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Nicko, October 16th

“ D on’t you want to answer that?”

I grumpily stare at my lunch while Linden points at the cell vibrating on my tray.

I’ve masterfully managed to ignore Nate’s texts throughout the morning. They’re taking up my whole screen by now.

It’s not unusual; Nate is an avid texter. Whenever he comes across a hilarious cat video, a cool hockey clip, or whatever else he deems interesting, he forwards it to me. Hence, our chat looks somewhat one-sided. He likes to joke that I’m online-ghosting my own twin.

I’m not big on social media in general. While Nate has thousands of followers on Instagram, I have kept my profile private and my circle small. I barely message my friends and family, mainly using my phone to set up dates and coordinate plans.

I pretend that I’m too busy for these things, but to be honest, I’m afraid to make a fool out of myself for everyone to see. And not in the charming, funny way that my brother has perfected—but by fighting my future teammate live on air.

The backlash to that interview still haunts me.

“No,” I grumble in response, stabbing at the mixture of chicken and rice on my plate, like it’s personally to blame for my current situation.

This day started just as the weekend ended: with the ugly feeling of not being good enough. I know I’m not back to last year’s form, but watching my teammates set new personal records in our gym session definitely chipped away at my remaining self-confidence.

And just to top things off, mom called to suggest additional strength and conditioning training for me. She’s never done that before.

Sure, as a former hockey player and current head coach of the Brown’s women’s team, she’s invested in the sport. We often discuss games and tactics. Her analyses can be brutal, but she’s never criticized my fitness before.

The whole time I was freaking out over my injury, everyone around me insisted that I would be fine again; that there were plenty of other professional athletes with similar conditions who made a comeback in half a year.

Then why am I playing on fourth line?

And why do I feel so…off?

I can’t put my finger on the exact problem, but it was the same during Saturday’s game. Whenever I skate, it feels like someone is actively trying to hold me back by tying lead to my skates, and I just don’t know what to do about it.

Then quit .

Hart’s words seep into the forefront of my mind again, making me grit my teeth. That asshole would love that.

Next to me, my phone starts to vibrate again.

“Maybe it’s important,” Linden speculates, his blond brows furrowed with concern.

“It’s just Nate,” I huff, although I’m putting down my fork at the same time to reach for my phone. The ringing has stopped, but I have a new message showing up on my screen.

For a moment I debate just swiping it away.

I’m still pissed at him.

Hart has been a fucking douchebag to me for years now, and my brother still finds new excuses for his behavior. The radio interview after the draft definitely escalated the situation, but he also hadn’t been exactly forthcoming before.

So I’m tempted to tell him to run to Hart with his memes and gossip texts but then bite my tongue when I take his words in.

Call me ASAP.

This alone wouldn’t worry me either. My brother has a dramatic streak. If he had not been drafted by the New York Pioneers, he could probably take up a career in acting.

Thumbing upward with a sigh, I scan the remaining twenty-two messages, my green eyes flicking over the screen. The more I read, the heavier my conscience gets.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Linden, but I need to go,” I tell my best friend as I jump up from my chair. I’m about to grab my tray but Linden pulls it toward himself while waving me off with his free hand.

“I got this. Go run,” he tells me, then calls after me while I make my way through the students streaming into the dining hall: “I hope Nate is okay!”

Half an hour later I’m turning off my car in the parking lot next to Nate’s dorm. With the Campus of Bonham Tech being located right in the city’s center, traffic can be rough, but right now most students are still in class.

“Hi, Nate!” the dorm guard, Marv, greets me as I shoulder open the door on the ground level.

“It’s Nicko,” I correct him in passing, already on my way to the staircase.

Personally, I will never understand why people have such a hard time telling the two of us apart. Just looking at pictures of us, the differences are so blatantly obvious that I’m often questioning whether people are just pretending to mix us up.

“You look like shit ,” I greet my brother when he opens his dorm room for me.

“We look the same, little brother,” Nate grumbles and throws me a dark look.

“Oh, no, we don’t. Not right now,” I laugh, although I feel sorry for him. I remain standing in the door for a moment, scrutinizing him.

