“You’re right. I wasn’t. But if you want him to see you as more than a notch—which I already think he does—then force him to.”

  “He closes off emotionally before anyone can get too attached. It’s like he doesn’t feel like he deserves to be cared for or loved.”

  She coughs through a laugh and throws her hands up. “The irony.”

  “Shut up.” But I laugh with her this time as my mind spins and whirls and contemplates if she could be right.

  Could Hunter have feelings for me but not know how to show them? Could he be just as fearful of letting someone in as I am? If so, how do I push him past that—how do I push myself past that—to give us a chance?

  “Say I buy into what you’re saying—”

  “You do. And you should.”

  “Then what do I do next?”

  One side of her lip curls up. “Nothing. He’ll come to you.”

  “That’s a solid plan. Real solid,” I say in frustrated disbelief. Just when I start to believe her, she pulls something like that? My sigh is loud.

  “No. I’m serious. You’ve laid the groundwork. You were honest with him. You told him you wanted him personally and professionally and why the two can’t mix. But he’s a rule breaker, Dekker. He’s going to push boundaries just because he can. He’s going to want to be macho and masculine and prove he can have you and eat his cake too.”

  “I think you’re crazy.”

  “And I think I’m right.”

  I stare at my sister, so similar and yet so very different from me, and wonder how she can be so sure. And I consider the many exchanges between Hunter and me. Over the laughter, his ability to be serious with me, and I wonder how I never saw it before. How angry he was when he accused me of meeting with my clients night after night. How he let his guard down ever so briefly with me on the hard-packed snow amid angel wings we had made. How his smile lit up when the ice became littered with tennis balls at the Dartmouth game.

  And more so, I wonder how I’ve been harboring feelings for a man for over three years and never took charge of them, when I seem to grab everything else by the balls.

  Because you’re scared, Dekker.

  You’re scared because you know he’s the most real thing you’ve ever felt and it terrifies and exhilarates you.

  “I don’t know,” I murmur. How and when did my little sister become so wise?

  “I do.” She leans forward and drops the puck on top of the paperwork I keep staring at. “It may take him a few days—a week, or two—but with radio silence from you, he’ll realize how much he misses you. How much he’s gotten used to you being around, and how puck bunnies look boring to him now.”

  “You have an active imagination.” That’s just the visual I need in my head. God, I hope he ignores the puck bunnies.

  “Either that, or I’ve had a client or two go through something similar before going holy shit, I’m going to lose her.” She clucks her tongue as if she had some play in these revelations. “He came back for you this time around because he wanted to see if the feelings you both walked away from were legit. He’s pushing you away now, because they are.”

  I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting her words settle and take root as she moves toward the door.

  “Hey, Dekk?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Falling for someone is never the plan. One day, you just wake up and it’s there in full-freaking, high-definition color. You realize those unanticipated butterflies you got when you saw him, those frustrated late nights overthinking and overanalyzing every interaction, those automatic, genuine smiles when you received a text from him . . . they all add up until they become love. It’s the little things that add up. It’s the unseen that touches your soul. It’s the unexpected that makes you fall in love.” She moves to the doorway. “I’ve got to jet . . . but you know I’m here for you. You know we only want the best for you.”

  I look at her through eyes blurred with tears and nod. “Thank you.”

  She smiles and then turns her back.

  I listen to the door of the outer office click shut, to the lock engage, and to her footsteps down the hallway to the elevator.

  When I put my feet up on my desk, lean my head back, and close my eyes again, I carefully examine her words.

  I wonder what would have happened all those years ago had I not run from him that night. If I had just been honest instead of chickening out.

  Is Brexton right?

  If I wait, will he come?

  HUNTER

  NO TEXT.

  It’s the first time in years that I look at my phone after my game and see nothing from my father.

  There’s relief and an odd constricting of my chest. Almost as if I don’t know how to process my post-game cool down without the anger generated by them.

