“All is fair in love and hockey,” Landon says, and Tate flips him off.
“You two are going to get benched so hard when we get back,” Tate says.
“By who... you?” Landon asks. “The guy who can barely remember which direction the puck goes?”
“The guy who signs your paychecks,” Tate shoots back. “Watch your mouth, Kane.”
“Kinky,” Landon murmurs. “I like when you get all ‘boss man’ around me.”
Tate flushes at that, which makes both Landon and me lose it, bursting out in laughter.
“Focus on the game, you assholes,” Tate says, but he’s fighting a smile now.
We keep playing, switching up who’s defending and who’s attacking. At one point, Tate manages to snake the puck away from me, and I chase him across the ice. Our skates kick up snow and ice behind us as he moves faster. For a second, I think he might actually make it past me, but I dig in and push myself harder, and I catch him just before he reaches the goal line. We collide, both of us going down hard, and I brace myself for impact. Yet somehow we end up in a tangle of limbs that’s more amusing than painful.
“You’re an asshole,” Tate says.
“You know it. How else could I make my brother want to murder me other than by rolling around with you on the ice?” I say, pulling myself up and offering him a hand.
He takes it, and I haul him to his feet.
“You two done flirting?” Landon snaps from nearby.
“We’re not flirting,” Tate says, turning to skate back into position.
“Are you jealous I was touching your man? I look exactly like you, so he would never even know.”
“Touch him and I will smother you in your sleep,” Landon seethes.
I laugh as Landon skates after me. “Calm down, killer, I don’t want your man.”
Landon executes a perfect between-the-legs deke, and the puck slides through our makeshift goal. He glances over at Tate with a cocky smirk.
“That was showing off,” Tate states. “But it was impressive.”
Landon preens at the compliment, which makes me roll my eyes.
“Don’t encourage him,” I say to Tate. “His ego is already big enough.”
“My ego is perfectly proportioned to my talent,” Landon says.
“Your ego is perfectly proportioned to your delusion,” I fire back at my twin.
We get back into position and start again, and this time I’m more focused. I weave across the ice, my stick controlling the puck with ease, then I pass it to Tate, who’s positioned perfectly to take the shot.
He winds up and lets it fly. The puck sails through the air before hitting the back of the goal.
“Yes!” Tate throws his arms up in celebration.
Landon skates over, and despite his competitiveness, he claps Tate on the back in acknowledgment of a good play.
“Look at that,” I say. “The washed-up coach still has it.”
“I’m going to kill you,” Tate groans out.
“Get in line,” Landon says. “He’s been asking for it all day.”
“I can hear you both,” I call out as they skate toward me. “And I regret nothing.”
