My brother throws both hands up. “Because we probably won’t be able to play on Saturday for our respective teams.Youbecause you’re currently relegated to the rookie line andIforobvious reasons. But I need to remind the Pioneers that I’m worth the draft—and you need the damn ice time before you forget how to skate!”
“Wait. You want us toswitch?!”
Have you ever switched placesis the most common question people ask when realizing I have a twin brother—right afteroh my God, do you really look exactly the sameandcan you read each other’s minds.
Nate then likes to pull out the story about how he lined up twice for picture day in kindergarten, because I was scared of the camera’s flash.
We haven’t done anything like that in years, though.
“That’s nuts. You’re nuts,” I tell him, since I don’t need him to respond to my question. “And the answer is no, by the way. Jesus, Nate!”
“Why not?”
The fact that he has toaskmakes me throw up my own hands in exasperation, mirroring him.
“Because it’s stupid! I can’t just play for another team, that’s…probably against a billion rules. Like I’d do that to them? Also, you don’t evenneedit. You’re out for a week or so. I’m sorry that I can’t muster up a lot of pity for that after I was out formonths.”
“Taking my math test for me was probably against a billionand onerules, yet you still did it,” my brother reminds me, and I cringe. Yes, I probably wouldn’t repeat that, but we were in high school then.
“We’re not teenagers anymore. I can’t believe you evensuggestedit. With my knee, I might make matters worse for you! No!”
My brother is a dumbass. But instead of arguing with me, he just shrugs.
“Fine. Sit on the bench then.”
Nicko, October 16th
I’m so angry, my hands are still shaking when I pull my car keys out of the ignition a few hours later. I have no idea how I managed to make it through my afternoon classes and now to the rink. My thoughts are endlessly circling around the argument with Nate, analyzing every word he said. Obviously, I’ve come up with all the right answers in the meantime. It’s always like that when we fight—him talking and me stewing over it, because I missed all the chances to make my point.
My frustration follows me into the arena like a dark cloud. Even the wall paintings—which show off previous Frozen Four Winners—seem to mock me today. They’ve been installed as a source of motivation for younger generations, but as my gaze finds Kip McCoy’s bright blue eyes, all I want is to ram my bare fist into his painted nose. The trophy in his hands has never seemed farther away from my own grip.
The locker room is already buzzing with the laughter and conversation of two dozen college hockey players as I enter. There are a few nods in my direction, some stretched out fists to bump, but I’ve missed out on so many hours of training lastseason that some of my teammates still seem surprised to see me back at the rink.
I retreat to my locker in the far corner, putting my duffel on the bench and plopping down beside it to start changing. I’m aware of the glances in my direction, but I consciously try to not pay them any attention. They’ve been there from the day I reported back to training, a mixture of pity and curiosity.
The bench shrieks under the added weight of another player sitting down, drawing my attention from where I’ve been tying my skates. Next to me, Eric de Andre waves his phone in front of my face.
“What do you think of the news?” he asks. There’s a frown etched into his forehead, but for a second, I think I can see the corners of his mouth twitch.
“What news?” I ask as I adjust my socks. I’ve purposefully avoided De Andre over the past few weeks, so having him approach me feels awkward. I know this whole situation isn’t his fault, but it still hurts every time I see him line up in my spot.
“About the trade?” he prompts, his head tilted. His lips twitch again, and this time I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. There’s a hint of smugness to it that causes my stomach to churn with unease.
“Trade?” I echo. My palms feel clammy, so I wipe them on my pants before getting up.
“Oh, you haven’t heard yet? Fuck, Hoff, I didn’t mean to be the one to ruin your day.”
I’m suddenly aware of the silence that has fallen over the locker room, all of our teammates’ attention on us.
“C’mon man, don’t be a fucking asshole,” Kristiansson mumbles, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. I’m trying not to let my nerves show as I reopen my locker, reaching for my cell with nothing but absolute desperation. It takes me two swipes to open my favorite hockey news app.The article is right on top of the news’ alert:Devils’ left wing, Jacques Autin, expected to join Rebels in two-for-one trade.
Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath, but it’s no use—the words are dancing behind my lids. The Rebels are currently working on a deal with a new winger. A newleftwinger.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Zollweg’s hushed voice consoles when he stops by my locker, the rest of the team passing us on their way outside. There are a few pitying glances, but most of them keep their eyes straight ahead as they awkwardly shuffle along.
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree hoarsely. My fingers shake when I put my cell back inside the locker. I don’t even bother with the combination lock, just shoving it shut.
Of course it doesn’t have to mean anything. Trades happen all the time, and I still have a whole season ahead of me before I’m expected to fulfill my draft. But I can’t help but see the glaring connection to my injury and recent demotion.