  As if not having that negativity I’ve been a slave to for so very long feels like I’ve lost a part of me. As if it’s no longer worth comparing me to Jonah . . . leaving him to him and me to me. Untethered.

  I sit on the bench with the guys moving around me and simply stare at my phone.

  This has nothing to do with Jonah, Mad, and everything to do with you. This is you realizing you can love your brother but not be beholden to our parents over life’s fate.

  Over fate’s blind arrow shot in the night to ruin one person’s life and change another’s.

  “Dekker? Hi.” My ears perk up the minute Callum answers his phone, and fuck if I don’t check my texts again to see if I missed one from her.

  Nothing.

  Almost as if she said what she said to me—confessed two things that could change my life in numerous ways like me sending that text to my dad did—but I’m afraid to face it.

  Let her represent me instead of Finn. He’s dogged and well-known, same as Dekker, and yet, I feel like she has more than just her bottom line in mind from how I’ve seen her manage Callum. I’ve seen her patience with him, Guzman, and Stetson, and I’ve talked to other players who she’s secured endorsement deals for. All professional, no bullshit, all results.

  And when it comes to me. Maybe . . . maybe there’s even more than a bottom line and deals.

  Maybe she could love me.

  Fuck if that’s not a hard thing to think out loud. Fuck if that’s not the thought that has had me tied up in knots for days.

  What am I going to do about it?

  Live in the past . . . or realize I can’t change the past and can only move forward?

  Shit.

  She followed us around the damn place and now that we’re right in her backyard and our home turf, she couldn’t bother to show up? A damn subway ride away from Manhattan to Jersey, and she couldn’t make it?

  If she wanted me that badly, wouldn’t she have shown up? Tried to win me over?

  So, you tell me, Hunter, what am I supposed to do?

  Dekker’s words replay in my mind. The confused desperation in her voice, the pleading in her eyes, the defeat in her posture . . . fuck. It killed me.

  Why am I thinking about this now?

  Why am I sitting in a locker room with my teammates and not celebrating being one game closer to clinching a playoff berth?

  “Yes, it looks that way, doesn’t it?” Callum says as he walks past me, his finger pressed to one ear, his cell to the other. Because of her. “But don’t say the word. Don’t fucking jinx it.” His laughter rings out.

  The playoffs.

  She called him to talk about the playoffs.

  Sanderson doesn’t call me to talk about my games.

  Shit, he doesn’t call me unless it’s to make me get in line. Unless it’s negative and unsupportive, much like my old man’s.

  Fucking hell.

  I lean my head back on the locker behind me.

  Deal with her after the playoffs.

  Deal with my representation and all the shit in my head and my questions after the playoffs.

  Accomplish the one thing you need to—that you promised Jonah—and then maybe you can carve out more of a life for yourself.

  “Hey!” I pound my fist against the metal locker behind me and the sound echoes across the chatter in the locker room. All the guys turn toward me as I climb on top of the bench.

  Their hoots and hollers fill the room and mask my own groan as my knee aches from bearing weight on it.

  “Speech. Speech. Speech,” the guys begin chanting.

  I motion with my hands to quiet down as I look at my teammates looking up at me. I looked at this team not very long ago and saw limitations and incompetence. Just like my dad sees in me. But when did I last congratulate them for a job well done? When did I last praise them for kicking ass? When did I last lead them off the ice like I do on the ice? The pressure to do right by them isn’t as great as my own drive to do this for Jonah, but it’s still there. In their smiles. In the excitement mixed with anticipation in their eyes.

  “Way to kick ass and take names, guys. One more win and one more game down.” I let them cheer, some fists going in the air. “I just wanted to give a shout out to the defense tonight. Killer job, guys. To the fresh legs off the bench, we needed you more than you know. To the guys up top—shit, you made it easy to do our jobs tonight. In short, keep it up.”

