Page 7

Nicko, October 17th

I ’m already warmed up when I arrive at St. Bernard’s rink in the afternoon, my cheeks flushed from jogging across campus the whole day. Unlike Bonham Tech, which sits smack dab in the city’s center, with its cluster of modern glass and steel rectangles, St. Bernard’s grounds stretch from the shores of Lake Champlain to the outskirts of Bonham on one side and to the edges of the forest on the other. The campus is decorated with huge stone buildings that remind me of century-old universities in Europe, with their elaborate designs and massive stone steps. I almost expect the students around me to whip out wands from underneath their fancy sweaters and wool coats. Oaks and birches line the paths, the fallen leaves rustling beneath our steps as everyone shuffles from one class to the next.

I have only ever been to Nate’s dorm and the rink, so navigating campus has been an adventure. The buildings aren’t simply numbered or associated with faculties. Instead, they have fancy names like “Hemingway Hall” or “Dickens Dorms”. I feel as lost around here as I have in Nate’s classes, where a stocky professor in a tweed jacket droned on about syntax and sentence structure.

My stomach rumbles in protest as I pull open the heavy glass doors to the rink. I’d only eaten half of the fried noodles Hart got me, claiming some leftover stomach issues, while my intestines must have suffered severe burns from all the hot sauce. Unlike Nate, I don’t handle spicy food well, which is why I generally avoid Asian takeaways and never bothered to learn how to use chopsticks. I was lucky Hart was so fixated on his cell phone and the little puzzle game that he missed most of my struggle.

Panting, I race down the large corridor, right past a massive glass cabinet displaying all the trophies the Bats have won over the last decades. The university’s ice hockey program has an excellent reputation, although their most glorious days are in the past. They actually managed to bring home the Frozen Four trophy thrice in a row before Kip McCoy and his peers from Bonham Tech ended that winning streak. Since then, neither the Bats nor the Badgers have managed to claim it.

There’s a buzzing coming out of my pocket just as I screech to a stop in the middle of the hallway, unsure if I need to go left or right. I’ve only ever entered the arena from the visitors’ side. It’s far larger than I assumed. Not as modern as our facilities but equipped with small details that scream wealth and old money.

I decide to go right as I simultaneously root around for Nate’s phone in my pocket. The glimpse at the unfamiliar lock screen and my own name popping up in the unread messages are still throwing me off. Switching our phones was the sensible thing to do in order to make this ludicrous scheme work, but I don’t like the idea of my twin brother having full access to my texts and chats. We don’t keep a lot of secrets from one another, which is probably why I hold a few topics even closer to my chest.

For a moment I debate on leaving the messages unread, since I’m already running late, but I’m also desperately waiting for the solution to that stupid five-letter word puzzle Hart and my brother are apparently so invested in. Until today, I didn’t even know what a Wordle was, let alone that Nate was doing it every day.

C’mon, it’s super easy.

I’ll give you a hint!

What letters do you have already?

I stare at my cell phone screen for a moment, utterly dumbfounded.

The word nate

Don’t text my name! What if someone is reading over your shoulder?

I NEED THE PUCKING WORD!

*DUCKING

“Argh!”

**FUCKING

I actually yell the last part out loud at my phone when a door opens at the end of the hallway and Hart’s dark head pops out. His eyes widen almost comically when he stares at me, then his lips curl up into a crooked grin.

“Maybe after training, if you’re still up for it then,” he jokes while I jog toward him, too relieved to have found a way out of this maze to comment on it.

The best comebacks always take two weeks to come to me.

I squeeze through the door and past him, which isn’t all that easy with the huge duffel bag on my shoulder and Hart already having suited up. The guy’s a freaking giant, towering over most of the other players. It’s one of the many things I despise about him—how he’s literally able to look down on me every time we face off. We try to minimize our interaction on an everyday level—something that has just become much harder over the past twelve hours—but on the ice, all bets are off. Whatever respect we might have had for each other vanished after that fucking interview at the end of freshman year.

“What took you so long?” Hart wants to know while following me through the locker room. I awkwardly fumble around, bumping fists here and there while forcing a cheerful smile onto my face.

“Hey man!”

“What’s up brother?”

“Bro!”

I cringe inwardly. Although I hear Nate talking like that every day, the words feel wrong coming out of my own mouth.

