Page 31 of My Brother's Teammates

I know it’s only been four days, but she’s everywhere. Her scent wafts in my nose, her curves distract me at every turn, not to mention her melodious laughter, her yoga pants, her inability to cook…

Fuck. I can’t even talk to my best friend about it without making googly eyes at him.

A frustrated growl rumbles out from between my lips.

“You want to talk about it?” Harrison’s voice makes me jump, and I’m so damn lost in the storm brewing inside my brain, I drop my bag. My stick clatters to the concrete, echoing off the walls as my heart stutters and guilt worms its way to the forefront of my brain.

“Easy, Ro. What the fuck?” His eyes are practically piercing through me as he searches my face… for what? Betrayal? Deceit? “You okay?”

It’s right there on the tip of my tongue to tell him everything. The burden from all these secrets presses so heavily on my chest I fear that if I breathe too deeply, my ribs might crack.

The four of us are ride-or-die. We’re inseparable. We share everything. Or at least we did. I can’t recall a time when one of us has kept something from the rest of the group—unless it was a good surprise, like a birthday, a prank, or a vacation.

But this? The disloyalty gnawing deep in my bones—deceiving my friend, my captain, my fucking brother-from-another-mother—it’s too much.

My chest tightens, and I can’t breathe. And I sure as hell don’t know how to respond to his simple question, because I am not okay. Not by a long shot. But there’s nothing I can tell him that won’t have him asking all sorts of questions, and once the rocks start falling from the dam, there’s no holding anything back.

I’m a bad friend—in more ways than one. A bad person. He deserves so much better than me.

“What is it, Roman?” He curls his hand around my bicep.

Is it to support me because I look so horrible he thinks I’m about to hit the deck? Or simply a tactile gesture of support? Either way, I don’t deserve it. He should let me fall.

My mouth is dry, so dry that when I try to speak, a garbled noise comes out.

Maybe I just need to say it. Maybe once the words are out, I’ll feel better, and he’ll actually appreciate that we’re helping his very innocent little sister. Maybe it won’t be quite the epic dumpster fire we’re thinking it will be.

And maybe I’ll grow wings and collect teeth in the middle of the night.

I shake my head, forcing myself to swallow past the growing lump in my throat that’s threatening to suffocate me. I suck in a breath. And then another. He’s our friend, he’ll still love us. He’ll think we’re good guys for taking his sister in. It won’t be that bad. It’s probably for the best.

The words are right there, crawling up the back of my throat and lining up on my tongue. I just have to let them free.

“Harrison.” My voice is scratchy, my face hot, but I need to tell him. I rub the back of my neck with a clammy palm.

Harrison’s body jerks as a loud slap on his back shunts him forward.

“Are you bitches ready for practice?” Mateo pins me with a glare, one that heats me from the inside for multiple reasons. What the hell is wrong with me? And now he’s so close I can smell him. The scent of spiced leather invades my nose, and my already warm cheeks heat even more.

Harrison elbows me, giving me an expectant look. “Were you going to say something?”

I glance between the two of them, my jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised my teeth haven’t cracked. Once again, I don’t know what to say, so I simply shake my head.

Harrison tips his head to the side, curiosity in his gaze. He knows I’m hiding something, I can feel it in my bones, but fuck, I can’t say anything now. Mateo would punch me in the face before he’d let me spill our curvy-little-sister secret.

I sigh, my body so tight with tension it could snap at any minute. “We better get on the ice before Coach has our asses.”

Sweat burns my eyes as I track the puck across the ice. We’re all playing like shit on a stick right now. And by all, I mean the three of us. Jace and Mateo keep fucking up the passes, going long or short on many of them. Usually, they act like they’re mind-melded on the ice or some shit, anticipating each other’s passes without a second thought. But today? Ha. If it was April Fool’s, I’d think Mateo greased all our sticks with oil or butter. But it’s not.

It’s Charlotte.

And me? You might as well pitch a sign right in front of my crease that says ‘Giant Sieve Lives Here’. I can’t block the puck for shit. Even the fucking rookies are getting the drop on me. It’s embarrassing.

None of us have our heads on straight.

The ones on our shoulders, I mean.

The ones in our pants?

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