  “Great job, Cap,” Katzen yells out from the back of the room, and I nod in response, because this isn’t about me.

  This is about them. It needs to be about them.

  “One more thing,” I say and hold my finger up to quiet them down. “I know I’ve been shit to deal with, play with—unpredictable as fuck. I’m sorry for that, but I promise you, my head’s back in the game. My priorities are straight. And fuck if they’re not fixed on winning the Holy Grail.”

  The small room explodes with noise and a palpable excitement as I climb down from the bench to finish getting my gear off.

  “Glad to see you back, Cap,” Jünger says just above the fray, then pats me on the back as he walks past me.

  And each one of my teammates follow his footsteps.

  A punch to my shoulder. A push to my chest. A bump of fists.

  Each one stops and tells me in their own way that they’re in it with me.

  That they’re ready to win it all.

  And fuck, so am I.

  HUNTER

  16 years earlier

  I JOLT WHEN TERRY STANDS at the front door of the house, her dark-blue fancy dress with sparkles and her hair up in some flashy way that makes her look as old as you should be to do the things she did to me earlier.

  Swallowing over the sudden panic mixed with immediate lust that hits me, I walk toward the screen and thank God I took a shower and changed.

  At least she’ll know I’m Hunter.

  At least she won’t realize I tricked her earlier.

  On my best day ever.

  Terry. Losing my virginity. The euphoric bliss over it feeling so much better than jerking off. Soap and warm water have nothing on what a girl feels like.

  On my worst day ever.

  How I’ve been beating myself up the past few hours over it. I know Jonah’s going to find out what I did somehow—how I betrayed him—and shit’s going to hit the fan.

  I already know my parents are going to rail. Jonah’s going to throw punches. I’m going to be dead. Absolutely fucking dead.

  I’m guilty as hell. I feel like shit, but I also wonder why out of the two of us who are identical, why he’s the one who gets everything while I’m left to pick up the scraps?

  “What are you doing here?” I ask as I lean my hip against the jamb and stare at her. “I thought you were with Jonah at the dance.”

  She shrugs. “We were all supposed to go as a group. Gannon called though and said Jonah had to leave to do something. Pick someone up or something.” She looks over my shoulder. “He’s not here?”

  “No one is,” I say, ignoring the pang of guilt over making him get our mom.

  “I’m all dressed up and nowhere to go.” She smiles and fiddles with the hem of her skirt with one hand showing me more of her thigh.

  I look behind me and debate asking her to come in. I know I should, but Jesus, isn’t that inviting a disaster to happen? “I can call him. See where he is.”

  “I left him a text telling him I’ll be here. I’m glad we’re alone though, because I—uh”—a slow smile spreads across her red painted lips—“wanted to make sure what happened earlier stayed between us. I really like your brother and all, and I’d hate for him to find out that we—”

  “Wait. What?” I shake my head as if my ears aren’t hearing properly. “You knew I wasn’t Jonah? You—”

  Her laugh floats out freely, as I stare at her as if she’s crazy. I should be thinking more along the lines that she’s easy, that she’s a bitch for doing that to my brother . . . but I’m sixteen, and that’s my convoluted first thought about the girl I just lost my virginity to.

  “Of course, I knew.” She rolls her eyes. “I . . .”

  Her words fade off as we turn toward the police cruiser that pulls into the driveway—its flashing lights are on but the sirens are off.

  It’s as if my body just tuned into everything around me—everything that has been faded by the high of sex—and there is the worst feeling in my gut and chest. I can’t breathe. I don’t know how I know it, but something bad has happened.

  Even worse, when I walk toward the police car, an officer is practically carrying my mom out of the passenger seat of the car. She looks as boneless as her complexion is pale. Her face is swollen from tears but her eyes look completely hollow.

  “Mom. Mom!” My voice breaks as I run to her.

  “Jonah. Thank God you’re okay,” she says as she clings to me. I look at the officer, and then try to pull my mom off me so I can look her in the eyes.