“Class took longer,” I mumble an explanation while eyeing the room to try and figure out where Nate’s locker is located. I didn’t even think to ask about it! Unbeknownst to him, Hart saves me again when he takes a seat on the bench to put his skates on, alerting me to the empty space beside him. I march over and set my duffel down, then weigh my head.

Nate didn’t bother to give me the combination for his lock.

Since we spent most of our lives in the same locker room I still feel confident when I set the little numbers to his birth date.

The door doesn’t budge.

I frown as I check the setting again: 1116.

Nothing.

For the shortest moment I doubt myself, like I would have forgotten my own twin’s birthday, then decide to switch it up: 1611.

Still nothing.

There’s a wave of panic washing over me. How dare he change his stupid lock combination that he used his whole life!

Clearly, this was a dumb idea. A terrible, stupid, dumb idea! The last time we did this, we still lived under the same roof, meaning I didn’t have to guess where his locker was situated and didn’t have to fumble for his friends’ names. I also didn’t get lost on his school grounds because we shared the same classes.

I reach for the cell again.

PASSWORD

I type, my fingers shaking from stress, while Hart looks at me warily.

“Everything alright?” he asks, those intense blue eyes narrowing suspiciously as I nod.

“Yeah, just…forgot my code,” I tell him. I try for an easy laugh, the one Nate uses when he’s forgotten a task or date, but it comes out high-pitched and almost hysterical.

Hart raises a brow at that, his hand stretching out as if to check my forehead for temperature, which has me leaning back on instinct.

“You forgot your brother’s birthday?” He looks at me skeptically, his hand hovering in the air between us before he slowly pulls it back.

“Right!” I press out between clenched teeth. My fingers turn the last number from 6 to 7 and the door pops open.

***

The Bats are already doing their stretches when I bumble out onto the ice. I brace for a proper dressing down, but all I receive is a sharp look from one of the Assistant Coaches before I’m shooed off to join the group.

As per my usual, I settle a little distance away from the main pack, only realizing my mistake when Hart twists to throw a bewildered look over his shoulder. Clearly my brother would never choose to stretch in peaceful silence if he could be right in the center to entertain the crowd, but I can’t be bothered right now.

I pretend to be too focused to see Hart’s little wave while I give special attention to my bad knee.

I expected training to be fairly similar to our daily regime at Tech, but after we are done with stretching, the guys slowly skate to center ice. Still idly chatting amongst each other, they form a circle.

I follow the pack reluctantly, this time taking care to position myself next to Hart—he’s the only player I recognize without taking a look at the number on his back. Once everyone has found a spot, they all sink down. I quickly try to hide my confusion but still am the last to sit. I glance in the direction of the coaches, but they’re busy talking among themselves. Except for puking or fainting, there is not a second of training in which Coach Kovachev would allow us to sit around on our butts.

I almost miss one of my new teammates getting up and skating around us, only putting the puzzle pieces together when I am literally hit over the head with the solution as he yells “GOOSE!”

It takes a crucial second for me before my childhood memories have caught up, propelling me onto my feet. Number 31 has almost half a circle lead on me when I finally chase after him. I have always been a quick skater—being built on the lighter side helps a lot—and I’m definitely not losing against a Bat in a preschool game.

I whip past my temporary teammates, legs pumping hard. Just before #31 makes it to my spot, I reach for the back of his jersey and give him a shove so he sails past it. The guys holler with laughter when he barely manages to keep his footing then has to start round two under their playful ribbing and teasing.

“Someone is having a good day,” Hart grins at me, holding out his fist to bump. I’m eyeing it skeptically for a moment, not sure if he’s mocking me since I’m having everything but a good day, before carefully bumping my knuckles against his.

It’s weird, making nice with him, when the only comments he usually spares me are full of snark and disdain. I’m saved from the awkward interaction when Hart is chosen to chase around the circle. With a small grin on my lips, I watch as he falls behind #31.

The rest of the training is more of what I’m used to. Divided into two groups, the coaches have us run stickhandling drills for the next forty minutes. During this time, I get more party invites than I have received in a year. I give a non-committal answer to all of them, claiming that my stomach is not quite alright yet.

“Maybe you should have a stomach bug more often,” Hart comments when he falls in line behind me after another round of skating around obstacles and having to switch hands before scoring on an empty net.

