“Really?” He grins when he turns my way, his face still so young and boyish, but there are hints of the man he’s becoming in the sharpening of his jaw.
“Really.”
“How about Chinese?”
“Chinese, it is. I’m really proud of you, Reed. I know this move hasn’t been easy, but thank you for rolling with it.”
My little brother ducks his head and rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t do well with praise and being the center of attention, but I’m determined to change that. He’s such a great kid, and I want him to be confident in that.
“It’s not like it’s been easy for you, either. I’m sorry for being a dick about moving. I get you were just doing what you thought was best for us.”
Emotion clogs my throat, and I reach across the car and give his shoulder a quick squeeze. “It’s okay. I know it was hard to leave your friends behind.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, and some deep part of me takes a full, unrestricted breath for the first time since our parents died.
“We’re going to be okay, you know,” I tell Reed.
“I know. You’ve always made sure we are.”
If Reed notices the tears that fill my eyes, he doesn’t mention it.
eighteen
LOGAN
By some miracle,we’re a month into the season and have only lost one game. You’d think it would mean we’re all flying high, feeling good, and full of confidence, but that’s not how hockey players work. We’re superstitious as fuck, and the minute we start talking aboutgoing all the wayis the minute we start losing.
So we train harder, practice longer, and none of us talk about how much we want to make it to the cup this year.
“Byrne, push harder,” Coach Fry shouts as I drive the puck down the ice toward our backup goalie, Anders Flynn. We’re scrimmaging, giving the lower lines a chance to play against the first line, and I’m distracted.
“Dude,” Griffin calls as I pass him the puck. “Where’s your head right now?”
Stuck on a beautiful, curly-haired vixen who I can’t quite seem to make up my mind about.
“I’m fine.”
Griffin taps the puck back to me, and I race toward Flynn. Glancing back at my fellow winger, I act like I’m going to passit back to him to take the shot as the defensemen circle us, then bring my stick back and let the puck fly toward the net. Flynn falls for the fake out, and the puck hits the net with a satisfyingthwap.
“That’s my boy,” Griffin hoots, skating up to me and thumping my helmet affectionately. I shove him off and roll my eyes, but the goal and his encouragement have the desired effect, and I’m able to get my head back in the game.
We make our way back to the center line, Maddox facing off against the second-line center, when my eyes catch on movement by the boards.
Joe, our security guard, chats with a curly-haired teenage boy as he leads him over to the first row of seats right by the center zone. Squinting, I realize it’s the kid from the friends-and-family night—the shy football player. I scan the rest of the arena, looking for the other boy he was with or the dark-haired woman he left with, but he seems to be alone.
Curious.
“Byrne, wake the fuck up,” Maddox demands, and I turn my attention back to the ice just as the puck drops. The second line pushes hard against us, and I can’t give the kid—Reed, I think—anymore headspace. Especially if we’re going to make it past the third round of the playoffs this year. The second and third lines need to be just as strong as ours, which means my guys and I need to bring the heat to every single practice.
The second line gets possession of the puck, and muscle memory and instinct take over. We battle it out, giving hits and taking them, and my blood sings in my veins as I check the second-line center into the boards. He loses control of the puck, then Wright is there to take it. The puck is in play for another minute before Coach Fry calls for a line change, and my guys and I hop the boards and settle onto the bench. I guzzle water and wipe sweat from my brow.
Reed sits across the ice from us, and I watch as he leans forward, his eyes tracking the puck avidly.
“Who’s that?” Ryder asks, catching the direction of my focus.
“He was at the friends and family game. Not sure whose kid he is, but he seemed cool. Pretty sure his name is Reed. I wonder what he’s doing here?”
“Hmm.” Ryder elbows Maddox. “You know who that kid belongs to?”
