Too bad I’m not looking for a date. My schedule is filled to the brim with catching up on classes and training to turn this season around for myself. As long as the NHL is still on the horizon for me, I won’t waste a single thought about dating—not a girl, and definitely not a guy, either. One kiss already stirred up enough drama. The last thing I need is something to distract me from my goals.
Which is exactly why I ignored the DMs fromxander_hart.officialon my Instagram.
Thenerveof adding that little “official” to his name!
“Maybe you should talk about it, Nicko. You’re going to be on the same team in a few months—wouldn’t you want to clear that up before meeting him again?”
“There’s nothing to clear up,” I protest, my cheeks warming from the confident way in which Linden talks about me being part of the Rebels’ roster next season.
“We made a mistake—I was drunk, he confused me for my brother, and we can all agree that under normal circumstances, none of this would have ever happened. If anything, he should talk toNateabout it,” I point out. It’s what I’ve been telling myself ever since I stormed out of that party.
Obviously, Hart meant to kiss Nate, so whatever unrequited lust he’s harboring for my brother was only directed at me because we’re identical twins. And if I hadn’t been so fucking drunk, I would have never gotten so turned on by the smell of his generic shampoo or the way his broad body engulfed me.
Only now, I can’t get it out of my fucking head. Which is why talking about it is definitely a bad idea.
Returning to my former starting position doesn’t magically fix my life.
I still need to catch up on two weeks of missed classes, and now as before, I have no idea where I will stand with the Rebels after my last year of college.
I obviously knew reclaiming my spot wouldn’t solve all my problems, but there was a small part of me that hadhoped. Hoped that I would wake up the next morning and everything would be as it was a year ago. It always looked like the first and only step to take.
***
“The first step was actually the day after surgery,” Oliver points out nonchalantly when I tell him about it.
I’m currently lying on the floor of our living room, right leg propped up on the couch. It’s where I collapsed after coming home from training. I decided to take a leaf out of my brother’sbook and ask Zollweg and Kristiansson to stay for an extra hour of drills. We only played on a line together for a few months before my injury took me out.
They had their rhythm going with De Andre, and we have to find our own way again. It worked well enough for yesterday’s home game, but even when celebrating the win with my teammates, I couldn’t help but think that we wasted a few chances. Chances that Hart would have capitalized on. I don’t have to like Hart to admit that the guy has a savage wrist shot and some sort of seventh sense of where I need him to be for every pass.
Needed. Where Ineededhim to be.
It’s over, and if the hockey gods have any mercy on my soul, the Rebels won’t put us on the same line—should they ever remember they drafted me at all.
I groan at my own thoughts, rubbing a hand down my face. Speaking of unfixed things: there are also plenty of unread messages from Hart in my Instagram DMs, urging me totalk.
“You’re probably somewhere in the middle of the way right now.”
It takes me a moment to register that Oliver is still talking about my recovery as he returns from the kitchen, ice pack in one hand and a romance novel in the other. He started a new one, although it appears similar enough toKeeping Noah.
“Why do they all look the same?” I ask as I point to the bare-chested men displayed on the cover ofFinding Philipp. “And how am I only half the way? It’s been almost a year now! Other players are back in less time.”
“And others are not,” Oliver counters, one brow raised as he dumps the ice pack onto my knee. It’s wrapped in a dish towel, and I scrunch up my nose at the unidentifiable dark stains.
“Everybody is different, Nicko. And for some this,” Oliver taps his temple, causing me to roll my eyes, “takes longer to catch up with the rest.”
“I didn’t fall on my head.”
“Uncomfortable truth time–”
“I hate uncomfortable truths!”
“I know, cutie.” Oliver sighs as he drops onto the couch right next to where my leg is resting, then pats my shin.
“Your body might have fully healed—no, let me explain!” He holds up one finger to stop my protest.
I snap my mouth shut again with a huff.
“Your body has healed, but your mind has not. That was your first major injury; it’s scary.”
