He should be the one out here.

  The thought is the cadence of the fists I throw at Brighton for no reason at all—other than he plays like Jonah used to and it pains me to defend against him and remember—and then later at Vladkin for pushing me from behind like so many others have in my years playing this game.

  But tonight is different.

  Tonight, I can’t deny the pain that burns within. I’m the reason he’s not in my skates right now.

  The reason hockey feels more like a prison than a job. A game.

  The guilt.

  Shame.

  Self-loathing.

  C’mon, Hunter. Tonight’s your night.

  Those words from my twin so very long ago echo in my ears and ring true now.

  Tonight is my night.

  Every night is.

  And I hate every minute of it.

  And I’m the reason why.

  DEKKER

  I WATCH THE GAME FROM the nosebleed seats.

  It’s where I prefer to sit. My AirPods are in, the local announcers are giving the play-by-play in my ear, and the game unfolds in front of me while I’m wrapped in my own world.

  “Look, Bob. I’m not going to complain that Mad Dog Maddox showed up to play tonight, but it does look like there’s a little trouble in paradise. Unless I’m mistaken, when Withers came up on him before that last period, I thought Maddox was going to take a swing at his own teammate.”

  Shit.

  Announcers are noticing.

  How can they not? When Callum came up to get his attention from behind, Hunter whirled on him with his fist cocked back and so much anger etched in his face, his intention was all but unmistakable.

  Management has to see it.

  Fans won’t be far behind.

  “Or maybe you read it all wrong,” Bob says.

  “I know what it looked like to me and that, mixed with his poor performance last game, has me wondering if he’s losing his edge.”

  “Losing his edge? No way. Not Maddox,” Bob counters. “Everyone has an off game.”

  “An off game is one thing, but there have been rumors during the past few months about discord in the team over Maddox,” Steve says.

  “Of course there is. The tension is just as high as the expectations over us gunning for the Cup. It’s bound to surface somewhere. Besides, you said it yourself, they’re just rumors.”

  “Let’s hope the boys can keep it together and bring this thing home for us . . . if not, I’m afraid of the fire sale that might happen.”

  “Fire sale? Are you implying the Jacks will get rid of Maddox if they don’t reach the playoffs?” Bob gasps. “That’s blasphemy. Boo, fair-weather fan.”

  Steve laughs. “That wouldn’t be my option of choice, but seriously, how much longer can a club like the Jacks keep a player like Maddox?”

  “Let’s hope forever.” Bob chuckles.

  “To be the voice of reason—”

  “Fair-weather fan,” Bob coughs, and they both laugh.

  “Seriously. We’re a small-time club with only so much money for salaries. If we’re not winning and the seats start going half-empty, we’ll never be able to afford a player like him.”

  “I see what you’re saying, but he’s a sure thing,” Bob says. “He’s going to get us that Stanley Cup . . . and he’s a Jack now. He’s one of us and dammit, we love him.”

  “Sometimes sure things don’t pan out.”

  “The season’s not over yet. Give him time.”

  Yeah, time to succeed or to fail.

  “Action coming back in two minutes, folks. In the meantime, I’ll hit Steve over the head for those of you already doing it at home for throwing out into the ether that we might have to trade Maddox away.”

  “Oh, please. All I’m saying is we—the Jacks—are like the little engine that could. We’re having a hell of a season. For the first time, everything has clicked and a huge part of that is because of Maddox’s leadership and star power—off games like the other night not included. At what point will a club like the Rangers or the Red Wings with their abundance of cash be able to woo him away?”

  “Woo him away?” Bob laughs.

  “It’s a legitimate question.”

  “He’d stay here. Lucky for us, he chose to leave one of those big-name teams two years ago to come here. I’m sure he has his own personal reasons why, and yes, while he’s had a rough patch these past few months, he’s brought this team and our city to life like no other player has in recent memory. My money’s on the Jacks on this one. They won’t let him get away.”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just hope whatever is going on with him sorts itself out. The subpar game the other night against the Patriots where he played like he was handcuffed, and now this game tonight where he’s a one-man wrecking crew . . . it’s like night and day.”

  “You can’t have him both ways. He’s an all-or-nothing guy.”

  “Food for thought,” Bob says. “We’re back in action, Jacks fans. The third period is about to get underway with your Jacks up an impressive four to one.”

  They drone on as the game picks back up while I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and try to figure out what to make of today. Of Hunter’s press conference, of my conversation with Sanderson, meeting Hunter’s family, and how he’s playing tonight—somewhere between out of control and brilliant. He’s a very rich man, but is out there playing like he’s starving. He’s been in the penalty box more than I’ve ever seen him before. There’s more of an edge to him tonight, and I guarantee that’s part of the reason.

  His family.

  His brother.

  Is that part of the drive for him?

  I don’t need them or their pressure.

  Is he living out this dream . . . for the both of them since Jonah can’t? The relentless schedule is enough to burn a man out, let alone have the added pressure of trying to do it for another person. Even his family, perhaps.

