Page 39

Nicko, March 28th

T his year’s Northeast Regionals take place in Springfield’s MassMutual Center. We play the opener against Colgate and send them packing with a hard-fought 2-1. I don’t stay for St. Bernard’s game, but by the time we finish our dinner back at the hotel our phones are buzzing with the result: The Bats beat North Dakota 3-0.

My brother’s name pops up behind the first goal, and I feel a weird mixture of pride and anger.

Nate and I haven’t spoken over the past two weeks. I suspect this has to do with Xander telling my brother to give me space. I can’t remember a time in my life where I didn’t hear my brother’s voice for this long.

When we were five, Nate caught chickenpox, and I did not. Naturally our parents tried to keep us apart, which only lasted until I figured out how to climb the downspout next to the window. The morning after, I was covered in itchy red dots, and all was right again.

A year later, I was supposed to go to hockey camp without him. I had to be picked up in the middle of the first night due to severe stomach cramps. I didn’t make them up, but they magically disappeared the moment Nate grabbed my hand in the waiting room of the ER.

In forty-eight hours, I will face him on the ice. It might very well be the last time we share that experience, and the thought alone makes my throat tight.

I excuse myself early that night, retreating to the stuffy hotel room I’m sharing with Kristiansson. Hiding under my blanket I congratulate Xander on his two goals, but the message stays unread. He must be busy celebrating with his teammates and giving interviews on the game, his planned future, the social media shit storm he received, maybe even on me.

I shouldn’t message him anyways, not with the game looming above our heads. I also shouldn’t message him because every word I type will make the end of the season so much harder.

He’ll probably sign with the Rebels right after the Frozen Four, and I still haven’t gotten him out of my system. If anything, I’ve absorbed him. My fingers open our chat instinctively whenever my mind seeks comfort.

I wonder if he’d be willing to keep meeting up should the Rebels not offer me a contract.

But what if I get signed to a European team? I quickly pull up Google Maps to check the distance from Amsterdam to New York. And then, just to torture myself, from Amsterdam to Utica.

That night, I drift in and out of nightmares about Nate ripping my contract to shreds and the Rebels leading Xander away from me in handcuffs. When Kristiansson pushes the curtains back, so the early morning light floods the hotel room, I have thirty-six hours left before our next game, and I feel worse than ever.

Coach runs a short morning skate with us, then shoos us off the ice with the words: “What you did not learn in the whole year, you will not learn today.”

I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure or insult us, but the light exercise calms down the collective jitters before we settle into our seats for tape watching.

I’ve played the Bats so often, and yet I’m still surprised by Xander’s stamina as I watch him skate on screen.

I never allowed myself to admire his skills before, always focused on picking him apart and pointing out his flaws—either to his face or to my brother. He’s a great player, with a tremendous amount of force. I actually wince in sympathy when one of the clips shows Maine’s goalie throwing himself in front of Xander’s cannonball of a shot. Poor guy probably had his breath knocked out of him despite the protective gear.

“Watch how quickly he controls the puck when accepting Hart’s pass.”

It takes a moment for me to realize that we have moved on. Now there’s a frozen image of Nate filling the screen, Assistant Coach Walker highlights the puck with the green dot of his laser pointer. He presses start on the video again, and I suck in a surprised breath.

That’s not Nate who’s accepting Xander’s pass.

I sit absolutely frozen as I watch myself pivoting to lose the red-clad defenseman and break away to achieve a better angle for the shot. The puck finds its way into the net just above the goalie’s left shoulder, and a bunch of Bats swarm me for hugs and pats. There’s a huge grin plastered on my lips as Xander throws his arm around my neck, pulling me to his broad chest.

I remember that game. It was the day of the Halloween party.

“No, this is not important,” Coach Kovachev interrupts Walker’s breakdown of the play. My play. “It was a lucky shot. Hoff—the other Hoff—does not usually play like this. Right, Nicholas?” My eyes widen as Coach addresses me from across the room, a cold shiver running down my spine. I manage a suffocating sound of agreement as some of my teammates cheer about having “the better Hoff” on their team.

Walker just shrugs before skipping forward to the next clip.

I can feel Coach’s eyes linger on me as I lean forward to feign extra focus.

I think I’m going to pass out. There’s definitely not enough air in my lungs right now. Did he catch on to us? Does he know? Has he known this whole time?!

No.

Definitely not.

No one else caught on, and Nate didn’t even play in my place since I was officially excused with a doctor’s note.

The thought follows me all the way back to my room. Some of the guys went out to explore the city and take their minds off of tomorrow’s game while others favor exercise. I don’t feel like strolling through some mall, but when I see Zollweg heading down to the hotel’s gym, I quickly abandon that option too.

