“Huh?”
“With your brother. Because he did your move at the game.”
“He did?” I feign surprise, but the hairs at the back of my neck are rising at his innocent question. I expected our parents or teammates to catch on, but definitely not the twelve-year-old coach’s son.
“Yeah! When he scored the goal against the Grizzlies, he copied your move! Dad and I watched the tape,” Milo tells me, his blond brows drawn together in disapproval. “But you still do it better. Dad said so, too.”
I can’t help the laughter rushing out of me, relief flooding my veins. So he hasn’t caught on. Of course he hasn’t! Nate and I switching places, me playing my twin’s games...that would be crazy! No one would suspect we’d actually do something like that.
Right?
“I’ll tell him that,” I promise before repeating my question from earlier.
“But what can I do to make up for it? I mean it, Milo. I broke a promise and that wasn’t okay.”
Milo thinks for a moment before he gives me a bashful smile, his shoulders drawn up halfway to his ears. “Can I come to your NHL opener next year?”
I gape at the boy sitting before me, stunned into silence. The way he just phrased that so confidently, like my career isn’t currently all up in the air, has me choking on a lump in my throat.
“Sure,” I breathe. “I’ll save you the best seat.”
***
I feel incredibly light as I step out of the big glass doors and into an almost empty parking lot. The whole team had left by the time I entered the locker room, so I skipped the shower andjust quickly packed up my duffel to avoid getting locked in over Thanksgiving recess.
I debated going home with Nate, especially since I know he feels nervous about making the drive to Rhode Island on his own, but I still have classes until tomorrow afternoon. And for the long weekend, dad announced he had two podcast interviews lined up while mom will be busy sorting through material for the upcoming Brown games.
I don’t want them to feel guilty for having to cut our family time short, especially when we’ll have more than enough of it over Christmas break. I could have gone with Linden, but Micah and Oliver are staying in the Nook as well, so we will celebrate Thanksgiving together—self-prepared turkey included. Micah texted me a grocery list earlier, and I hope that my unshowered hockey player stench will keep the after-work shoppers at a distance as I hunt down the ingredients.
I hum softly as I make my way over to my lonely car sitting in the faraway corner of the lot. My breath comes out in little white puffs, traveling up toward the dark sky. The air has this crisp feeling to it where it almost burns in my lungs, leaving a taste of fresh snow on my tongue. Maybe we will see a few flakes that will actually stick around. The thought has me smiling.
Everything is easier in winter, when the world doesn’t swelter under the heat of the sun, and the valid excuse of icy roads and early darkness allows me to huddle up in front of the TV instead of going out.
Even with the abundant free time they held, I never really liked summers. Probably because playing hockey in the driveway on inline skates isn’t the same as chasing down the ice at the rink.
I press the button to unlock my car when I’m a few feet away. The interior light turns on and illuminates a figure leaning against the driver’s side door.
I jerk backward in surprise, a high-pitched gasp leaving my mouth as I simultaneously throw my fists up, ready to fight.
“Jesus, Van der Second, calm down! It’s just me.”
I would recognize that condescending tone anywhere.
I still take a cautious step backward, waiting at a safe distance until Hart moves into the beam of a street light. Holding his hands high in mock surrender, he raises a brow at me, tilting his head.
“I’m unarmed.”
“You’re an idiot, that’s what you are!” I curse. My heart is hammering away in my chest, leaving me light headed. I slide my duffel from my shoulder to get to my water bottle.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I hiss after I’ve taken a big gulp, my fingers finally steady again as I point the bottle at him.
“You weren’t responding to my messages.”
“What?”
“You weren’t responding to my–”
“No, Iheardyou.”