  Is that what he meant by them the other night? Or am I way off base and he just meant them in general?

  With a sigh and needing a break from my own thoughts, I figure it’s a great time to stretch my legs. Standing from my seat, I walk back toward the general manager’s box to get a refill on my drink. I’m just about to its entrance when I overhear Finn’s voice.

  “How can you complain? He’s tearing it up tonight. The team’s winning and we’re one step closer to a playoff berth,” Finn says. “Fourteen games and counting, but I think you’ll have the playoff spot clinched before then.”

  “He may be tearing it up tonight, but he’s also tearing up the team,” the unique voice of the LumberJacks General Manager, Ian McAvoy, echoes off the concrete walls and has me perking my ears up. I’m not one for eavesdropping, but I’m definitely one for getting as much information as possible to do my job and the task I was sent here to do.

  Even I understand how lame that sounds—standing here in the hall of an arena when I’ve had several times to tell Hunter exactly why I’m here but have balked every time.

  “After the stunt he pulled the other night, Finn, I’m at my limit. The press conference was a Band-Aid, but don’t kid yourself into thinking it fixed everything. The calls I received from the commissioner of the league asking me if he was purposely throwing the game tell me they’re watching him.”

  “He wasn’t throwing the game. I spoke in depth with him about what that game looked like to everyone else, and I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

  “It better not. I wasn’t too thrilled having to explain to the commissioner that Maddox isn’t betting against his team, nor is anyone else for that matter. The last thing we need is a full-blown investigation into the club and whether or not they’re betting money on game outcomes.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Finn sputters.

  “It is, I agree, but can you see what it looks like to the outside world? The guy goes from a precise, calculated player, to a selfish madman on a scoring streak, to being all but listless the last game, then to whatever you want to call the man down there who we’re seeing dominate tonight. I’m all about showmanship, but this is more than that,” Ian says, and I can’t help but agree.

  The crowd’s chants echo in the corridor and I miss some of what the men are saying.

  “We’re nearing the end of the season, Ian. He’s probably just running out of gas. I know you’re paying him to be who he is, but between all the publicity you’re pushing on him, you’re taking time away from his game . . . and from some much-needed downtime. He’s been pushing hard for months through injuries and without a break—”

  “And we’re paying him handsomely for his time.” He laughs. “Don’t try to act like we’re not. He’s your player, manage him or I will, and you’re not going to like how I handle it.”

  “Is that a threat?” Finn huffs the words out as if he’s not buying Ian’s warning.

  “That’s up to you to decide.”

  They move back into the press box and their voices fade, but I’m left leaning against the cold cinderblock wall stunned at what I just heard.

  Why in the hell are they talking about this right now, in the middle of a game? Did something else happen that I don’t know about?

  As much as I hate to admit it, Finn gave the perfect, placating response.

  But shit, is this what I’m walking into if I win Hunter as a client? Threats by his GM and the inability to respond with conviction because Hunter refuses to let me in?

  I lean my head back against the wall as the crowd roars and sigh.

  There’s a lot of time between the end of a game and when the players leave the locker room to head to the team hotel. Time is spent with coaches, with teammates going over certain plays, with physical therapists treating injuries, interviews with the media in the locker room, and then finally showers and cleaning up.

  I know other female agents stride into the locker room not caring that they’re going to be hit with a bare ass or better yet, someone’s dick, but not me.

  I prefer to keep things on a professional level, and I’ve found that the minute a player knows I’ve seen him naked, the dynamic changes. It opens the door to the crude jokes and innuendos and those can sometimes ruin a working relationship no matter how nonchalant you are about them.

  So, I stand outside the locker room as players begin to trickle out. Some dressed up to go out for their night on the town in Boston, some a whole lot worse for the wear with ice taped to knees and know they are definitely headed to the hotel to order some takeout.

  “You ready?” Callum asks as he tosses something in the trash can.

  “Sure am.” I push my shoulders off the wall where I’m standing. “It’s about time I get some time with you.”

  “Sorry. My schedule’s been crazy.”

  “I get it. Mine always is. Great game, though.”

  He snorts. “They almost came back.”

  “But they didn’t.” I pick up my briefcase off the ground and wonder how a 5-2 score is almost coming back, but let it go. “What do you feel like eating?”

  The door to the locker room opens and there’s a shout that sounds off before it shuts.

  “Party starting early?” I joke with a lift of my chin to behind the door.

  His chuckle says volumes but he waits until we round the corner, away from any ears. “It’s Maddox. He’s . . . I don’t know what’s going on with him, but it’s pulling all of us into it. I don’t know if it’s family or life or shit . . . I figured you knew since you guys, you know . . .”

  “Since we . . . you know?” I brace myself for the frigid air when he opens the door to the outside for me. “What does that mean?”

  “Everyone knows you guys had a thing a while back.”

  “Is that so?” I laugh outwardly . . . and cringe internally.

  “Yeah. Rumor was you were leaving a hotel together.”

