8. August
8
“ G et him here, or I tell the Coach tonight what’s been going on—his contract could be toast.” Ryan’s words echoed as I dialed Troy again.
I’d lost track of time when I stopped in at The Bridge Lineup to see Harper after my last meeting. I’d been on back to backs all day, I’d forgotten to check on Troy to make sure he didn’t have another setback and was ready to show up tonight.
I checked my watch. With the game starting in one hour, I’d need a miracle if I could get to Troy’s apartment and get him to the game. I didn’t typically drive to work, but today, I wished I had.
I looked up at the traffic; not a single yellow cab with a light on. “I’m not going to make it,” I muttered.
“No limo to take you to your game?” Harper crossed her arms. “Come on, I’m across the street.”
I hesitated because I wasn’t heading to the arena. I needed to get to Troy. But I followed Harper, crossing to the other side of the intersection. “You can sit in the front this time,” she called with a grin.
I don’t want to know .
I hopped in, confused at my lack of creativity. I'd normally talk my way out of any situation, but this wasn’t my life I was dealing with.
If Troy lost his position with the Blades, it would take an army to bring him back.
“Take a left,” I called out sharply.
She swerved right—hard. Something told me she didn’t like my tone.
“I said left.”
“The only left you’re going to be is walking, now shut up and let me drive.”
I sighed. “Harper, I need you to take me to my apartment.”
She glanced at me in confusion. “Are you crazy? That’s on the other side of town. You’re going to be late. I’m taking you to the arena.”
I hesitated arguing. Because she was right. There was no way Troy was making the game. Heck, at this point if he went straight there, zero hesitation, he’d miss the pre-game warmup.
Finally, I texted him Ryan’s warning. A moment later, I received a response that angered me.
Troy: Please bro. I’ll make the next one. Promise.
I rubbed my face to keep from punching anything.
Another message came through when I didn’t respond.
Troy: Put on my uniform and sit it out for me.
“Fine. Let’s go.” I released a heavy breath.
Harper stole a glance at me and I hated and adored the fact that she was here with me. “You alright?”
“Fantastic,” I muttered.
She didn’t say anything but there were moments where it looked like she wanted to.
I should have told her right there and then that I wasn’t the center hockey player everyone was waiting on. I should have told her I was his levelheaded twin brother, but I was running on too much adrenaline to think straight at the moment. No one but Ryan knew about Troy’s breakdown and it was too soon to tell anyone else.
Especially someone who hated the man.
Or so I hoped she did.
Nervous tension shot through my veins when I considered what it would mean. I’d have to talk to her as August . I was never able to talk to her the way I had these last few days. There was a freedom and safety knowing she thought I was my brother. The confident one.
And what the hell was that back on the sidewalk—was I flirting with her?
That never would have flown well if I were just August. I would have stumbled, tripped probably, rambled about mutual fund investments. But with the confidence of Troy Hartman, well, the Troy he typically was, not the child he was regressing to now, it was easy.
So easy that I'd forget I was playing a part.
Harper Maxwell was the only thing about my brother I envied.
And man if some things never change.
I hit ignore on a call from one of my associates who was working on an important transaction this evening.
I always made myself available to my team, and this broke me inside. I couldn’t very well answer that call and start talking about investment strategies with Harper here.
When he called again, I got antsy. “Get off the next exit. I’ll call an Uber.”
“I’m sorry—am I driving too slow?” she shouted, clearly annoyed. Then hit the gas and veered lanes so we could pick up the pace to ninety miles per hour.
I grabbed onto the door handle to avoid reaching for her hand. “Harper, slow down. You’re going to get us killed.” I looked over, expecting to find her full-on road rage; instead, my chest clenched. Harper was smiling. A beautiful, brilliant smile on her face as she swerved the wheel.
“This is so cool. I could never do this upstate. Especially when my parents were in the car.” Her smile fell only slightly, but I noticed.
Slipping my phone away, I put a hand over hers on the shift handle and spoke in a soft voice. “Slow down, Harp. We’ll make it.”
She took a deep breath, nodding rapidly, keeping her eyes on the road. “I’m doing you a favor here, Hartman.”
