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I have practice six days a week, strength and conditioning three times a week. And hockey practice at college level? It’s not just showing up to play hockey for an hour. If you want to be successful, you put in the work day after day, which means arriving at the rink an hour or two early and staying an hour late to improve your performance and work on your weak spots.
And that’s just one half of my life. I also have to fit in classes. I’ve always had a good head for numbers, so I’m majoring in mathematics, which tends to feel like a dumb-ass decision half the time because of the sheer workload it entails.
Whatever free time I have left between practice, gym, and classes, I spend studying and working out some more.
It’s a lot of hard work. A lot of pain and exhaustion, both physical and mental, and I ignore it on a daily basis. You need a crap-load of discipline, because when you need to get shit done, you need to get shit done, and it doesn’t matter that there are more appealing options out there.
It’s worth it. The effort that goes into living life the way I do. Always has been. Because I get to play.
Hockey has always come easy to me. Yeah, sure, not everything that goes into it—all the early practices, workouts, sacrifices and what have you. But the game itself? Effortless love right from the start. I was four when I got my first pair of skates. Flying across the ice at full speed is the kind of freedom you get nowhere else. I control the puck. See opportunities. I feel the game.
Everything else is life. Life and its usual ups and downs, with the occasional bout of the mundane in it.
Hockey is joy.
I know I’m lucky. I’m lucky I get to play, and I’m lucky that I have the talent to be at the top.
Luck and hard work.
The point is, my plate is full and my time is limited, so yes, I have better things to do. Or at least things that are more necessary than volunteering myself as free labor.
“I have a car,” I say. “It’d be easier than taking the train. Quicker, too.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and narrows his eyes. “Why?”
I’d answer that question if I had an answer.
I don’t.
So I just shrug and hold his gaze. I’m going to out-stubborn him. That’s a hell of an ambitious plan.
I don’t get to find out if I’d manage, because we’re interrupted by the door of the restaurant opening and people spilling out. Laughter rings out. The study group calls out their goodbyes. There’s the click of heels, and then Emily is standing next to me, holding out my jacket to me.
“Here,” she says with a smile before she nods toward the restaurant. “They’re closing. We overstayed our welcome.”
I take the jacket from her hands and shrug it on. “Thanks.”
She waves me off, her gaze moving to Lake, full of curiosity.
“This is Lake,” I say. “He’s my…” I pause, trying to find the word to describe what Lake is. A friend? No. Not exactly friends, are we?
There’s a moment when I try to imagine what Emily would do if I told her Lake was my husband. On second thought, it’s not so much a question of what Emily would do as it is a question of what Lake would do. Or what I would do, for that matter.
“Brother,” Lake supplies.
That’s not really true either, but I don’t think it’s essential to start a philosophical discussion about what exactly Lake and I are to each other. Might be there isn’t even a word to describe us.
“Stepbrother,” I correct. The distinction feels very important all of a sudden.
Emily nudges me with her shoulder and sends Lake a friendly smile he doesn’t return before she focuses her attention back on me. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
She’s almost a head shorter than me.
Her smile is full of warmth.
She’s nice. So fucking nice.
Also hot.
