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“So, which team do you follow?” Erik asks and I’m about to break his darling heart.
“None of them.” I shrug. “When I still lived at home, I’d read when my dad put the games on.”
“That would explain everything.” Erik grins and nods at my reader.
“Don’t knock reading, I’m only friends with people who read. Ask Graham.”
“So you’d say we’re friends?” Erik asks.
“Would you not?” I don’t give him a chance to answer that question. “I know we don’t know much about each other, but I’d say we’re friends. Don’t tell me if I’m wrong, just let me die in denial.”
“We can be friends. Quinn,” Erik says. God, I should have just written him a note.Do you like me? Check yes or no. It would have been less juvenile than this conversation. “So your dad’s favorite player is Varg?”
I nod. “Yup. He’s followed him sinceyourfavorite team traded him here.” I’m assuming he likes Chicago, but maybe the jersey isn’t his any more than this one is mine.
Erik’s watching the guys battle it out for the puck at the centerline. All I see is a dog pile with a few stragglers hanging back waiting for scraps. Number twenty-five from the Arctic, Varg, breaks from the pack and makesa beeline down the ice. People jump to their feet, cheering as the goalie skates out of the net. With his big red pads on his legs and his hands up to block the puck, he looks like a giant crab. Varg slashes the puck to a teammate waiting to the goalie’s left.
The minute the goalie turns to block the new threat, the puck is fired back to twenty-five and then the siren blares as he puts the little black disc over the goalie’s blocker and into the back of the net. The vibe in the arena is intoxicating. The players slap each other on the back as the Jumbotron replays the goal. Music blares out of the speakers as most Arctic fans stand to cheer. Graham is screaming at the top of his lungs, arms stretching above his head.
“Arctic Goal from number twenty-five, Varg, assist from number sixteen, Oakes.”
The Jumbotron zooms in on Dad’s favorite as he skates towards the bench. His teammates pat him on the back as he goes by. For a moment, Victor glances up at the camera and winks. His hazel eyes stand out in stark contrast to his tanned face. His jaw and cheekbones could slice bread, and even from under his helmet and half shield—even under the patchy late-season beard—I can tell he is a dark golden blonde. I also recognize him. Not just because he’s our top goal-scorer this season. Not just because he’s my dad’s favorite. Not just because I drive past his shirtless body on a billboard every morning on my way to school, but because he looks just like…
“Brothers.” I whirl on Erik, who isn’t smiling, isn’t frowning, isn’t celebrating his brother’s goal. Histwin’sgoal. God, they have the exact. Same. Face. Are people that blind? Am I? Erik is watching me as if he’s waiting to see my reaction. “You have to be brothers. Twins.”
“Yep,” he says, his eyes never leaving mine, “Twins.”
The clock runs down the first period, and I still can’t pull my eyes away from Quinn. My brother files back into the locker room with the rest of his team, but the Jumbotron still displays his face and stats. I don’t need to wonder how Quinn figured it out. I’m more surprised that other people haven’t. Vic and I share a damn face, for fuck’s sake, but even Graham hasn’t noticed.
Our family has always downplayed the twin angle—according to his bio, Vic has two “siblings”—and I avoid going to games, but it still surprises me when I go undetected. When you spend the better part of your life being mistaken for someone else, it feels strange when people stop connecting the two of you. It feels like I’ve left something behind, except I don’t know what it is or where I might have left it.
I didn’t lie to her. I shared my name. I can’t hide my face, but now that she’s put two and two together, I feel guilty.
“Quinn…” the apology is on my tongue, ready and wrapped for delivery, but she cuts me off.
“How did I not figure it out sooner?” Her brows and nose crinkle in the cutest look of confusion. “Are you here incognito?” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I won’t say anything. Promise. Except to my dad. I’m sorry, but I have to tell him I sat with a Varg.”
“It’s not a secret,” I say. I feel lighter now that she seems giddy instead of pissed. “It’s just not advertised. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
“Sorry? God no.” Quinn shakes her head until her curls bounce into her face. “You don’t owe me any of that. We barely know each other.”
She’s right, of course. We barely know each other. We’ve been sitting together for a little over an hour now and beyond her name and her occupation I know she loves her dad and loves to read. I want to know more. I want to know everything, but I can’t ask. Not unless I’m willing to share some information of my own. That’s a terrifying thought. Beyond my therapist and my family, we don’t bring up the past. Not ever. Especially not with the strangely beautiful woman that fate threw into my path.
Not that I put any stock in fate or destiny. I can’t. Both have screwed me over far too much for me to be a believer now.
On Quinn’s other side, Graham’s family has left the row, probably in search of food or souvenirs or the bathroom. She hasn’t made a move to leave her seat, but I could move and offer her an escape. It would be easier for me to step out of the row and let her pass than to make her pick her way through the rest of the narrow seats. The people behind us have cleared out too, and even with the music playing over the speakers, it’s about as calm as arenas ever get during a game. I don’t want to waste this relative privacy. Not for a moment.
“Hi.” I hold out my hand for Quinn to shake. “My name is Erik Varg. I’m a thirty-one-year-old therapist from Chicago. I have a twin brother, an older sister, and a giant cat named Loki. I’ve run the Chicago marathon twice, and both times felt like I was dying. I hate flying and I have a complicated relationship with my family, so I don’t see them as often as I should. I’m in town for work, but if I had to spend the evening at my brother’s game, I couldn’t resist repping my hometown just to mess with him. Clearly it isn’t working.”
“Hi Erik. It’s nice to meet you.” Her grin is blinding in its intensity, all full lips and white teeth, and warmth. “I’m Quinn Cooper. I am twenty-nine, an art teacher and I work at my old alma mater. It’s always been just me and my dad, although I currently live with my roommate Jen--she’s one of my coworkers--and my cat Tesseract. Tessie for short. I do not run. I played volleyball in high school and sometimes I dance while vacuuming. I spend my free time reading or painting. I don’t know if I like to fly because I’ve never been on a plane, I’ve never been ice skating and, despite my dad’s season tickets, this is the first time I’ve ever been to an NHL game.”
“How are you liking it so far?” I ask, and my heart is in my throat as I wait for her reply.
“So far,” she holds my gaze for a moment before looking back over the ice, “So far I’ve been pleasantly surprised.”
I have been too.
I suck up every piece of information Quinn lays down and immediately want more. Would it be weird to suggest a cat play date? Tesseract and Loki sound like a match made in heaven. Even if I’m losing my mind. It’s absolutely ridiculous. We don’t live in the same state. I haven’t even asked for her phone number yet. Or permission to contact her after the game. I’m going to ask. Soon.
