Page 9

Nicko, October 19th

T omorrow is Saturday.

This is my mantra as I follow Xander and two other Bats down the stairs of the eerily quiet dorm. It’s half past four in the fucking morning—the only time where you could probably hear a pin drop in these hallways, since the partygoers have finally climbed into bed while the early birds are still nestled in their warm blankets.

And then there’s us, sneaking out like burglars in joggers and running shoes.

I’m almost certain that I’ve been found out and this is the team’s punishment for me. No way in hell does Nate have a standing runner’s date at half-past four in the morning! Not my outgoing, party animal of a brother, who is the first to enter and the last to leave a dance floor!

Then again, this is not the only new thing I have learned about my twin over the past few days. Apparently, Nate has been living a completely different life here at St. Bernard’s, because the last time I checked, he detested morning sport just as much as I do.

There is already a small group of other SBU athletes waiting for us outside. They have formed a small circle, chatting softly among themselves while stretching on the damp pavement.

A gust of wind greets us as we step through the big doors, shocking me into an absolute standstill. The cool air sneaks under my shirt and grazes my bare arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind. Fucking hell, this is madness!

“You okay?”

Hart throws me a wary look as I shiver pitifully from head to toe.

“Yes,” I bite out, but I actually mean no. Nothing is okay. It’s my fourth day in my brother’s life, and I’m officially at a new low.

I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep since I’m not used to sharing a room anymore. Every rustling of covers has me startling at night, not to mention the constant traffic in the hallways. I had all but forgotten how busy the dorms are. Add to that the hours of working through the syllabus of my own missed classes while at the same time desperately trying to pretend I have read Shakespear’s fever dreams, and I’m all but crawling after the guys as they start down one of the dark trails.

Hart falls into a slow jog next to me, and I bite my tongue to prevent any snark from slipping out. I would prefer to suffer on my own, but he already commented on me hiding in the library all day yesterday.

“Where’s your phone?” he asks me as he puts his earplugs in.

“Forgot it upstairs,” I answer through gritted teeth. I can feel my stomach cramping up, clearly confused and angry why I’m putting it through this ordeal before breakfast.

Hart doesn’t say anything in return. Instead, he hands me one of the black earplugs Nate got him for last year’s Christmas. I want to refuse on principle but still reach out after he leaves his hand hanging between us. I discreetly wipe it on my shirt—I don’t want Hart’s earwax in my auditory canal—while he is busy selecting a playlist.

I’m not sure what I expected. Probably some good guy music that fits his poster boy nature. He seems like a radio type of person. Someone who would shrug and tell you they listen to everything, really, as long as the curse words get bleeped out.

I almost lose my footing when instead of Ed Sheeran’s soft voice there’s a hard guitar riff blasting out my eardrum. I spend the next hour getting screamed at in my left ear while stumbling over the abandoned SBU campus.

Halfway through our round, rain sets in, spraying us with fine droplets and mixing with the sweat that runs down our backs and necks. I lick over my lower lip, the salty taste leaving a sharp echo on my tongue.

This—wet, sweaty, hungry, tired and experiencing an exclusive metal concert in my head—is my personal hell.

Nate owes me big time.

The dorms are already rising up before us when it happens. My muscles burn from the unfamiliar strain of running on muddy ground and uneven paths without getting a proper stretch first. I have never had the endurance or patience for long distance running. My strength is the sudden explosion of speed when a game turns, creating a breakaway and allowing me to fly down the ice. I tap into that mindset now when I spot the red brick walls of the dorms stretching toward the gray morning sky.

My thoughts are already ahead of me, in the hot shower, as I overtake the whole group. One after the other they start chasing me, hollering at my back, but none of them are able to catch up.

One moment I’m racing down the path, soft clods of earth flying from the soles of my shoes, the next I’m stumbling over a fallen branch. My hands break the fall, sharp pebbles digging into my palms as I hit the ground, but my thoughts are elsewhere.

My knee.

Not my fucking knee again.

A few guys overtake me, but by the time I sit up, there’s already a small group around me. I’m grabbed under the arms and dragged to my feet.

“Are you okay?” A freckled face pushes into my vision, and I recognize Taylor. He’s handing me the earplug I must have lost during my fall.

“Fine,” I grit out, suddenly feeling a little bad over the fights I picked with the D-man over the past few days. “Just…bumped my knee in a funny way.”

I peer down at the body part in question. It’s throbbing angrily, the dark material of the jogger slightly torn. The spot is damp beneath my fingers, but I can’t possibly distinguish blood from rain in the gloomy morning light.

I take a careful step in the direction of the dorms, then another. It’s fine until I try putting my entire weight on it, and suddenly a sharp pain zings through me.

My heart squeezes as the images of my surgery flood my brain. All I see are bandages and crutches, my career shattering right before me as I gasp for my next breath.

