Artemis is the only reason I haven’t completely flared out and fucked up beyond repair. Speak of the devil, the man himself saunters over to the bench where I’m sitting.“¿Estás bien?”
“Sí. Estoy bien.Why does everyone keep asking me that?” By everyone, I mean two people, but that’s two too many.
He surveys me, assessing. I can hide a lot of things from a lot of people, but my twin brother knows me better than anyone. His brows pull together as he checks around us, I assume for eavesdroppers. “Is she okay?”
Grabbing my helmet from the bench beside me, I grunt. “No,hermano. She’s not. She’s drowning, and I can’t save her.”
He shakes his head. “You know it’s not your job to save her, right? She can save herself. Your role is to remind her of that.”
Sometimes my brother is so sensible I want to spit. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to rescue her, though.”
He nods, like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. But he doesn’t—he can’t. Papá isn’t breathing down his neck all the time. His best friend isn’t sinking deeper into depression because she can’t do the one thing she lives for. He doesn’t have this... this... consuming, overpowering love fizzing through his body and the woman he loves thinking it’s because he saw white light at the end of a dark fucking tunnel.
I need to get my mind in the game. Hockey is my happy place, the one space where, from the moment I first stepped out on the ice as a child, I’ve felt like I belonged.
Except from the second the first puck drops, I can’t get my shit together. It’s as though I left my brain in the locker room, and my legs.
Carajo.
Raffi sails the puck my direction. It’s an easy pass, one we’ve made a million times before, one we could do in our sleep, and I miss it. Cincinnati turns the puck over and head back toward center ice as Raffi gives me a “What the fuck, man?” look before chasing after it.
I wish I could give him an answer, but right now I don’t know “what the fuck?”
If I don’t get my shit together, it’ll be one more reason for Papá to give me a hard time when the game ends. Not going to happen. He has enough ammunition after the deal with the new avionics parts suppliers I was working on through the holidays wasn’t as good as he’d have liked.
Turning on the ice, I hunt down the Viper who picked my pocket.
If daddy dearest wanted a better deal, perhaps he should have done it his fucking self. Excuse me if I don’t want to gouge the shit out of people. It’s not how I do business.
Checking the Cincinnati defenseman into the boards, I take back possession of the puck, the crowd going wild at the impact. I’m not letting him ruin this for me.
Ever since I was old enough to skate, I’ve wanted to play in the NHL. Artemis plays because I play. Ares started out because he wanted to be like his older brothers, but he’s got more natural talent in his pinky finger than Artemis and I combined, though I’d never tell him that of course. His ego doesn’t need it.
All three of us started playing because of my dream. Theo Fleury always said that when he started skating, he wasn’t dreaming of playing in the NHL, he was preparing for it. That’s how it is for me—it’s in my bones, my soul, the very blood pumping through my veins. I was destined to be a professional hockey player on the ice at the Meredith Arena in Des Moines.
It’s a secret I’ve cradled in my chest for my entire life. Something I can never let Papá near because he’d destroy it. As long as he thinks it’s a silly little hobby that I enjoy, it’s safe.
I zip past Cincinnati’s center, energy zinging through my muscles as I cross the middle of the ice and approach their blue line. This arena is my domain. Countless hours of skating under my belt. I’ve shot at the net from every single spare inch of the ice pad, some days blind folded, with the sole intention of improving my game. I want to be the best.
Re-watching goalie tapes is my hobby. I study them, fastidiously. So much so that even Edith has become familiar with some of them. The motherfucker staring me down right now as I approach the net? He’s a cocky prick who tends to wander too far from his crease. I need to get him a little farther out, and there’s a goal with my name on it.
An hour a day, minimum. When my papers are done for school, and Papá is placated with our twice daily calls, I learn every strength and weakness of every goalie on every roster in the NCAA, NHL goalies too.
As Sun Tzu says, “If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle.” I only know that because Artemis told me that’s what Sun Tzu wrote in theArt of War.
It’s almost too easy, the biscuit goes in the basket, lighting the lamp, and the crowd roars, but at the last second the Cincinnati goalie hooks my skate, bringing us both down in a heap in his crease.
Strong hands not wearing green and white haul me off the netminder, so I psych myself up for a scuffle when my skates hit the ice.
Before I can blink, I’m surrounded by members of my team. Artemis flanks my left, and Scott on my right. Staring down the defenseman who still has my shirt clenched in his fist, silently threatening him to start something.
Part of me wishes he would. My gloves are already inching toward the ice. If this asshole wants to punish me for his goalie being a dick, then bring it. I wave off my defensemen. This is my battle, and I’m prepared to fight it.
The refs intervene, but the defender and I stay squared off until we’re pulled apart.
I pick up another two points on the ice before the game ends, but it doesn’t cure the itching under my skin. Bands of frustration tighten around my chest making it hard to breathe as I skate off the ice and make my way into the locker room.
Before I get undressed, I dig out my cell.
