Page 55 of Hockey Boy
The bar is crowded, so it takes a minute to find the rest of the guys where they’re recording the disaster playing out on stage.
“Holy fuck, how much have they had to drink?” I ask as I approach. Each of the guys turns and gives me a bro hug.
“Too fucking much,” Fitz, our goalie coach, says, bringing his own vodka tonic to his lips. During the season, Cade Fitzgerald keeps his professional distance. He does his best to respect the line between players and coaches. That really could go out the window now that my brother is our coach, but whatever. I understand his desire to keep things professional. But during the offseason, when the unprofessional Cade comes out, he’s a fucking blast. He’s in his forties, but to my knowledge, the guy has never settled down. He acts more like the old Gavin—out with a different person every week.
On road trips, he can usually be found at a local bar, flirting with the bartender. Man or woman, it doesn’t really matter. The guy loves everyone. Though right now, it doesn’t appear he’s loving our left winger or the birthday boy.
From across the table, Brooks zeroes in on me, his expression going stoic. “How was the night?” he asks. Though it’s loud in here—Hall and Snow are screeching the words to “My Girl” by the Temptations—I can read his lips.
I nod, then throw a thumb over my shoulder, gesturing to the bar. I need a few minutes to figure out how to spin this, and Brooks is the most intuitive guy I know. As a goalie, he’s always taking in his surroundings, picking up the smallest details the rest of us miss. That’s why he has no trouble stopping a puck hurtling toward his goal at a hundred miles an hour.
The man is one of the best, and he’s a good part of the reason I’m the best center in the NHL. I’m not being cocky. My stats speak for themselves, and they look the way they do because I’ve spent my entire life trying to score goals on my brother. It takes creativity to get through both his mental and physical walls.
How am I going to play this with him?
Lennox is giving me a second chance? Lennox needed a friend? Lennox is the love of my life, so of course I’m going to fake marry her and hope that she falls for me in the process?
“Dude,” a voice booms only inches from my ear. “What the fuck is going on with you and Lennox?”
A girlish scream escapes me, and my balls ascend into my body at the decibel. I grip the back of a barstool to steady my racing heart, then whip around and square up with my brother. The words I should say—dude you scared me—are replaced by pure idiocy. “I touched her boob.”
Brooks is used to his fiancée spouting the most insane things, so I’m not surprised when he tips back his head and laughs.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks, dropping a cocktail napkin on the lacquered bar top.
I place my order and then turn back to my brother, who is still chuckling.
“I’m so glad that you find me pouring my heart out so amusing.”
Brooks coughs out another laugh. “You ‘touched her boob’ was youpouring your heart out?”
“They’re great boobs. And it’s been over a decade since I touched them. I’ve missed them. Do you know what perfect pillows they make?”
My brother blinks, his green eyes swimming with confusion. “So you’re back together with Lennox?” His words are slow, like he’s not sure what to make of itorme. Confusing him like this is my secret weapon. It’s how I get things past him—hockey pucks normally, though I’m far prouder that he’s the one voicing the lie, not me, and it’s because he’s controlling the narrative now. Though wearetechnically together.
Togethermeaning we’re in a fake relationship, though the details are unnecessary right now.Bravo, Aiden and your excellent weaving and gliding past the truth.
I’m giving him a firm nod when the bartender returns with my drink. I order a round to be delivered to our table, along with shots for the birthday boy and then tip my head to our group, silently asking Brooks to follow me rather than asking any insightful Brooks-style questions.
A heavy palm lands on my shoulder, pulling me back like a damn yo-yo. My drink sloshes onto my shirt, but that’s not the reason for my grimace. My entire body is working itself up for this conversation.
“You spend a year telling me you aren’t obsessed with your ex, then end your engagement and start dating said ex, and all I get is a shrug?” He gives me the stupid, dopey smile he uses when messing with me, mimicking the one I use as a shield, I guess. “And I’m supposed to believe that you aren’t bursting at the seams tosingabout how happy you are?”
My stomach drops and my head spins. Shit. I played this all wrong. He’s right. If Lennox and I were truly getting a second chance, I’d be up there with those idiots doing the Macarenaandthe Wobble, blubbering about how Lennox Kennedy is finallymy girl.
That image dances in my mind briefly, pulling a chuckle from me.Thatwould be a good time.
Brooks arches a brow, as if he’s caught me in the lie, so I set my drink on the bar and level with him. “Look, I’m trying not to get ahead of myself. Yes, I am excited that Lennox and I are finally spending time together again.”See? No lies to be had there. “But her father invited the lead singer of Seven, the dude Lennox met last night, a guy she’s at least a bit interested in, even if it’s only for business.” At least that’s what I keep telling myself. “Jackson is using her to get the guy to sign with his label, and it pissed me off. Also”—I let out a breath and garner my strength; I’m not used to being this damn vulnerable—“to this day, I still have no fucking clue why she ended things. I worry it’s because of her parents. If that’s the case, then I’m afraid they’ll use this guy to do it again.”
My brother glowers, looking like a menacing giant. “Fuck her parents.”
The ache in my chest loosens a bit. I shouldn’t be surprised by his words. My brothers may be hard on me sometimes, but in the end, we’ve got one another’s backs.
“Thanks. Now, can we get back to the party? I think we’re bringing the vibe down. Besides, now that you mentioned singing…”
My brother groans, but he can’t hide the smirk creeping up his face. That only makes me smile wider. And this one isn’t fake.
Do you remember that little gelato shop in Positano? You forced me to go there every day while we were in town. And while the flavors were dream-worthy, don’t think I didn’t catch you staring dreamily at the little chapel in the square, watching bride after bride marry her sweetheart. When I asked if you’d ever thought about your own wedding, you looked me dead in the eye, chin held high, and told me you were never getting married. Despite your defiance and the fire in your eyes, I saw beneath the mask. I saw the hurt girl who couldn’t imagine marrying anyone but the boy whose heart she broke.