Page 9 of The Stud

“Get to the blue line, old man,” I unhappily command between chomps.

“You sister pitched the idea todocumentour testing adventures on social media as a way to not only drum up early intrigue but as a way to showcase that we do what we say we do. That we –The Hosses– truly are out there interacting and connecting with our community.”

My head tilts in suspicion. “Shepitched this idea?”

“According to your mom.”

There’s no stopping my gaze from cutting over to her. “Mom.”

“Audrey…suggested…we conduct…more frequent…” the gracefully slender woman my twin and I get our lissome figures from notably struggles to search for appropriate phrasing, “face to face intercommunications between us and thoserepresenting usin athletic endeavors.”

The launching of my eyebrows occurs at the same time I shoot my sister an incredulous stare to speak the non-sugarcoated truth.

“I just wanna take more pictures and videos with the players.” Her shoulders bounce an innocent shrug. “They’re hot and rich and single and in total need of a trophy.”

“And there it is…” I mutter with another mocking smirk.

They’ve done this shit ourentirefucking lives.

And to an extent, fine.

I get it.

Branding matters.

But their ridiculous dedication to rewriting one of their daughters’ lives rather than just pushing her to actuallybe betteris infuriating.

They treat her with the same peewee rules they did when she wasactuallypeewee aged.

They coddle her.

And bubble her.

And fishbowl her like she would die if her precious face ever touched the ice.

I swear, they behave likeshe’sthe one that might go deaf at any time.

Stress over the idea of being around her more often prompts unexpected ringing to begin in my right ear – tinnitus being one of the unfortunate symptoms of my condition – causing me to fidget with the top of my hearing aid, a reaction that pushes Dad to investigate, “You okay,mi pequeña rebelde?”

“No.” My fingers dramatically fall to fold with the other set that’s in my lap, doing my best to ignore the obnoxious noise. “I’m not only being forced to follow myleastfavorite player around fulltime – like some sort of puck bunny with an all access pass – but I’m also being forced to spend time with my least favorite siblingon the clock,which is clearly some sort of updated take on classic Greek Mythology torture.”

“Onlysibling, one ear,” Audrey obnoxiously tries to correct.

“Audrey,” hisses our mom.

“They’re the same thing,Insta No.”

“Arden,” she repeats in the same unapproving tone.

“What?” I less than innocently toss back. “They’re notnotthe same thing.”

Another smile threatens to make itself seen, encouraging Dad to lovingly chastise, “Comportarse.” He motions a finger from me to her. “Both of you.”

“How about this?” Reaching for another piece of bacon is attached to ignoring the request that we behave as well as the unyielding hum in my ear. “You two just give me my inheritance now. I’ll quit my job, stash some of the cash away in case Ineed to have that surgery after all – you know I don’t want you to pay for it – and move toNarvik, Norway where I can find a respectable gig in the EHL. Pretty sure learning Norwegian won’t be that hard. I already know how to say one of the most important phrases in hockey.” I tear the strip in two and offer one portion of it to Bear. “Mål.”

Dad can’t help but give into his curiosity, “That means goal, doesn’t it?”

“Amedeo,” Mom airily fusses.

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