“You’re right. You’re right, I apologize.” I could feel her unshed tears and it broke my heart to just ignore it. Harper didn’t know me well, other than I was the strange twin who was obsessed with robotics and arithmetic.
When in fact, my obsession was surrounding myself with things my brother couldn’t follow. Couldn’t take away from me.
No one could have known that I had a crush on Harper Maxwell in high school. So the fact that Troy asked her out halfway through senior year was pure coincidence.
I had to believe that.
“I heard about Annie, Harp, I’m so sorry.” My voice was low and a little gruff, but it was only because it bothered me that she didn’t know who this was coming from.
“It’s fine.” She shook her shoulder casually, then added, “Thank you.”
It wasn’t fine. I didn’t know if she was just holding back because she wasn’t alone or if she was just used to fighting emotion.
I pulled out my phone at the vibrating sound.
Ryan: What’s the story? Am I telling Coach that Troy is MIA?
Me: I’m on my way.
Ryan: Good. Be ready to suit up . I'll send the ninjas for you.
I gave Harper the directions Ryan texted me for the side entrance.
“Pull up at that blue door. Ryan said he sent someone.”
She pulled to a stop by the door where two men wearing all black were waiting. As soon as she put the car in park, the two split, racing to either side of the vehicle, swinging our doors open.
“Come on, let’s go.” The one pulling open my door urged.
Harper began to argue since she clearly wasn’t planning on staying. But with the overhead speakers welcoming fans to tonight's game, she wasn’t heard.
The taller one, who was gripping my arm like I was a flight risk, pointed to the parking lot. "VIP lot two."
“Wha—where's that?” Harper called as the other ninja drove off in her car.
I shook the guy off me and reached for Harper. “It’s fine. I’ll get the keys back to you later. Come on.” I took her hand, feeling that same spark from when I’d touched her on the street. She’d never know that at one point in my life, I’d have died to hold her hand this way. For her arm and right side of her body clinging to me for safety the moment I reached for her.
With zero time for explanation, the two of us were forced to follow the taller ninja up two flights of stairs and one extra-long hallway that I remembered led to the locker rooms.
Ryan stood in front of it, waiting. He held up two thumbs and ran the other way. “Change. I let Coach know you were in bumper to bumper on the Brooklyn Bridge.”
“I’ll show you to your seat.” The guy who’d brought us up pointed to a set of double doors.
“I don’t have a seat,” she replied.
He glanced at me and I explained. “He’ll…take you to my seats. You can watch the game from there.”
Harper blinked. “Your seats?”
Shit. I don't have time to deal with hesitation right now. What would Troy do?
I dropped my voice and leaned in to her ear. “You’ll need to be up close if you plan on studying me again.” I winked. Though I doubted I’d be getting any ice time.
In fact, I shouldn’t.
But I knew Harper felt awkward about it, so I tried to sound as lighthearted as someone like me possibly could.
“I’m not staying. How do I find the guy who took my car?”
I ran a hand through my hair. Was that even something I—or Troy—was supposed to know? I wondered how often these guys had to be on standby for a late player to come flying in through a side door.
Sensing we needed privacy, Ryan pulled the ninja a few feet away from us.
Thank God for him. I’d have gone crazy if I had to deal with this on my own. Hopefully, he had enough power to keep me off the ice today. I considered bandaging my knee so there was no suspicion. But they had medics for that sort of thing.
Releasing a heavy breath, I reached for her hand again. “I’m sorry I dragged you here, but I can’t get you back to your car right now.” I kept my voice soft and hoped she’d understand.
She bit her lip, lowering her guard. “What am I supposed to do?”
I shrugged and shot her a grin before pushing the locker room door. “Get my good side this time.”
“Tall order.” She turned with a small smirk.
I should have reveled in the fact that it was me she sketched to a tee. But it was hard to enjoy that when it was meant for someone else. Took all the flattery away from it.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
This couldn't end well.
Ryan texted that some guys on the team were going to do their on-ice routine and warm up while the house filled up. The early arriving fans got to see that part, and the cheers helped pump up the team. Most of the routine was crazy superstition. Troy would go around the ice seven times before a game.
