“Yeah, just…forgot my code,” I tell him. I try for an easy laugh, the one Nate uses when he’s forgotten a task or date, but it comes out high-pitched and almost hysterical.
Hart raises a brow at that, his hand stretching out as if to check my forehead for temperature, which has me leaning back on instinct.
“You forgot your brother’s birthday?” He looks at me skeptically, his hand hovering in the air between us before he slowly pulls it back.
“Right!” I press out between clenched teeth. My fingers turn the last number from 6 to 7 and the door pops open.
***
The Bats are already doing their stretches when I bumble out onto the ice. I brace for a proper dressing down, but all I receive is a sharp look from one of the Assistant Coaches before I’m shooed off to join the group.
As per my usual, I settle a little distance away from the main pack, only realizing my mistake when Hart twists to throw a bewildered look over his shoulder. Clearly my brother would never choose to stretch in peaceful silence if he could be right in the center to entertain the crowd, but I can’t be bothered right now.
I pretend to be too focused to see Hart’s little wave while I give special attention to my bad knee.
I expected training to be fairly similar to our daily regime at Tech, but after we are done with stretching, the guys slowly skate to center ice. Still idly chatting amongst each other, they form a circle.
I follow the pack reluctantly, this time taking care to position myself next to Hart—he’s the only player I recognize without taking a look at the number on his back. Once everyone has found a spot, they all sink down. I quickly try to hide my confusion but still am the last to sit. I glance in the direction of the coaches, but they’re busy talking among themselves. Except for puking or fainting, there is not a second of training in which Coach Kovachev would allow us to sit around on our butts.
I almost miss one of my new teammates getting up and skating around us, only putting the puzzle pieces together when I am literally hit over the head with the solution as he yells “GOOSE!”
It takes a crucial second for me before my childhood memories have caught up, propelling me onto my feet. Number 31 has almost half a circle lead on me when I finally chase after him. I have always been a quick skater—being built on the lighter side helps a lot—and I’m definitely not losing against a Bat in a preschool game.
I whip past my temporary teammates, legs pumping hard. Just before #31 makes it to my spot, I reach for the back of his jersey and give him a shove so he sails past it. The guys holler with laughter when he barely manages to keep his footing then has to start round two under their playful ribbing and teasing.
“Someone is having a good day,” Hart grins at me, holding out his fist to bump. I’m eyeing it skeptically for a moment, not sure if he’s mocking me since I’m having everythingbuta good day, before carefully bumping my knuckles against his.
It’s weird, making nice with him, when the only comments he usually spares me are full of snark and disdain. I’m saved from the awkward interaction when Hart is chosen to chase around the circle. With a small grin on my lips, I watch as he falls behind #31.
The rest of the training is more of what I’m used to. Divided into two groups, the coaches have us run stickhandling drills for the next forty minutes. During this time, I get more party invites than I have received in a year. I give a non-committal answer to all of them, claiming that my stomach is not quite alright yet.
“Maybe you should have a stomach bug more often,” Hart comments when he falls in line behind me after another round of skating around obstacles and having to switch hands before scoring on an empty net.
I raise my brows at this, not sure what he’s hinting at.
“So I stay in more often and keep your grumpy ass company?” I try for a teasing tone as I fiddle with my glove. The laugh coming out of Hart’s mouth catches me so completely off-guard that I actually drop it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him laugh; definitely not around me, but also not during the draft or the interviews he gave for his social media piece.
Hart is more thepolite-smilestype of guy.
“Well, you should have a lot of experience with that,” he tells me, and in response to my confused smile adds, “Because of your lame-ass brother?”
My stomach sinks at his words as I bend down for my glove. I seize the opportunity to smooth out my expression and give a vague grunt in return. Would Nate agree to this? Moan about his antisocial brother who never wants to go out?
I nevermadeNate stay with me, but I can’t deny that he’s been by my side during a lot of Friday nights, especially after my injury.
As my mind spins with questions, Hart has already moved on.
“I meant your backhand,” he points out when I’m standing upright again. “It’s improved a lot! Have you been secretly practicing without me?”
I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent a grin from spreading on my lips.
“Sure did,” I call back over my shoulder as I take on the obstacles again, whirling past them and easily switching the puck from my forehand to my backhand and finally sending it into the empty net.
“With my lame-ass brother.”
My bravado vanishes quickly when I line up for the scrimmage with the rest of the Bats. My first mistake is an obvious one as I skate to my usual position—only to find it is already taken.
“Coming to do my job for me, Hoff?” Baker grins at me as I realize that pretending to be Nate means I have to move overto the right wing now. It should not be that difficult considering I have played every forward position at some point in my life. However, thinking about this creates a huge knot in my head that causes me to question every move I make on the ice for the next few minutes.
