“So? Not like I’ll see a lot of ice time next game,” I reply with a shrug. It’s a stupid comment that earns me a dark glare from my brother, but he also doesn’t contest my words. Instead, he points at the pack of pretzels that I quietly hand him a moment later.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to play like this on Saturday,” Nate breaks the silence after a while. He’s not looking at me as he talks, his fingers thoughtfully turning one of the small snacks over and over.
“Going to the doctor might help,” I suggest, although he’s probably right. He doesn’t look like he could even stand on his skates without help. Also, there’s the chance of infecting his teammates, so he would definitely be banned from training for the rest of the week.
“But Ineedto play!” he groans, rummaging around under his blanket until he’s lying on his side, facing me. “Coach said there’ll be Pioneer scouts at the next game. They’ll want to see me play.”
It’s how he got me to drop my lunch earlier, literally blowing up my phone with his freakout. I’m bitter that he didn’t mention the scouts to me before. I don’t want him to hide his success from me. As it is, Nate has a chance to go pro next year and I...might not. But I still want to be happy for him—and I want him toknowthat I am.
I also want to roll my eyes at him, because having a stomach flu is a luxury problem. It’s not like he’ll be permanently impaired from this.
“What you need isrest. What do you want to do about it? Barf on the ice? I mean, it would probably leave a lasting impression.”
My brother closes his eyes for a second, as if that will block out reality.
“It’s not like they can’t track your progress in other ways,” I continue, before he gets a chance to object. “The season just started. There’s so many games they can still watch.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Nate whispers.
“Easy formeto–” I’m about to blow up—from zero to sixty in one second flat—because he must be fuckingjokingright now, but he cuts me off instead.
“Yes, easy foryouto say, Nicko.Youwere the Rebels’ first pick.Youwill be the one signing a contract after college. This year is my last chance, and I need to use every opportunity to prove myself!”
Nate has sat up in bed, his green eyes gleaming as he fixes them on me. For a moment I see his lower lip quivering before he flicks his tongue over it.
“But you’ve been doing great since last season. One game won’t change that,” I say soothingly, suppressing my own anger. We have had this conversation before. I should know better, but sometimes Nate’s witty remarks and bravado manage to trick even me into forgetting his chewed-off fingernails and red eyes during the seasons. “If the Pioneers can’t see that, it’s their loss.”
“Everyone says that, but no one believes it.”
I want to argue, but Nate doesn’t give me a chance. As soon as he leans back against the wall, the blanket pulled up under his chin, he continues: “You know it’s true! The Rebels are justan optionfor you, but it’s not your only shot. Any team would sign the 7th overall draft pick, Nicko. For me, it’s this or trying to make a living with a B.A. in literature.”
I hate it when my brother does this—steamrolling me with his words like a fucking bulldozer. I’m actually dizzy with emotions right now; so many things I want to say in return, but as usual,those words get lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
“They’re not justan optionfor me, they’re theonlyone!” My voice trembles with everything I’m holding back, like the desire to shake some damn sense into him. “If they don’t sign me because of medical concerns, my draft spot won’t matter anymore. I’ll be labeled damaged goods, and no other team in the league will touch me.”
“Well, you gave up on it pretty fucking fast then,” Nate huffs as he turns his gaze away from me, his chin jutted out.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he snaps, but his voice is missing the heat. When he turns back in my direction, his green eyes are filled with desperation rather than irritation. “You have been sulking for weeks now about being put on fourth line, but you don’t reallydoanything about it.”
“Like what? Argue with Coach? Break De Andre’s leg?” It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. Not in earnest, obviously, but my thoughts have gotten away from me every once in a while. Although yesterday, Iwasfantasizing about breaking Hart’s leg after his stupid remark.
“Play for me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said: Play for me.”
I hear him this time, but I definitely don’t understand him.
Nate sighs like I’m the dumbest person in the world before he repeats himself slowly and very loudly: “I. Said. Play. For. Me.”
“...hockey?!”
“No, Scrabble. Of course hockey, genius!”
“Why would I play for you?”