There’s not enough air. The shirt around my torso is way too tight, caging me in. My hands claw on it, trying to rip it away when I’m grabbed by the shoulders.

“Nate! Fuck, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know, man, I– he just– zoned out on me or something.” I hear someone say.

The voices around me sound far away, like my ears are filled with cotton. I remember the disoriented shouting from when I lay sprawled out helplessly on the ice, unable to get up on my own while my teammates discussed my condition over my head.

It’s all happening again.

It can’t be happening again.

I’m whirled around and then there’s a damp forehead pressing against my own, a rough voice commanding my attention.

“Breathe, Nate.”

And I breathe.

Stuttering and heaving at first, my chest rises far too quickly. I feel a bit dizzy from how hard my heart smashes against my ribcage, a vein pulsing in my temple.

“My knee,” I croak out to them—to Taylor and Hart, who is awfully close to me, his hot breath ghosting over my sweaty skin. I bring a hand up between us, pushing against his chest to get some space.

My palms meet his solid pecs. It’s like trying to topple over a brick wall.

He doesn’t move an inch. Instead, his hands reach for my wrists, gently pulling on them until I give in. Wordlessly he directs one arm around his shoulder while Taylor comes up at my other side. As we slowly limp back toward the dorms, a few of the others circle back, asking about what happened and offering me a sip of water.

I don’t understand anything that is being said. My mind is far away, already making up scenarios of a second surgery, of sitting at home and watching Hart start in his first NHL game while the Rebels have completely forgotten about me.

I’ll be useless to them.

“You’re not useless. Jesus, Nate, what is even going on with you?” Hart’s blue eyes drill into mine when I finally blink myself back to reality. Somehow, they managed to maneuver me back into the dorm room.

I must have said that last part out loud as I’m being lowered onto Nate’s bed, the rain and mud seeping into the white bedding.

“I’m just gonna–” Taylor starts, but Hart dismisses him with a wave of his hand. There’s the soft rustling of a bag, and then a chocolate bar is pressed into my palm.

“Not hungry,” I tell him, although I keep holding on to it. It gives my fingers a purpose, something to prevent them from shaking.

Hart doesn’t answer. Instead, he kneels in front of me, his fingers probing and prodding at my right knee.

“Does this hurt?” he asks as he gently rotates my leg left to right, just like the doctors did countless times.

I quietly stare down at his hands. I never noticed how long and delicate his fingers are, something you would expect of an artist rather than a hockey player.

“It’s okay,” I answer belatedly. The chaos in my head has quieted down, my nerves calming slowly as he bends my knee, then stretches it again without any pain. He brushes over my kneecap, and I jump on reflex when the discomfort returns.

Hart halts in his movements, frowning.

“It’s probably just bruised?” I ask while looking at Hart. It was meant as a statement, but I need someone else to confirm this for me.

“I guess. But if you’re in serious pain, you should go see the doc.” Hart is visibly unsettled by my reaction, and I can’t even fault him. A year ago, I wouldn’t have blinked at a bruised knee, let alone have it stop me from going onto the ice.

But there’s a constant fear living inside my chest now. I’m not the player I was a year ago—and I’m certainly not my brother, with two healthy knee joints and untouched ligaments. Returning after one rupture is difficult, but two in one year would put a death sentence to all my dreams.

Our dreams, I remind myself as I fist the thin material of Nate’s sheets. It’s not just about me. We have wanted to do this, play in the NHL together, for as long as I can remember. And I was supposed to make this happen for him with this weekend’s game!

I grit my teeth. “No doctor. I need to be on the ice tomorrow.”

“Don’t be stupid, Nate. If you’re hurt you need to get it checked out. We can manage a game without you,” Hart argues.

For the first time all week, I’m curious if my brother told him about the scouts coming to see him play. Not that he needs to worry about such things—he got drafted five picks after me. Unlike my brother, we are both likely to be contracted by our team right after graduation.

Or at least Hart is.

Nate, however, still has to fight to keep the Pioneers’ attention. Tomorrow’s game is important to him, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked me to do this.

I take a deep breath, then carefully bend and stretch my knee again.

“No doctor. I’m playing.”

“Why are you so damn stubborn lately?” Hart curses as I watch his fingers card through the black strands of his hair in exasperation. “I’m not saying you can’t play. Just…let me look at it.”

Before I can react in any way, he starts to push my pant leg up my shin, exposing my skin. My hands reach out to wrap around his wrists, stopping him just in time.

An inch further and he would have uncovered my scars.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” I hiss.

Hart blinks at me like a deer caught in the proverbial headlights, his blue eyes widened in surprise. A heartbeat passes without either of us moving, my fingers still clamped around his wrists like human shackles, then he leans back.

“Fine,” he snaps, shaking my hold off as he climbs up from his position on the floor.

A moment later, the door slams shut.