Heaving a sigh, I drop onto my bed and open Instagram. There’s a red ring around Nate’s icon, indicating that he put up a Story. My thumb is hovering over it while I’m struggling with my own curiosity, the need to hear his voice. Biting down hard on my lower lip I flick past it, pulling up Xander’s Story instead.

It’s probably an even worse choice, but at least I don’t have to look at his stupidly handsome face—the one that, as of recently, makes me question my future. Instead, the image of a basic gym pops up on my screen, the words taking it easy today , #SBU , #SBUBats and #goBats added to the bottom. There’s no location tagged in it, but Nate shared their hotel’s address in our family chat. It’s two blocks from here.

I put a better practice that backhand some more into the message box while my mind is already forming a plan. A very, very bad plan.

The right thing would be to go down to our own gym, put some headphones on, step onto the treadmill, and ignore my treacherous desires.

That’s what a smart, responsible hockey player with a good future would do.

But I’m not Alexander Hart.

***

The moment I set foot into the hotel lobby, I realize that I did not think this through. For one, I don’t know where the gym is around here. Or, if Xander is still in it. And worse, if he’s with my brother at the moment!

“This was the dumbest idea,” I grumble as I pull the plain black cap deeper into my face. Turning around on my heels, I’m about to hightail it out of here before I embarrass myself, only to collide with a firm chest.

“Whoa there, Hoff. Thought you wanted to check out the spa?”

Panic surges through me when I come face to face with Baker’s cheerful grin, my mind taking a moment to process his words.

The spa, huh?

I have to fight hard not to laugh. It’s so like Nate to treat himself to some sauna-hot tub-massage routine. The information leaves me with newfound confidence in my outlandish plan.

“I actually forgot to pack my trunks,” I grimace, gesturing down to my athletic shorts. “So I might hit the gym instead.”

“Again? You came out of there half an hour ago!” He lets out a surprised laugh, and I cringe inwardly at my misstep.

“Just some light walking on the treadmill, to...you know, take my mind off the game.”

Baker hums empathically as he gives my back a friendly slap. “I get it, but don’t overdo it, man. We need you well rested to keep your brother in check tomorrow.”

I can’t help a sly grin now, winking at him as we part ways. “Don’t you worry about that, buddy.”

There’s a sign in the elevator indicating the gym area is upstairs. I press the button for the top floor then take a moment to glance at myself in the full-body mirror. I put contacts in and even made the effort to gel my hair back, although it’s hidden under my cap. Flipping the shield around, I give my reflection a cocky grin, tilting my head to the side. My workout clothes don’t bear any B-Tech logos, but they’re a little more worn than Nate would prefer. Maybe our parents would notice but definitely not a stranger. Or Xander.

I feel bad tricking him like this again, but I also plan to make it up to him.

I push through the glass doors with the casual confidence of my twin brother, letting my eyes sweep over the open space. Pop music is pounding from the speakers, entertaining the crowd that is exclusively made up of SBU players. After secretly playing with them for two weeks, I can put a first name to each of them, greeting a few with a fist bump in passing and repeating my story about the forgotten swimming trunks.

Taylor offers me his pair, and I flip him off with a genuine laugh.

I’m not here for the jokes, though.

Finally, I spot Xander on the bench press in the far corner. Headphones cover his ears, and I can only imagine the horrible screaming he exposes himself to for fun. He’s currently benching 200 lbs like he’s doing a warm up.

“Show-off,” I mutter under my breath as my eyes trail over his arms. Ropey veins stand out whenever he pushes the bar up. He doesn’t look like he needs any assistance, yet I step up behind the bench as if I intend to spot him.

At first, he doesn’t take much notice, but on his next rep our gazes lock.

His black lashes flutter before his eyes widen, then narrow the next second. Without hesitation Xander locks the bar back into place and sits up, hands pushing the headphones down so they dangle around his neck.

I grimace at the high-pitched screaming sound followed by a hard guitar riff.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” he hisses, and my breath hitches in my throat. Okay, so apparently my brother and his best friend aren’t on great terms right now.

“I forgot my swimming trunks and–”

“Don’t fuck with me, Nicko. What is this?! You two are not doing this shit again!”

I gape at him as he calls me by my name, too shocked to keep up appearances. My hands instinctively fly to my face, searching for what gave me away.

“I–” I start, then break off, my eyes roaming our surroundings. The other Bats are still standing together in small groups, more interested in chatting and chirping than actually working out. None of them is paying us any attention.

“Don’t lie to me, Nicko,” Xander warns, the blue of his eyes flashing with outrage. “Where’s Nate?”

“How do you know it’s me?!” I can’t help it, I have to ask. I thought of everything. Hell, I even made an effort to pull a pair of Nike socks up all the way over my calves, just as my brother does.

“Was it the outfit? Damn, I should have packed that new shirt Nate gave me for Christmas,” I think out loud, honestly at a loss here.

Xander cuts me off with a huff.