My brother’s skin is as white as limestone, fiercely competing with the uninspired paint of their dorm. It makes the rings under his eyes appear much darker. Strands of his blond hair—usually gelled back with great care—hang limply on his forehead, giving him an especially pitiful look.

“Shit,” I sum up dryly and finally step into the dimmed room. “By the way, it also smells like that in here,” I inform him, scrunching up my nose as I speak.

I cross the room with two big strides, opening the window on Hart’s side first before turning to Nate’s.

“Shut up,” my brother complains, his words muffled by the pillow from where he has dropped face-first onto his bed. “Noooo, it’s cold,” he whines a moment later as the fresh air slowly spreads inside the stuffy room.

Unimpressed by his protest, I start unpacking the plastic bag I brought along, lining up a bottle of Coke, salt pretzels, bouillon cubes, and a small variety of snacks on his desk.

“Have you eaten today?”

“Yes, but I also flushed it down the toilet already,” Nate informs me. He has turned his head to the side so he can watch me.

“That’s what you get for drinking like a pirate,” I huff. Nate can stomach a lot more liquor than I—which probably results from me being our designated driver as soon as I got my license. It took Nate a few extra rounds to get his own, and our father swears to this day that teaching him how to drive was his biggest challenge.

“It’s a stomach flu! The whole Kappa Tau house is currently shitting their brains out,” Nate protests, offended by my assumption. “I didn’t even drink that much.”

“Well, drinking probably didn’t help!” I insist, but sigh the next moment. All my childish anger vanished when I finally checked his messages over lunch. Shitting your brains out is bad enough, but it’s worse if you actually get to play and not just warm the bench on the weekends.

Nate and I both entered the draft, but while I’m the 7th overall pick, my brother was only drafted in the 3rd round by the Pioneers. He has fought hard since then to stay on their radar. Finishing our degrees first instead of going directly to the NHL was a gamble we were both willing to take because of our parents. Dad may have played a few solid seasons, but his achievements have long since been forgotten. It’s his witty comments and sharp critiques in the Game Day podcast that he’s known for today.

Getting drafted doesn’t automatically mean getting signed by the team, but until last December, things looked great for me. The Rebels even reached out and offered their best wishes after my injury, but it’s been months since I last heard from them.

“Try this,” I command, as I hold a glass of Coke out to him. He groans as he slowly gets into an upright position, back leaned against the wall, his legs hanging over the bed frame. I place the glass into his shaky fingers then drop beside him onto the mattress.

“You’ll catch it,” he warns me in between the tiny sips he’s taking, his foot coming up in an attempt to push me off his bed.

“So? Not like I’ll see a lot of ice time next game,” I reply with a shrug. It’s a stupid comment that earns me a dark glare from my brother, but he also doesn’t contest my words. Instead, he points at the pack of pretzels that I quietly hand him a moment later.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to play like this on Saturday,” Nate breaks the silence after a while. He’s not looking at me as he talks, his fingers thoughtfully turning one of the small snacks over and over.

“Going to the doctor might help,” I suggest, although he’s probably right. He doesn’t look like he could even stand on his skates without help. Also, there’s the chance of infecting his teammates, so he would definitely be banned from training for the rest of the week.

“But I need to play!” he groans, rummaging around under his blanket until he’s lying on his side, facing me. “Coach said there’ll be Pioneer scouts at the next game. They’ll want to see me play.”

It’s how he got me to drop my lunch earlier, literally blowing up my phone with his freakout. I’m bitter that he didn’t mention the scouts to me before. I don’t want him to hide his success from me. As it is, Nate has a chance to go pro next year and I...might not. But I still want to be happy for him—and I want him to know that I am.

I also want to roll my eyes at him, because having a stomach flu is a luxury problem. It’s not like he’ll be permanently impaired from this.

“What you need is rest . What do you want to do about it? Barf on the ice? I mean, it would probably leave a lasting impression.”

My brother closes his eyes for a second, as if that will block out reality.