I raise my brows at this, not sure what he’s hinting at.

“So I stay in more often and keep your grumpy ass company?” I try for a teasing tone as I fiddle with my glove. The laugh coming out of Hart’s mouth catches me so completely off-guard that I actually drop it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh; definitely not around me, but also not during the draft or the interviews he gave for his social media piece.

Hart is more the polite-smiles type of guy.

“Well, you should have a lot of experience with that,” he tells me, and in response to my confused smile adds, “Because of your lame-ass brother?”

My stomach sinks at his words as I bend down for my glove. I seize the opportunity to smooth out my expression and give a vague grunt in return. Would Nate agree to this? Moan about his antisocial brother who never wants to go out?

I never made Nate stay with me, but I can’t deny that he’s been by my side during a lot of Friday nights, especially after my injury.

As my mind spins with questions, Hart has already moved on.

“I meant your backhand,” he points out when I’m standing upright again. “It’s improved a lot! Have you been secretly practicing without me?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a grin from spreading on my lips.

“Sure did,” I call back over my shoulder as I take on the obstacles again, whirling past them and easily switching the puck from my forehand to my backhand and finally sending it into the empty net.

“With my lame-ass brother.”

My bravado vanishes quickly when I line up for the scrimmage with the rest of the Bats. My first mistake is an obvious one as I skate to my usual position—only to find it is already taken.

“Coming to do my job for me, Hoff?” Baker grins at me as I realize that pretending to be Nate means I have to move over to the right wing now. It should not be that difficult considering I have played every forward position at some point in my life. However, thinking about this creates a huge knot in my head that causes me to question every move I make on the ice for the next few minutes.

The drills might have come easy to me, but it’s just now that I realize Nate’s skates are rubbing my heels and pinching my toes in an uncomfortable manner, and his stick doesn’t provide me with the flexibility I’m used to.

“Hoff! Move your ass back, boy!”

I glower at the Assistant Coach who’s yelling at me from the sidelines. He reminds me of a bulldog with the way he has been yapping at our defense for the past few minutes. I’ve quickly realized that Nate’s line is moving slower than what I’m used to. The Bats aren’t the fastest skaters, but they work as a kind of fortress, playing a very compact game. Our own blueliners and I have a mutual understanding that I don’t interfere in their defensive zone until I absolutely have to, and I’m happy with that. Knowing I have a strong defense at my back provides me with a lot of freedom for my own forward game.

Not so much here.

Taylor has been throwing his hands up at me for the third time in under two minutes. I want to remind him about both our roles in this game but bite my tongue instead. It’s not like I have scored a goal yet.

“Sorry!” I call out instead, trying to look sheepish even though my chin juts out in defiance. Taylor calls something back at me, but I ignore it. As soon as the puck collides with my stick I turn around to fly down the ice. I send a pass to my left when I see Hart has caught up to me, expecting him to return the favor when I use the time to maneuver myself into a better shooting position, but he has already taken the chance on his own.

The black rubber disc goes flying into the glove of the goalie, and I seethe.

“Eyes?” I call out in annoyance. “You have those, right? I was free!”

Our team wins the scrimmage with a lucky shot from Baker. I’m a bit smug since I was the one to provide him with the assist, but overall, I just feel exhausted. The whole game is so obviously tailored to Hart. I knew that from endless hours of tape watching, but it feels worse when being expected to seamlessly fit into the machinery of feeding him passes. Getting sacked by the Rebels would almost be a relief under these circumstances. I can’t imagine having to put up with his entitled ass every day.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout at you,” I grumble half-heartedly as we come together at the end of training. I fully meant it, but unfortunately for me, Nate would never.

“Don’t sweat it,” Hart waves me off, but his blue eyes observe me with caution. I turn my head away. The stare is unnerving, like he’s trying to x-ray my brain with it, those blue irises sifting through its layers until he finally discovers that I’m not just having an off day.

At the end of practice, I expect a summary of our shortcomings, but as we shuffle off the ice, I get a pat on the back from the Head Coach.

“Nice assist, Nate. Keep it up,” he tells me, not mentioning my lack of backward movement that had our defense so upset.

I blink, then mumble a quick “Thanks” as I follow the rest of the team to the showers.