“Uncle Devin, please. You can’t. It’s not me,” I finally confess.
Something feels inherently, intensely wrong about telling my uncle before my parents. Like this will just make the whole situation worse. He narrows his eyes and then he gets this look of understanding, and he smiles. "Was that Tenley? You guys did almost look like twins as kids. You were a blond too for the first couple of years."
"What? No. We didn't." It's my automatic reaction anytime someone says I look like my sister. But I realize he's given me an out on this and I have to take it. "I mean, if you all thought it was me, I guess we did. Thankfully we don't anymore."
He makes a face like I’m an idiot. “Why do you have a pic of your sister as your wallpaper?”
“Because it annoys her,” I say like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
Devin laughs. “I am so happy that there is no sibling rivalry between Liv, Mae, and Conner. You and Tenley have enough for the entire family anyway.”
"Yeah. We do," I mutter. "Can you have them cut it? If not, my life will be hell from now until the end of time."
Uncle Devin shoots me a sympathetic smile and squeezes my shoulder. “Should be doable. But that PR lady seems to have her own ideas now.”
“I can give her a real baby photo and she can do what she wants on the Quake site,” I promise him and he nods.
I open the door, because I have to get to the locker room and change now. “Tater, we’re all cheering you on. Even your dad.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“Maybe rejoin the family group chat and acknowledge our existence once in a while?” Uncle Devin gently suggests and I nod.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’m still there, just muted you guys,” I admit with a sheepish grin.
“Conner is the muter, not you.”
“Fine. I’ll pop in this week and say something to piss you all off, so you know I’m doing fine,” I joke and he laughs.
I wave goodbye and bolt into the locker room. I want to believe I dodged a bullet, but I'm shaky and almost nauseous as I change into my gear. It still feels like there's a bullet with my name on it.
Chapter20
Tate
It’s the third period. We have four minutes left and Spike Adams, our resident pest, got a little too pesky. He’s in the box. I’m on the ice for the penalty kill. We have forty-two seconds left to kill this. Coach breaks up Nash and Crew on penalty kills because it’s where Nash excels and Crew doesn’t, so Nash is on the ice with me.
We’ve managed to clear the puck twice. Collingwood blocked a shot, but it was a close one and to be honest, the post did most of the work. We need to keep this clean and simple because we’re only ahead by one goal. If San Diego scores on this, we’re tied and there’s not much time left to change that in regulation.
San Diego's star forward gets a pass, but Nash is on him, making his view of the net impossible. He winds up like he's going to shoot it anyway, but I notice his eyes through his visor dart left. I remember this play from the game tape we were watching in practice. He's gonna fake a shot on goal and slide the puck over to his wingman. I leave my position guarding the left winger so I can double-team the guy on the right wing with my teammate Landon Casco.
“What the fuck you doing?” Landon asks when I get there, but I don’t have time to remind him because the puck is sailing right across the ice. Right toward us. Toward me.
“Go!” Landon bellows and gives me a little shove. I skate up, managing to get to it a millisecond before the San Diego winger.
The crowd roars. The Quake bench is on its feet, but they’re all a blur as my thighs pump, moving me down the ice at a blinding pace. Toward their goal and their panicked goalie. I’m alone. It’s a breakaway.
But I can’t score. I can’t inch closer to my dad’s record. I can’t bring that level of attention into my life right now. I can’t…
My sister’s voice echoes in my ears.
You’re a Garrison. We don’t fail. Especially not on purpose.
Tenley is right. My brain may think that the logical thing to do is whiff the shot. Purposely shoot wide or otherwise fuck it up, and maybe it is the only way to keep my secrets, but… I’m a Garrison. I was born to win.
My stick rears back, my eyes hone in on the narrow space between the goalie's leg pads, and I shoot. The puck sails hard and fast, right through his five-hole with such force the back of the net whooshes out so far even I can see it.
The crowd is deafening. I glide around the net, stick in the air in victory, and let out a howl of celebration. People bang the glass. The Quake bench all pile on me as I skate over, slapping my back and tapping my helmet, screaming celebratory words into my ears.
