Page 118 of A Little Complicated

His gloves are on the ice, and his fists fly into Archer’s stomach and skate across his jaw. Catching on to what the hell’s happening, Archer blocks the next punch, throwing a few of his own while the referees attempt to break the chaos apart. Maverick rips his jersey out of Archer’s grasp and throws another punch at his own flesh and blood.

In an instant, Henry charges down the arena stairs and is on LAU’s bench in the blink of an eye. With his hands cupping his mouth, he yells at the boys, but I can’t hear what’s said. I can only see the frustration and embarrassment etched into Henry’s features. It’s too loud in here. Too chaotic.

His boys look just like him. Tall. Broad chests. Brown, wavy hair. Sharp jaws. Ruthless expressions. The referee blows his whistle one more time, finally ripping the brothers apart. They’re escorted to the locker room as the rest of their team watches in shock. And the silence that follows? It chills me to my core. Because I have a feeling it’s all my fault.

37

MAVERICK

“What the fuck was that?” my dad spits as soon as we enter the locker room.

I take my helmet off and chuck it against the lockers, but it doesn’t erase the fire in my veins. After last night, then this morning, I’m…I’m fucked. I shouldn’t have gone to my appointment before the game. The results messed with my head, confirming my fears for the thousandth time and stealing what little hope I managed to collect since the previous appointment. I was already wound up. Already drowning. Then I saw her. Ophelia. Saw the way she smiled at Archer. The way she looked in his jersey. The way my brother fucking lit up when he realized it was his number painted on her cheeks. His last name on her back. And what did he say to me when he saw her?

“Damn, she looks good with my name on her, doesn’t she? Calling it now, brother. I’m gonna marry that girl.”

It killed me. But what’s worse is how I responded by doing the exact opposite of what I should have.

It’s fucked-up. I know it is. I shouldn’t have hit him. I shouldn’t have hidden in my room while Ophelia hung out with my brother all night. I shouldn’t care that she’s wearing his jersey, wishing it was mine instead.

I shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

But the real problem is I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t to protect her in the long run. I care about her more than I should and more than I want to. And if a relationship isn’t in the cards for us, why do I fucking care if she smiles at Archer? Why do I care if she’s wearing his jersey? Why do I care if he’s experienced her optimism and her lips? Why do I care if he loves her and she loves him, even if it’s only platonic?

I hit the locker again, this time with my fist, and my knuckles scream in protest as my chest heaves.

Why do I fucking care?

“Calm the hell down, Maverick,” my dad orders.

Archer’s quiet. He’s sitting on the bench with his head in his hands, preparing for the inevitable lecture we both know is coming.

“Are you twelve? Ten? Five?” my dad continues. “What is wrong with you two?”

Archer drops his hands to his lap and pins me with a glare as I pace the locker room. “Ask Maverick. He’s the one who attacked me.”

Folding his arms, my dad turns to me and waits.

A million reasons rise to the surface, but I press my lips together, knowing none of them are enough.

“I fucked up,” I mutter.

“No shit,” Archer starts, but our dad lifts his hand, silencing him.

“Why’d you hit your brother?” he demands.

I scrub my hand over my face, my teeth gnashing. I don’t know what he expects me to say. Not about this.

“Nothing to say?” he prods. “Nothing?”

“I don’t have a reason,” I grit out. “Not a good one.”

“On that, we agree,” my dad mutters. He adjusts the white sleeves beneath his dark suit. “Look, if you want a future in the NHL, you need to keep your anger in check.” The vein in his forehead is throbbing as he looks at me, his eyes brimming with disappointment. “Especially when it’s against your own fucking teammate, let alone your brother. It’s you and him, Mav.” He points to my brother on the bench. “You and Archer. You know that.”

“I know,” I mutter. He’s right. I know he is. And I know it isn’t fair for me to be pissed at either of them. Archer doesn’t know about my past with Lia. He doesn’t know how the future was ripped away from us or how we’ve been sneaking around behind everyone’s backs again, only for her to openly wear his number and let everyone—our friends, our families—think she still belongs to him.

Doesn’t she, though?

I bang my head against the locker, then drop my chin to my chest. “Sorry, Arch.”

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