Right now, he looks like a puppy that's trying to get picked up from the shelter. It’s a weird appearance for a big guy like him.
“We’re good, right?” he wants to know, fiddling with the pen in his hand. If he were anyone else, this would probably be adorable.
“Yeah, Xan,” I sigh, suppressing a grimace at the nickname. It feels odd in my mouth, like I’m not allowed to call him that.
“We’re good.”
***
I can’t feel my right arm.
About an hour into the bus ride, Hart has fallen asleep over his school work. I’ve long ago given up on Nate’s book, just sitting there motionless, since Hart’s head has dropped onto my shoulder. Every muscle in my right side is cramping from the tension as I try to hold my breath and not move.
I already attempted to gently push him off, but he’s out like a light, and shoving him would probably betray my promise about things being right between us.
The bus has quieted down around us; most of the others have dimmed the lights and are dozing while the coaches quietly recap the game in the front seats.
Carefully,verycarefully, I reach for my phone.
I’ve already seen that my team lost another game. I’m not happy about it, but there is a small and ugly part inside of me that is relieved that they couldn’t win without me.
Nate’s phone is blowing up with text messages and Instagram notifications. Most seem to be congratulations about his big win, but I barely recognize a name. There’s one from each of our parents, telling him how well he played.
I feel my neck tingling with unease. There’s no one else in this world who has seen us play more games than our parents. If anyone would be aware of our different styles and techniques, it should be the two former pros who taught us. But then I remember dad was invited to comment on a Dutch sports event this weekend. It was also a game day for the Brown’s women’s team, so chances are they only read about my goal.
Just as I thanked them both with the characteristic abundance of emojis my brother uses, my own name pops up on the screen, followed by only two words.
Good game.
I stare down at the cell, wondering if Nate is somehow angry with me or trying to imitate me. If our roles were reserved, that would be my go-to message, but at the moment it feels a little underwhelming.
Just as I question myself, the little dots start dancing in the bottom left corner, indicating that he’s typing again.
And a very nice goal!
Who taught you that shot? ;)
I grin as my fingers fly over the keys.
Definitely not my lame-ass brother!
Pah.
Speaking of ass…
I frown at that change of topic, confused about what will come next, when suddenly the picture of a naked ass blows up on the screen. I jump in my seat in surprise, my sudden movement causing Hart to stir in his sleep. There’s a soft sigh leaving his lips, then he turns his head to bury his face against my shoulder.
I catch a whiff of his shampoo as he moves, a generic citrusy smell. It fits him and the image he’s trying to portray of himself—solid and predictable.
For a moment I hold my breath, biting the inside of my cheek, and once more resist the urge to throw him off. The moment he opens his eyes, I will fucking kick him into the aisle. I silently count to thirty and when nothing happens, I carefully tilt the cell again to peek at the screen. With a few taps, I delete the incriminating image.
HAVE YOU LOST YOUR LAST BRAIN CELL?! WHAT WAS THAT??
I should be the one asking all those questions!
When did you plan on introducing us?
I stare at the phone, completely dumbfounded and taking a good minute until the penny drops. With a groan I rub a hand over my face, my cheeks burning under my fingertips.