“Please. It’s just the way you–” but he doesn’t finish that sentence. Instead, he frowns at me, then gestures vaguely with his hand, encompassing my whole appearance. “It’s all of this. Your eyes have these little golden specs, and you always jut out your chin. Also, you move differently somehow. You...you just don’t feel like Nate. I can’t explain it. Hell, you don’t even smell like him!”

“Of course I smell like him, we use the same fucking shampoo,” I object, baffled by his explanation. I spent two weeks without him noticing I was posing as my brother, and now he’s coming up with all these points of how we’re actually different?!

“Gotta be the deodorant,” I murmur as I lift an arm to give myself a good sniff.

Xander raises his brows at me, then barks out a laugh. “It’s not the deodorant! Unless you can like...bottle up the smell of winter.”

“Winter?!”

“Hush,” Xander reprimands me as my shriek earns us a few stares from across the gym. “What are you doing here now? I swear if you think you can spy on us–”

I roll my eyes. “That again.”

“Well?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. The answer is right there, on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. I lick over my lower lip. My mouth is so dry it feels like I swallowed a handful of sand.

“Nicko?” Xander prompts gently, and there’s a spark of annoyance in my belly. He knows. He must know, right? So why’s he making me say it?!

I push out the air in my lungs in one big sigh, rubbing both hands over my face.

“I missed you,” I finally say, the words barely audible over the music. But once the confession is out, there’s more to follow: “I needed to see you. I didn’t want to hang out with the rest, and I kept thinking about–”

Xander doesn’t give me a chance to finish. He’s on his feet and rounding the bench in the blink of an eye, his fingers closing around my wrist like a vise.

I can’t help but stumble along, even when my instinctive reaction is to protest. I swallow any back talk to avoid making a scene in front of Xander’s teammates, who stare after us.

“Let go!” I hiss as soon as the glass doors shut behind us, but Xander doesn’t even spare me a glance. He’s maneuvering me toward the staircase, then abruptly changes directions when the elevator dings on arrival. Muttering a hurried apology, he pushes past a group of young women, then presses several buttons at the same time.

“Okay,” I laugh, disgusted by how shaky my voice sounds. “I can leave, you don’t have to escort me downstai–”

“Shut the fuck up, Nicholas,” Xander growls. As soon as the elevator doors close, he’s on me, pressing me against the mirror. His broad body cages me in as our lips crash in a hungry kiss. Xander’s tongue is invading my mouth and I let him, getting high on the taste of his strawberry gum and the insane risk we’re taking right now.

Grabbing his hips, I pull him flush against my body, our stomachs bumping together as I moan into his mouth. I’m tempted to reach for the emergency button and get us stuck on purpose, but the elevator comes to a halt and Xander slowly steps away.

The floor in front of us is empty, so I don’t resist when he pulls me along.

Following his lead, I throw a glance back over my shoulder. The imprints of his large hands are clearly visible on the otherwise spotless glass surface, causing a violent shiver to run down my spine. The image haunts me on our way to Xander’s room, and I think back to when his fingers pressed into me one by one, prying me open and massaging me.

A soft moan leaves my lips, causing Xander to look up from where he’s fumbling for his keycard, an amused grin on his lips.

“Eager much?” he teases and I huff, pushing him into the room as soon as the door opens. My momentum comes to an abrupt halt when I spot a familiar duffel bag on the first bed, half its contents spread out on the duvet.

My heart squeezes, short but uncomfortable, when I recognize a Badgers’ logo on one of the shirts.

“He went to the spa,” Xander explains what I already know. His features soften as soon as he notices my hesitation. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod, clearing my throat when the answer comes out scratchy. “Yes.”

I tear my gaze away from the familiar chaos, focusing on Xander again. For a moment I just take him in with my eyes. His black hair is damp from the workout yet falling smoothly onto his forehead. He’s clean shaven, which compliments his jawline. In my head I’ve brought my fist to it many times; now all I want to do is trail it with my lips, nipping and biting until he curses me.

“Why are you here, Nicko?” he asks again and I snort.

“Who’s eager now?” I taunt, when he’s so desperate for me to repeat my confession. Still my heart picks up its beat, flip-flopping in my chest. He wants to hear it again. Craves it.

“I missed you.”

The words get out easier this time, and the way his eyes flash when I say them makes it worth it.

“And you needed…?” the fucker prompts and I huff.

“Come on, baby. Say it,” he coos, and I narrow my eyes at the pet name, bridging the distance between us with two steps.

“I need…” I start as I place a hand onto his chest, my tongue flicking out to wet my lower lip. My mouth feels dry, as I once more struggle to put my desire into words. Taking a deep breath, I lift my gaze to meet his.

“I need you–” I say, my hand holding him back when he immediately tries to move forward, pleased with getting his way. But I’m not done yet.

“–to fuck me.”