3. August
3
T roy should have been the one pounding on my door this morning with ibuprofen and coffee. But instead, I was here, searching for the hidden key under his mat.
Ryan called one too many times this morning asking if I’d checked on the MIA center hockey star, because it was only a matter of time before the team captain and coach started banging down his door.
I let myself into my brother's lofty apartment. The penthouse of the most recently constructed residential building in Brooklyn had an incredible view of downtown, with a wraparound terrace he shared with the penthouse next door to admire it. Troy’s decor was minimal and modern, with black leather couches that faced each other, an oversized marble coffee table, and cowhide rugs, which I always found hideous and impractical.
It was always bright up here. Too bright. Troy didn’t have sun shades for his windows, and I was willing to bet he was regretting the decision to let them go bare right about now.
I, on the other hand, lived in my practical apartment one flight of stairs below the penthouse. Like many things in life, Troy followed my footsteps but, of course, had to stay one step ahead.
When he learned I’d bought a condo here, he outbid the buyer of the apartment above me by nearly a hundred grand. While our mother thought it was sweet for Troy to want to be closer to me, I couldn’t have been more annoyed.
“Troy. Bro, you in here?” I stepped into the foyer.
I heard a groan from the den and walked down the hall until I reached it, finding him sprawled out on the small sofa, staring at the television screen. Last night’s post-game talk show was playing.
“What’s going on, man?” I asked, ignoring what was clearly on replay.
He barely glanced in my direction. “Heard you put on quite a show last night.” He eyed my clothes head to toe.
More eventful than yours on the ice.
I cringed at my unspoken comment.
This wasn’t the time for our usual competitive brawls. His eyes were red, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days, even though it was only last night that he’d blown the season starter. My twin’s eyes were back on the screen before I could think of a response.
What I should have said was, ‘ Yeah, another consequence of your actions I had to take on your behalf, you dipshit .’
But Harper’s name wouldn’t be mentioned—especially not the vendetta she clearly still had against him. Hopefully, last night got something out of her system. Girl deserved some closure.
My lips perked when I thought of her flushed features last night when I was about to take off my boxers.
“How could I have missed those shots?”
My eyes snapped back to the present, with my brother shaking his head, watching his replay.
“You’re being too hard on yourself. You had an off night.”
As if needing to prove something, Troy snatched his tablet off the side table. “The Bridge Lineup—this morning. Is Troy Hartman facing a Sophomore Slump ?”
Ouch . Those were the last two words you wanted to hear kicking off your second season in any sport.
The Bridge Lineup was a popular magazine. They had the best scoop on all the New York sports teams.
“Don’t pay any attention—they’re just reporters looking for a headline.”
My brother looked up at me. His voice rough and dry when he spoke. “What if it’s true?”
I sighed. This wasn’t heading anywhere good. I sat next to him. “It was one game.”
He was quiet. And we both knew why. This was how Troy always played—mediocre. The adrenaline of rookie year playing in the pros wore off, and now Troy was playing how he always played —minors level.
No place in the majors.
“Do you think I could play as good as I was last season?”
“Why the hell not?” I practically shrieked unconvincingly.
Troy shook his head.
I rubbed my hands together. “I’m going to be honest with you. You need to get out of your head. You need to stop reading what some headline-digging reporter said about you—that’s just…” I stopped, seeming to have talked myself into a corner.
“What everyone is thinking?”
“There’s no such thing as a sophomore slump.”
There was.
It was real, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to make this worse. I was sent here to make sure he showed up at practice today. “Now hit the shower and call Ryan.” I stood and started for the door.
“No. I’m just—I’m not ready.”
“I hate to break it to you, bro, but that’s not how this works. You don’t get a choice. You have a contract. You’re expected at practice this afternoon, tomorrow, and Thursday’s game. You can’t just wallow for days.”
Troy stood and started toward the living room for no reason other than to pace the larger room. “It’s over. I’m nothing. You always knew it too, didn’t you?”
“Troy, stop it.”
He picked up an empty beer bottle, which I guessed was from the other night, and hurled it into the sink, shattering it and breaking some dishes in the process.
I blinked but barely flinched at the impact. Instead, I grabbed his arm, turned, and marched us to his bathroom, starting his shower. “Get in. I gotta get to the office. But I’ll be at the arena later to make sure you’re there. And if you’re not, I’m sending them all this way to drag you out themselves. Got it?”
He nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
I fought my hesitation to walk out, but I wasn’t his fucking babysitter, so I turned to leave.
“Hey,” he called just as I had my hand on the door handle. “A lot of girls there for me last night?” he asked with a cocky smirk.
“There were a lot of people there for you last night, Troy. People who will stand by you no matter what, who believe in you. You just need to get off your ass and go to practice later.”
“I need a few days, August.”
I checked my watch. “You have four hours. I’ll see you there.”