Page 14 of Hat Trick

I use the word “raised”lightly.

Because as I sit in my older brother’s shitty-ass apartment only two blocks from my old foster-care house, I can’t help but wonder how I managed to pull myself out of this hellhole. A determination to succeed, maybe. A fear that I’d end up just like my brother, Dave. An innate knowledge that if I allowed myself to linger too long in the memories, they’d fist my shirt and never letgo.

One minute I’m staring down at a chipped mug full of rum, and in the next I’m drowning in thepast.

Coming here to Dave’s apartment always does this to me, and our routine never changes. He calls, needing something and, inevitably, I come running. When it comes to my brother, I operate almost exclusively on guilt. We both know it’s the only reason I show up—that, and a naïve but still lingering hope that he wants to see me because we’refamily.

I push away the mug with a sigh. “I’m not writing you another check,” I tell Dave, forcing myself to meet his bleary blue eyes. “I told you that lasttime.”

“Nah,” my brother says, dragging his fingers along the side of his pockmarked face, “you said you’dthinkabout it. Big difference,bro.”

Bro.

Like he really gave two shits about me growing up or like he even gives two shits about me now. It wasn’t until Northeastern recruited me that Dave started popping into my life again for something more substantial than a “hello.” By that point, I’d seen enough of Boston’s seedy side to know that Dave was bad news all the wayaround.

The way he scratched at his nose, a telltale sign that he was addicted to coke and God knows what else, was just the tip of theiceberg.

Dave sits forward in his chair, elbows on the table as he snags my rejected mug. He downs the rum in one go, Adam’s apple dodging downward, without even a wince. Porcelain meets wood with aclank!and then my brother is looking at me earnestly. “Let’s do it together, bro. Can you imagine if we created a genius app? You’ve got the funds. I’ve got thebrains.”

His accent is just as thick as mine, so that “together” sounds a lot more like “togethah.” I’ve done what I can over the years to soften the Boston in my voice, mostly so I don’t have to answer to idiots asking me to “pahk the cah in Hahvahd yahd.” But Dave is completely unaware of all that, and he speaks as brashly as he fights on Friday nights down inBrockton.

Yeah, he doesn’t think I know about that. But Ido.

The missing teeth here or there were good indicators to start—those that weren’t already gone from the drug use,anyway.

Swallowing my growing temper, I pull on my charming façade. Pissing off Dave usually ends in him threatening to bash me over the head with the closest object. “How’re your other businesses going? You gotta be a little too busy to add on more right now . . . don’t youthink?”

I can see him pondering this, taking the time to plot out his next move. I’m not at all surprised when he opens his mouth and lies like a motherfucker. “Not too busy for my baby bro. Who do you think Iam?”

A drunk. Cheat. Liar.Thief.

I may have missedone.

He must read my thoughts in my expression because his lips twist in displeasure and he gives up all pretense. “C’mon, dude. I fuckin’ need the money, alright? While you’re out on the ice scoring hat tricks like you’re shittin’ out baby unicorns, some of us have to make a realliving.”

Because, apparently, having grown-ass men pummel me on the ice isn’t arealjob. I roll my eyes, my hands going to the table in preparation to get the hell out of here. “You already owe me close to fifty-k, Dave. I’m not looking to sink anymore cash into plans that aren’t going anywhere but to youraddictions.”

It’s a low blow, I’lladmit.

And it’s absolutely the wrong thing tosay.

Dave climbs to his feet, swaying from the booze. Drunk or not, he’s still a big dude. Almost as big as I am—his fighting keeps him muscular even if the alcohol has his waistline bloating like apufferfish.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls, coming around the table with jerky steps. “You got the fuck outta here, bro. You skipped out of Southie faster than I take a piss most days.” He shoves his face close to mine, and the scent of rum is overwhelmingly sweet. “You think you’re some bigshot now, huh? Who knows that little Marshall Hunt, fucker of all supermodels and the NHL’s golden boy, is nothing buta—”

My visionclouds.

Keepcalm.

I don’t keepcalm.

The old me, the angry youth, shoves to the surface as my hands go to Dave’s chest and push.Hard.

Thanks to the drink, his balance is shot and he stumbles backward. Crashing into a chair. Tripping over a stray sneaker. Falling onto hisass.

Mouth curving in a snarl, Dave lifts a shaky finger to point at me. “You know what makes me feel better each night?” he demands, voice quivering with undiluted rage. “The fact that every game, I’m hoping you’ll lose. That you’ll keep on losing, night after night, until you’re booted off the Blades . . . and you’re right back here with me.Surviving.”

I don’t want to admit it but his words freeze my heart with the fear that drives me every day. I play hockey because I love the sport, but I’m not delusional—I bust my ass in the rink, in the gym, because the alternative isthis.

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