“What? Why didn’t you bring him back?”
“He needs time to–”
“He’smybrother! I know him much better than you, just because you’re fu–hmpf,” he interrupts himself, but my eyebrows still shoot up into my hair. Nate gnaws on his lips.
“He’s my brother,” he repeats, gritting his teeth. He’s upset, not thinking straight, so I let it slide.
“I know,” I tell him, rubbing my cold hands together, “and because you know him better than anyone else, you know he needs space right now. You’re just not thinking clearly.”
He opens his mouth, but I grab him by his shoulders.
“I’m not trying to get between you two. And I’m also not explaining your own brother to you, man. You know this. You’re just angry this is how it all got out.”
Nate keeps glaring at me for a moment, but then deflates, shoulders slumping down. He lifts one hand to angrily rub at his eyes and I hum, pulling him in for a hug. After a moment, I can feel one of Nate’s arms around my waist.
“Aren’t you going to tell meI told you so?” he asks when I let go again.
I shake my head; I really don’t need to lecture any more Van der Hoffs right now. “Let’s order some dinner, hm?” The evening has been exhausting enough; we both deserve to take it easy.
Nicko, March 28th
This year’s Northeast Regionals take place in Springfield’s MassMutual Center. We play the opener against Colgate and send them packing with a hard-fought 2-1. I don’t stay for St. Bernard’s game, but by the time we finish our dinner back at the hotel our phones are buzzing with the result: The Bats beat North Dakota 3-0.
My brother’s name pops up behind the first goal, and I feel a weird mixture of pride and anger.
Nate and I haven’t spoken over the past two weeks. I suspect this has to do with Xander telling my brother to give me space. I can’t remember a time in my life where I didn’t hear my brother’s voice for this long.
When we were five, Nate caught chickenpox, and I did not. Naturally our parents tried to keep us apart, which only lasted until I figured out how to climb the downspout next to the window. The morning after, I was covered in itchy red dots, and all was right again.
A year later, I was supposed to go to hockey camp without him. I had to be picked up in the middle of the first night due to severestomach cramps. I didn’t make them up, but they magically disappeared the moment Nate grabbed my hand in the waiting room of the ER.
In forty-eight hours, I will face him on the ice. It might very well be the last time we share that experience, and the thought alone makes my throat tight.
I excuse myself early that night, retreating to the stuffy hotel room I’m sharing with Kristiansson. Hiding under my blanket I congratulate Xander on his two goals, but the message stays unread. He must be busy celebrating with his teammates and giving interviews on the game, his planned future, the social media shit storm he received, maybe even on me.
I shouldn’t message him anyways, not with the game looming above our heads. I also shouldn’t message him because every word I type will make the end of the season so much harder.
He’ll probably sign with the Rebels right after the Frozen Four, and I still haven’t gotten him out of my system. If anything, I’ve absorbed him. My fingers open our chat instinctively whenever my mind seeks comfort.
I wonder if he’d be willing to keep meeting up should the Rebels not offer me a contract.
But what if I get signed to a European team? I quickly pull up Google Maps to check the distance from Amsterdam to New York. And then, just to torture myself, from Amsterdam to Utica.
That night, I drift in and out of nightmares about Nate ripping my contract to shreds and the Rebels leading Xander away from me in handcuffs. When Kristiansson pushes the curtains back, so the early morning light floods the hotel room, I have thirty-six hours left before our next game, and I feel worse than ever.
Coach runs a short morning skate with us, then shoos us off the ice with the words: “What you did not learn in the whole year, you will not learn today.”
I’m not sure if he’s trying to reassure or insult us, but the light exercise calms down the collective jitters before we settle into our seats for tape watching.
I’ve played the Bats so often, and yet I’m still surprised by Xander’s stamina as I watch him skate on screen.
I never allowed myself to admire his skills before, always focused on picking him apart and pointing out his flaws—either to his face or to my brother. He’s a great player, with a tremendous amount of force. I actually wince in sympathy when one of the clips shows Maine’s goalie throwing himself in front of Xander’s cannonball of a shot. Poor guy probably had his breath knocked out of him despite the protective gear.
“Watch how quickly he controls the puck when accepting Hart’s pass.”
It takes a moment for me to realize that we have moved on. Now there’s a frozen image of Nate filling the screen, Assistant Coach Walker highlights the puck with the green dot of his laser pointer. He presses start on the video again, and I suck in a surprised breath.
That’s not Nate who’s accepting Xander’s pass.