I suited up and tied up the laces on Troy’s skates. Troy and I were the same size, and even though I doubted I’d be hitting the ice at all tonight, I wished I had my own.
There was a knock against a locker. “Looking good.” Ryan eyed me head to toe. "You ready?”
I looked up at him, shaking my head. “Thanks for covering for Troy.”
“Shouldn’t that be our line?” Simon Mathers, the head team Captain followed behind Ryan.
“Sorry, he knew something was up, so I had to tell him. That and a reason we needed to keep you off the ice today.”
I released a breath and ran a hand through my already sweaty scalp.
“I don’t know why you’re doing it, but I appreciate it,” Simon added. “Not because we care about Troy’s future. I’m just looking out for our team. If word gets out that Troy Hartman is MIA, it’s all anyone would see when the Blades are playing. There’s an image we need to uphold. We’re a strong team. We always were.”
I swallowed hard. “What’s going to happen if—”
“Nothing good.” Ryan shook his head, standing beside the first Captain. I didn’t blame the guy. As an alternative, he had an obligation to be loyal and honest.
There was a loud knock on the door before someone stormed in. Coach Higgins.
“Hartman,” he bellowed.
Shit. Hey Coach? Yes, Sir? What the hell did Troy call him?
I straightened. “Yeah, I know, I’m getting out there.”
“Sit down.”
I knew Coach’s orders were not to be taken lightly. And this guy meant business. Toughest NHL coach in the industry—with zero tolerance for the kind of B.S. Troy was pulling.
I should have seen this coming. But I worked on Wall Street. Managing a team of six portfolio managers and three associates. No one ordered me around. Not even the CEO of our firm, who worshiped me since I’d made the firm billions in assets last year.
When I hesitated and probably looked like I was going to throw one down, Ryan put a firm hand on my shoulder, lowering me onto the bench.
My jaw tightened. “What’s going on, Coach?” Figured I couldn’t miss with that one.
“You know you’re practically still a rookie. What makes you think you can march in here minutes before you’re due on the ice?”
He was yelling.
I didn’t do well with people yelling at me. I did most of the shouting where I worked. And people jumped. Now, this dull-witted clown was treating me like I was some delinquent.
There was a rock in my chest as I stood, taking two deliberate steps toward the man—to hell with Troy.
Simon stepped calmly between us. “Troy’s been here for about thirty minutes now and we’ve already caught up extensively , haven’t we, Hartman?” His tone was sharp, but I didn’t miss the pleading expression on his face to let it go.
My jaw moved tight but I managed to speak. “Yes.”
Coach’s eyes moved from Ryan to me. “Good. You’re starting. And don’t disappoint.”
“Wait, why?” I felt I had every right to ask since Troy never started.
“Because if we play you fourth line, everyone will think we’re avoiding bringing you on. They’ll think you’re our weakness.”
Ryan stepped in. “Coach, I don’t think we should start with Troy. I think we need to end with him.”
“Fine. Whatever. But he’s playing tonight, just like every other forward who is dressed, no question.”
“Of course,” Ryan agreed dutifully.
When he left, I turned to Ryan with steam coming out of my ears. “What the hell?”
“Don’t worry, Derrik is starting on center and he’s good. Coach won’t want to make the switch after intermission. I doubt you’ll make it on tonight. And if you do…” He scanned me and shrugged. "Just do whatever the hell it was you did at practice.”
I never answered Ryan when he asked me how I made that shot and if I ever played before. I simply said you’re welcome and walked out that afternoon.
I blinked. “After tonight, Troy is your problem. I’m done.”
Simon and Ryan nodded in acknowledgment.
Minutes later, we gathered at the entrance as Simon and Ryan pulled us into a brief strategy huddle. I nodded along to the plan—not just as Troy’s stand-in, but as an ex-player.
It was oddly refreshing being surrounded by men who matched my six-foot-four height and frame.
A tidal wave of sound surged through the tunnel. That old itch of adrenaline clicked into place. It came from the same confidence all these guys carried.
The ice was ours.
