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I can practically feel my bottled-up energy and aggression rolling off of me, like water eroding away at the rocks beneath it, that’s my self-control dwindling away with pent-up energy. And that can’t come out in my hits tonight.

Freaking finally, the puck drops and I rush toward it, remembering our plays from practice. Number thirty-seven from the Renegades skates up next to me, his white jersey flashing in my peripheral vision. I’ve been expecting this. Not only does the smack talk that comes out of his mouth cross all normal smack-talking boundaries, but the guy I tripped last season was apparently his bestie. Whoops.

I try not to make direct eye contact with Ilya Adrik, I might turn to stone from how evil he is.

“Anderson!” His accented voice comes out with a lisp since he has his mouth guard in.

I ignore him, but he keeps yelling over the noise. “How was your Christmas, man?”

I bite the inside of my cheeks so hard I almost draw blood.

“Nice and… quiet? Just the way you like it?”

I flex my neck from side to side, making it crack and pop.

He snickers. “Or did you visit your daddy?”

My scant amount of self-control instantly shatters, just like his face is about to.

CHAPTER 2

ANDIE

“Noah! Get your butt down here! We’re going to be late! Again,” I mutter the last word under my breath as I stand at the bottom of the steps with my hands on my hips.

My eyes snag briefly on the items scattered up and down the stairs: stacks of clean, sort-of folded laundry, books, my Amazon subscribe and save delivery—which is super handy, by the way, and the only reason we haven’t run out of toothpaste—all things Noah and I laid there with the best intentions of putting them away later. But we never did, and now they’re just another reminder of my chaotic life.

Glancing once more at my watch, I sigh.

Noah appears at the top of the stairs, looking unbothered by my urgency. His dark hair tousled from sleep, and his droopy eyes telling me he just woke up. Despite me setting his alarm last night for 5:45 am.

I can’t blame him, no one in their right mind enjoys waking this early. But alas, it’s what I signed up for when I was pinned as a nurse. Noah makes his way down the stairs. He looks especially grouchy this morning, so instead of lecturing him, I grab the granola bar out of my scrubs pocket and hand it to him as a peace offering.

He accepts it, barely sparing me a glance of his deep brown eyes. The eyes that I adore, but also make me want to cry. Because Mom had the same ones. My heart squeezes inside my chest. I miss her so much.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I bend to pick up the backpack sitting at my feet, and he turns so I can help him slide it over his arms. Without a word, he grabs his D.C. Eagles ball cap and heads out the door.

“Hockey practice,” I whisper to myself. The Eagles hat reminding me that tonight I need to pick Noah up from the rink on my way home from work.

It’s been nearly nine months since I became my little brother’s legal guardian, and I still can’t keep track of his schedule.

Nine months, and he still barely talks. (To me, anyway.)

Nine months, and this still doesn’t feel real.

Maybe in another nine months, we’ll have this all figured out. I doubt it.

We drive in my small car to his school, a route that's as new to me as taking care of a kid, and living in Washington D.C.—and literally everything else that has transpired since our parents were killed in an accident nine months ago.

I don’t force Noah to talk, don’t push him. He has enough going on inside that child-sized head of his. Things no kids should ever have to process. His teacher tells me he’s still quiet at school—and still getting into arguments with other students in his class. But his therapist assures me he is making progress in therapy… so I guess that’s enough for now.

I pull into the drop-off lane, which is agonizingly slow for it being this early. I’m usually the first one here.

Tightening my hands on the steering wheel in irritation, I watch the mother in front of me step out of the car. “No!” I whine, even though she can’t hear me. “You never, and I repeat never, get out of the car in the drop-off line!”

I watch her unbuckle a car seat and lift her kid down. Pausing to give several hugs and kisses. Sweet, okay. But this is clearly a preschooler, and preschoolers don’t get dropped off in the drop-off line for this exact reason.

“Shove your kid out, yell goodbye, then put the pedal to the metal!” I yell at the windshield, throwing my hands in the air. I’m not usually this grouchy, but I’m already running late, and I don’t even have time to stop for coffee.