  “So nice to know my personal life is fodder for rumors,” I say, playing it off. “We had drinks a few times like three years ago,” I lie, neglecting to divulge the sordid details of our quick but fulfilling sex life. “But our interaction didn’t give me any more insight on why he’s acting how he is than you guys have.”

  “Yeah, but with you—never mind,” he says as we reach my rental car.

  “With me, what?” I stare at him over the roof of the car, our breaths turning white with each breath.

  “With you, he’s just different.”

  HUNTER

  Dad: Is that seriously all you had in you? Piss poor performance.

  I STARE AT THE TEXT, at the blinking cursor taunting me, and fight the urge to hurl my cell against the wall opposite me.

  It’s not his words that get me this time. It’s the sudden emptiness that follows them. It’s the hurt I felt when I looked up to the box between periods and didn’t see him there. It’s the knowing he never missed a single one of Jonah’s games, but he won’t take the time to make mine no matter how fucking effortless I make it for him.

  I squeeze the phone and grit my jaw and struggle to control my temper.

  Then I type.

  Me: I didn’t see you at the game tonight, Dad. I had a ticket saved for you.

  I hit send and lean back against the wall, my eyes closed, and my disappointment heavy.

  But why, Maddox?

  Why are you disappointed he wasn’t here? So he could criticize you face to face?

  You need to stop wishing he might care as much about your game as he did Jonah’s. You need to stop thinking he’s going to be proud of you. You need to stop hoping for miracles.

  I look down at my phone again as if he’ll respond, when I know he won’t, and then reread Dekker’s text again.

  Dekker: Great game tonight. That first goal was tennis ball-throwing worthy. Heading to dinner with clients then to Sculler’s Jazz Club after with some of the team. Come celebrate.

  I’m not sure how long I stare at the text before deleting it and heading toward what I know will be a clusterfuck.

  Visiting my parents always ends in one.

  It doesn’t matter that we won the game or that I’ve taken time out to visit my brother.

  It doesn’t make a difference that we’re running down the playoffs or that my personal bests are beating past ones by miles.

  Nothing does.

  All that matters is that I’m not Jonah.

  That’s what it all comes down to.

  HUNTER

  I STEEL MYSELF WITH A deep breath before I walk into the house. Everything is the same—the flooring, the furniture, the curtains. It looks like time stopped the day of the accident and has never moved on.

  It’s hard for me to breathe.

  It’s difficult for me to think of anything other than how, already, I need to get the hell out of the house with its walls lined with images of a life Jonah and I never got to live together. Because that life—that future we always talked about—never happened.

  Reminders of that life we used to have are plastered on every surface as if to remind us all how perfect it used to be.

  As if to forget the accident ever happened.

  “Hunter? Is that you?” My mom’s voice calls out from where she no doubt is sitting with him in his room.

  I’ve offered to buy them a new house a million times, even put deposits down on a few. I explained how much easier it would be having a custom suite built for Jonah and his needs. How it would make their life—and his—so much easier, how it would give him some autonomy when he already feels trapped, but after numerous rejections of the offers, I gave up. They’d preferred to stay here where they can be reminded daily of the ghosts of that day and the butterfly effect I created.

  “She’s in Jonah’s bedroom,” my father mutters from his La-Z-Boy where he folds his newspaper with a crisp snap and reveals the blood pressure cuff on his arm. His eyes move from the newspaper in his hand to the television on the wall beside me, but he never looks at me. “Sloppy game tonight, son. Your skill fell by the wayside to your aggression. You need to work on keeping both at the same time.”

  “Yes, sir.” I choke over the words and the resentment they cause. I played a damn good game by any player’s standards, and as much as I know it, I also know he’s nowhere near finished.

  Just like the nights he kept me on the ice way past midnight. My body would be exhausted, my fingers numb, my stomach growling, but dammit, I was nowhere near good enough.

  I wasn’t Jonah.

  And the way he looks at the picture of Jonah in front of him tells me just that: he sees everything Jonah could have been and more. He sees everything I caused. He sees everything I’ll never be.

  “You’re weak on your left side, you know that? You were beat every damn time. You’re not checking your shoulder enough like Jonah did, and it’s getting you in trouble. You’re partying too much. It doesn’t seem like you’re practicing on your shot and that’s for mornings. You’re out drinking and hungover. It’s showing.”

  “Yes, sir.” I nod—my feet shifting and lips pursing—and take the ridicule without talking back, because whatever I say doesn’t matter. It won’t be heard. His head is too preoccupied with another star forward, the one lying paralyzed in the next room, who I’ll always be compared to.

  I take the criticism, I accept the disdain, because I know my dad is hanging on by a thread. I know this is the only way he can cope with the dreams that were killed that day and the future that was robbed from us.

  But it doesn’t prevent my resentment from festering. It doesn’t prevent my hands from fisting.

  “There was a ticket there for you, you know. I didn’t see you in the box. I thought maybe you’d like to come.”

  He nods, his eyes never leaving the television. “You know I like to watch my hockey from home.”

  Not with Jonah, you didn’t. You were at every damn game up against the glass cheering and yelling.