Our cue rang out and I pushed forward, following my team. Cheers erupted as we skated into view. Fans waved signs with my last name—some were motivational. Others shook heads in disappointment as I went by.
Yeah, I was pretty disappointed in myself, too, right about now. The hell had I gotten myself into?
I slipped onto the plexiglass-enclosed bench with a few other players and waited for it to die down. But it only turned into boos when the opposing team took the ice and the teams lined up for face-off.
A rush of adrenaline hit me as the puck dropped. I wasn’t on the ice, this wasn’t my team, and hell, this wasn’t even my job, but my eyes were glued to that puck, waiting for one of the Blades to pick it up off the ice and take control of the game.
No luck.
The Chicago Icers landed it and struck first at the tough piece of rubber.
I swallowed as I felt the intensity of the game get to me and sat back on the bench. My right hand jerked to rub at the bridge of my nose as I typically did when something aggravated me at the office.
But I wasn’t at the office.
I wasn’t wearing one of my Armani suits.
I could have removed my helmet. Hell, I should have. I needed to breathe. But even though my brother and I were identical, I was almost afraid of being recognized as not being him.
I hadn’t played in two years. Not since the draft. And even then, I’d been avoiding the ice for months at that point.
But when they called my name, my chest burned. Not with anger or fear. It burned with, It's about damn time.
The rink seemed massive as my blade hit the ice. Or it just seemed that way since it's been a while. It seemed like an ocean compared to what I remembered.
It kicked off before I had a chance to settle in and flashbacks to when I ruled the ice stormed through me. I shook it off as though that wasn’t me. Another lifetime I didn’t want to allow myself to experience again.
To fall in love with again.
I did as Ryan instructed and evaded, circling as if I was about to make a move that no one knew about but me.
My team was missing shots and turning it over all period. Wake the fuck up, losers.
This isn't going to fly. Everything I did, I gave my best or I moved on.
Shaking my head, I took position and waited. I’d had just about enough of being creamed by the opposing team. I moved across the ice, buying time as I assessed the scoreboard and the clock, my state of mind shifting aggressively. The math in my head following the execution plan. On average, it takes fifteen seconds to get from one side to the other with stick handling. Another five, give or take to steal back if you lose it.
And given the declining clock—I just barely had time for both.
I banged my stick twice on the ice and glided past the defender team. The puck was sent my way by whoever number seventeen was and I took a shot—watching it fly into the net as the goalie hit the ice in a hard effort to block.
Huh, twelve seconds to spare—I hated being off. Even when it was to my benefit.
I avoided the cheers; it was all a blur anyway. My eyes, ears, my entire body was focused on getting that puck away from numbers eleven or twenty-three in the red and white suits.
I could tell I was getting too close when eleven pushed me against the board as he maneuvered.
It hurt.
But not enough to crumble and let him get away with it.
I leveled and pushed off, ignoring the teammates. Didn’t matter which side they were on; even the colors were a blur at this point. I stole the puck and needed one more goal to win. It was a few feet away—with a quick glance at the board, I calculated my strides and distance. I was going to make it with seconds to spare. It was quite the skill to separate one part of my brain to count while the other focused on dodging interventions.
Until I was slammed into again and the puck was gone.
Damnit.
Two of my teammates ganged up on him and number forty-seven of the Blades was sent to the penalty box. Within seconds, Simon stole the puck and glided toward center. I expected him to pass it to anyone, perhaps someone closer to the goal, but his eyes leveled with mine, and he sent it my way.
I didn’t hesitate to take my shot. There was no time to glide. No chance of closing that gap. It was an impossible angle, but when our defense got in the goalie's way, my odds shot up the roof. I pulled my stick back at a forty-degree angle and fired. The puck flew. Following an invisible laser-like beam slicing toward the net.
It was doubtful that it made the net at this distance and before the buzzer went off.
But then the roars began.
The deafening, infinite roars. The crowd stood almost in unison, and the Blades were surrounding me. I cheered with my team, letting them encircle me, feeling elated beyond self-recognition. I looked up and just like that—it was all gone.
My twin’s face was on the screen display for making the winning shot, and I saw nothing but red again.
My brother—yet again, taking something priceless away from me.