer Scouts coming to see you play. And now I’m hearing that you had already decided against the NHL at that point?!”

Nate winces at my shouted words. I’m too mad to care about being overheard, but Xander has the presence of mind to pull the door closed.

“I told you what you needed to hear.”

“Excuse me?!”

Nate clears his throat then squares his shoulders as our gazes meet. There’s a rare stubbornness flashing in his eyes. “I told you what you needed to hear back then.” he repeats, louder this time.

“What I needed to hear? Fuck you, Nate! What I needed to hear was the truth , not being fed a lie that uprooted my whole life and threatened both of our careers! Why the fuck would you do that for no reason?!”

“Nicko, we all told you the truth, but you couldn’t deal with it. Everyone knew you were fully recovered, but you were so caught up in your head and doubting your every move. So don’t talk to me about threatening your career. You almost messed it up yourself!”

I feel like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over my head. Nate has never spoken to me like that before, and while my brain is still trying to catch on, my limbs are already shaking from a mixture of shock and anger.

“You have no idea –” I start, but this time Nate is faster, his outburst drowning my own words.

”No , you have no idea, Nicko. No idea what if feels like to be the second best at fucking everything! Assists, goals, points, plays, skills, talent, school! No idea what it’s like being a third-round draft pick, helplessly watching your brother talk himself out of his own opportunities.”

I recoil from him at this verbal slap, my back hitting Xander’s windowsill when there’s no more space to escape to. My stomach is cramping as guilt drowns out all other emotions—as always when someone directly compares my hockey skills to my brother’s.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, because I don’t know what else to do. There’s no other person I want to share my dream with—or at least there wasn’t until very recently. I would love to trade half of my goals for Nate’s bitten-down nails, half my assists to make his anxiety-induced cramps go away before games.

But it also hurts to have him disregard my struggles of last year, like it all just happened in my fucking head. Like I didn’t actually face the threat of an early career end.

“I never meant to take anything from you. But getting picked in the third round doesn’t have to mean you’re not NHL material. McCoy was a third-round pick, and now he’s a fucking legend!”

“Shut up!” Nate shouts back at me, his hands tearing on his blond hair like he’s trying to rip it out. “Not everyone is a fucking wunderkind like you or McCoy. And I don’t want you to be sorry for your talent! Do I wish I could play like you? Sure. But I never blamed you for it. Just like I never wanted you to change schools for me!”

I open my mouth to object, then think better of it, pressing my lips together in a firm line. My glare finds Xander, who quickly holds up his hands.

“Oh, come on,” Nate snorts when he notices my look. “You think I didn’t know why you suddenly wanted to go to B-Tech so badly after mom went on and on about how I finally needed to step out of your shadow? I’m not dumb, Nicko. You chose a subpar team to give me a chance.”

I cringe when he phrases it like that. “We’re not subpar,” I protest stubbornly, although he has a point. The Badgers haven’t made it to the Frozen Four since McCoy’s glory days. We came close last year, then got sent home in the first round of the regionals. But I do like being the underdog, even if I never fully clicked with my team.

“I thought you wanted this. The NHL! It was...an investment in our dream!”

Nate huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “Maybe you should have consulted me first? I’d rather have played with you on a line for the past four years than watch you be stuck with a team you don’t even like!”

“Oh, just like you talked to me about changing your plans? No wait, you didn’t! You even lied to me because you thought...I don’t even know what you thought, Nate!” I bang my fist onto Xander’s desk, sending a few pencils over the edge.

“That was different. You were totally blocked! I knew you just had to get rid of that damned pressure you put onto yourself, and I was right. The moment you thought you were doing me a solid, you played your heart out again!”

I stare at Nate, stunned by his twisted logic. Even with all the rage bubbling inside my stomach, I know he wouldn’t do anything to intentionally harm me. Yet this is nothing he should have just decided for me.

“Oh, so now the ends justify lying to me? What if someone found out?!”

“I would have told them the truth: that it was my idea and I talked you into it. Nothing would have happened to you.” There’s not a hint of regret on Nate’s face as he stares back at me, obviously convinced he did the right thing.

My arms fall to my side, hanging there uselessly as I realize that, for the first time in our lives, he just doesn’t understand me.

Silence spreads between us, thick and suffocating. Xander’s eyes are darting back and forth between my brother and me while I stay pressed against the windowsill, the hard plastic digging into my back.

I try to picture what Nate will look like in a Utonagan’s jersey, and my stomach lurches. How far exactly is Utica from New York? Will we see each other at all during the season? With not only being on different teams but also different leagues? Will he want to see me at all, or is this his way of stepping out of my so-called shadow?

Maybe he’ll just leave me behind. Write his book. Be Nate without Nicko.

“It’s not forever, Nicko. I...I just need extra time. To try and make this work. And if it doesn’t it won’t be the end of the world,” Nate says, sifting through my thoughts as easily as flipping pages in a book.

I find neither comfort nor consolation in his words.

Suddenly my shirt feels too tight over my chest, and the room is too small for the three of us.

I need air. I need to clear my head.

I need to get out of here.

“Nicko!” Xander’s voice sounds alarmed, and I only realize now that my breath comes out choppy. I feel like I ran too many offensive drills and need to bend over Coach’s sick bucket.

“I...need to go,” I stammer. Xander’s hands are reaching for me as I stumble toward the door, but I shake him off and burst outside. I’m faintly aware of voices calling after me, but I keep on running down the stairs, taking two at a time and tearing through the entry hall until finally the cool night air floods my lungs.