“It’s not like they can’t track your progress in other ways,” I continue, before he gets a chance to object. “The season just started. There’s so many games they can still watch.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Nate whispers.

“Easy for me to–” I’m about to blow up—from zero to sixty in one second flat—because he must be fucking joking right now, but he cuts me off instead.

“Yes, easy for you to say, Nicko. You were the Rebels’ first pick. You will be the one signing a contract after college. This year is my last chance, and I need to use every opportunity to prove myself!”

Nate has sat up in bed, his green eyes gleaming as he fixes them on me. For a moment I see his lower lip quivering before he flicks his tongue over it.

“But you’ve been doing great since last season. One game won’t change that,” I say soothingly, suppressing my own anger. We have had this conversation before. I should know better, but sometimes Nate’s witty remarks and bravado manage to trick even me into forgetting his chewed-off fingernails and red eyes during the seasons. “If the Pioneers can’t see that, it’s their loss.”

“Everyone says that, but no one believes it.”

I want to argue, but Nate doesn’t give me a chance. As soon as he leans back against the wall, the blanket pulled up under his chin, he continues: “You know it’s true! The Rebels are just an option for you, but it’s not your only shot. Any team would sign the 7th overall draft pick, Nicko. For me, it’s this or trying to make a living with a B.A. in literature.”

I hate it when my brother does this—steamrolling me with his words like a fucking bulldozer. I’m actually dizzy with emotions right now; so many things I want to say in return, but as usual, those words get lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.

“They’re not just an option for me, they’re the only one!” My voice trembles with everything I’m holding back, like the desire to shake some damn sense into him. “If they don’t sign me because of medical concerns, my draft spot won’t matter anymore. I’ll be labeled damaged goods, and no other team in the league will touch me.”

“Well, you gave up on it pretty fucking fast then,” Nate huffs as he turns his gaze away from me, his chin jutted out.

“What?”

“You heard me,” he snaps, but his voice is missing the heat. When he turns back in my direction, his green eyes are filled with desperation rather than irritation. “You have been sulking for weeks now about being put on fourth line, but you don’t really do anything about it.”

“Like what? Argue with Coach? Break De Andre’s leg?” It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. Not in earnest, obviously, but my thoughts have gotten away from me every once in a while. Although yesterday, I was fantasizing about breaking Hart’s leg after his stupid remark.

“Play for me.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said: Play for me.”

I hear him this time, but I definitely don’t understand him.

Nate sighs like I’m the dumbest person in the world before he repeats himself slowly and very loudly: “I. Said. Play. For. Me.”

“...hockey?!”

“No, Scrabble. Of course hockey, genius!”

“Why would I play for you?”

My brother throws both hands up. “Because we probably won’t be able to play on Saturday for our respective teams. You because you’re currently relegated to the rookie line and I for obvious reasons. But I need to remind the Pioneers that I’m worth the draft—and you need the damn ice time before you forget how to skate!”

“Wait. You want us to switch ?!”

Have you ever switched places is the most common question people ask when realizing I have a twin brother—right after oh my God, do you really look exactly the same and can you read each other’s minds .

Nate then likes to pull out the story about how he lined up twice for picture day in kindergarten, because I was scared of the camera’s flash.

We haven’t done anything like that in years, though.

“That’s nuts. You’re nuts,” I tell him, since I don’t need him to respond to my question. “And the answer is no, by the way. Jesus, Nate!”

“Why not?”

The fact that he has to ask makes me throw up my own hands in exasperation, mirroring him.

“Because it’s stupid! I can’t just play for another team, that’s…probably against a billion rules. Like I’d do that to them? Also, you don’t even need it. You’re out for a week or so. I’m sorry that I can’t muster up a lot of pity for that after I was out for months .”

“Taking my math test for me was probably against a billion and one rules, yet you still did it,” my brother reminds me, and I cringe. Yes, I probably wouldn’t repeat that, but we were in high school then.

“We’re not teenagers anymore. I can’t believe you even suggested it. With my knee, I might make matters worse for you! No!”

My brother is a dumbass. But instead of arguing with me, he just shrugs.

“Fine. Sit on the bench then.”