Ryan holds his hand out for my stick, and I pass it to him. “I don’t know,” he says, and shrugs at me wearing a conspiratorial smirk. “Sounded to me like Brandon got a few over on you.”
“Only because he’s a cheater,” Ander says and pounds his shoulders with his fists before crouching, ready to block a shot.
“I don’t cheat!” I shoot back at my brother.
Ryan laughs and pulls a ball to him with the blade of the stick, then wallops one into the net with an impressive backhanded shot. He looks at me, with that damn smirk I can’t look away from still planted on his face. “Do you think he’ll accuse me of cheating?”
“Nah.” I shake my head at the same time Ander says, “Dude! That was a nice one. You have to teach Brandon how to do that.”
Ryan gestures for me to come over and for some reason, my heart rate picks up. I’m nervous and want nothing more than to impress him. Or, at least, not embarrass myself more than I already did being caught mid-celly in my driveway.
“Hold it like this,” he says as he demonstrates how to place my hands on the stick to tighten up my grip for flinging the puck in backhanded. He hands me back my stick.
My palms are sweaty as I grab it, making it hard for me to get a good grip. It’s an unfortunate occurrence that’s been happening ever since Ryan showed up at our house. I hate it, and the way it coincides with a new fluttering in my stomach whenever a flash of Ryan enters my mind. I swallow. Not ready to think too much on what all of this means.
“Yeah, like that,” he says. With his foot, he slides a ball over. He looks at me with serious gray eyes. “Now just twist and flick the stick at the same time.”
Suddenly losing my ability to speak, I nod my head instead. Then, focusing on the ball resting against the back edge of my stick blade, I follow his instructions and fling it with all my might. It shoots way wide, missing the goal by at least ten feet and landing in the neighbor’s yard.
“Next time,” Ryan says, reaching over to ruffle my hair.
I have never felt more stupid.
THREE
Ryan
“Bouchard!” Coach Chris says at the pile of way too many bags on top of a humiliated-looking Brandon on the floor of the locker room. “Glad you made it, son. I heard you had some trouble with the weather.”
I eye Brandon up and down as he rises from the ground then drops his bags off his shoulders. He’s red faced, his hair’s a mess, and I can practically see his heart beating out of his chest. He looks so different from the last time I saw him except his eyes are the same, bright blue and desperately eager as he attempts to brush himself off.
I smile. He’s grown up. Standing at least six inches taller now since I last saw him, and he’s lost most of the baby fat from his body and his cheeks. But even with that, he’s still mostly how I remember him. Young, boyish, and doing a terrible job of hiding how excited he is to be here.
“Uh…” He blushes furiously as he rises back up onto his feet.
I probably shouldn’t have used the nickname we all called him when I was billeting with his family. Old habits die hard, I guess. Especially when you’re surprised by the explosive entrance of youronce temporary younger brother of sorts. And I do have to admit, it’s good to see him.
Coach Chris comes to his rescue and shakes his hand. “Your brother told me a lot about you. He never shuts up about your silky mitts.”
Somehow, Brandon blushes even more. I fight the urge to tease him about it like we always used to when he was younger. He’s always been quick to get red in the face, completely unable to hide his emotions. He better get that under control before everyone else in this locker room picks up on it.
“I hope I can live up to his hype,” Brandon says quietly. “Ander is a bit of an exaggerator.”
“Nonsense,” Coach Chris says and claps him on the shoulder. He points to the empty stall that Danton is standing next to, waiting with an outstretched hand. “Get changed and come meet the rest of us out on the ice.”
“Yes. Get changed, Baby Bouchard,” Ivanov teases as he walks up to him and shakes his hand. His Russian lilt makes it sound even worse than when I said it.
Brandon looks like he wants to get swallowed by the floor. A player only gets one chance to make a first impression and unfortunately, I might have just completely fucked his up.
Brandon
Of course that’s the first thing out of Ryan’s mouth when he sees me. No,how are you?No,I’ve been keeping up with your playing. No,it’s nice to have you here. Just right for the jugular with the teenage nickname from when he and his teammates needed to differentiate between me and my brother. Because, you know, simply calling us Ander and Brandon wasn’t potentially humiliating for one of us. Primarily me.
It didn’t help at the time that I was already humiliated enough in secret for a whole separate reason. Somewhere during his stay with us, I developed a crush on Ryan. While all my classmates andteammates were beginning to notice girls, my dumb young gay ass was having very uncomfortable thoughts about the boy with the piercing gray eyes and jet-black hair who was sitting across from me at the dinner table. That, compounded with the nickname, made for a very confusing nine months. After which, I was completely gutted when he left. If I’m being honest, I still feel some of those lingering emotions now. Something about Ryan has always stayed with me. Without a doubt, it’s why I’ve spent the last eight years following his career. And why it stings so much now that he clearly only sees me as Ander’s baby brother.
“So, what do we call you?” Danton Foley asks as I take my seat in the empty stall beside him. He grabs his stick to go out on the ice. “Can we just go with Baby? Baby Bouchard is a little long.”
“You could try Brandon,” I suggest, attempting to sound unbothered. “It works for everybody else in my life.”