  “It’s Hunter, Mom. It’s me. What happened? Tell me what happened?” I yell at her as she stares at me with a slack jaw, almost as if she doesn’t believe I’m me.

  “Hunter?”

  “Yes. It’s me. What happened?”

  “But you were the one who was supposed to be in the car.” She grabs my hand and yanks me to the cruiser as the ever-present dread begins to weigh me down in a weight I’ve never felt before. “We need to get to the hospital. We need to—”

  “What the hell happened?” I yell. Every part of me goes silent that moments ago felt off. And that scares me more than anything.

  “There’s been an accident, Jonah.”

  “Hunter. Mom, it’s Hunter.”

  “An accident. Your brother was in an accident.”

  “What do you mean an accident?” I look at my mom and then to the officer. “What does she mean?”

  “Your brother crossed the median and hit another car head-on.” His voice is serious but his eyes, his eyes tell me they’ve seen way too much, and I fear what he’s going to say next. I focus on the shield on his chest. The badge with the sun and rays of sunshine engraved on it. The letters of his last name, as I recite them in my head over and over and over . . . because if I stop, he’ll tell me my brother is dead.

  He’ll tell me that my brother was drunk driving. That he was the responsible one. That when I refused to go get Mom, he went. He couldn’t refuse. He couldn’t say no. He drove to pick up our mom even though he’d been drinking.

  Because I didn’t . . .

  I was the screw-up. I didn’t pick up the fucking cell. His missed calls. Calls to tell me he couldn’t drive because he’d been drinking. And the officer would know. He’ll tell me that while I was having sex with my brother’s girlfriend out of spite, I caused this. I fucked up.

  “Is he okay?” I can barely speak as my body blankets with goosebumps. My words feel like they have to be pried from my mouth as I stare at him and hope and wait and already know.

  “He’s at the hospital. This officer—he picked me up from work to bring me there—to get you on the way—it’s very serious, Hunter. Your brother. He’s—and the other driver . . . she didn’t make it.”

  I try to process.

  I try to fathom.

  I try to comprehend.

  But none of it makes sense.

  Except . . .

  I caused this.

  I’m the one responsible.

  I’m the vindictive one.

  I’m the one my mother thought she’d left at the hospital. Alone.

  And then . . . I can’t sense Jonah. I can’t feel my twin.

  I stare at the police officer as if I don’t hear him, as if I don’t want to hear him . . . then the bottom drops out.

  HUNTER

  SOMETHING’S AMISS.

  My head’s foggy.

  My thoughts are lost.

  I try to concentrate, but every time I try to manipulate the game plan, I fail.

  Maybe I’m coming down with something.

  Maybe this is burnout showing now.

  “Tough game tonight.”

  I glance over at Maysen and nod. “Sorry. I . . . was fucking up left and right out there.”

  He shrugs, probably surprised that I’m not arguing or being defensive about it. “It happens, man.” He pats me on the back as I head toward my locker. “At least we still won.”

  “True.” I nod. I hate knowing I didn’t contribute. Hate knowing that if there was a text from my dad, which there hasn’t been for the last couple games, exactly what it would say.

  “At least we have a few days to shake it off.”

  “My body could use it,” I tease and throw my gloves into the locker, sighing when I see my screen light up with Dad on the message ID.

  “I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist for long,” I mutter.

  With a deep sigh, I pick up my phone. Panic hits when I see the three words on the screen.

  Dad: Call. It’s Jonah.

  Within seconds, I’m out of the locker room, trying to find a place where I can hear and talk and have some privacy.

  My mom doesn’t pick up on the first call. I end it and try again.

  “Hello?” She sounds like a ghost of herself.

  “Mom? Mom. What happened? How is he?” My words sound strangled from part panic, part disbelief, part just when I was trying to figure out a way to live for me, I’m sucked back into the darkness of shame.