Page 50 of We Can't Be Friends

“Whoa.” His gray eyes, identical to mine and Miller’s, sparkle with amusement. “Can you teach me?”

“Duh.”

“I haven’t seen my sister in over a year and my kid gets more excitement than me? What am I? Chump meat?”

“Not as cool,” I tell Miller, glancing up at him. “Plus, since when did a grump ever hug?” I stand, picking Riley up. “How is my most favorite dragon rider in the entire world doing?”

“I’mnota dragon rider, Auntie.” Riley corrects me with a huff.

“Coulda fooled me.” I lean into his ear, ratting out Miller. “Your dad told me you were.”

He about knocks his head into mine, turning to his dad. “Dad!Youpromisedyou weren’t going to tell anyone.”

“Chloe isn’t anyone.”

After Callum left my apartment on Sunday, my brother called that afternoon to tell me he was moving to Chicago—the following weekend (I’m smiling, I promise). I spent the week after work touring the apartments he sent me. Ridiculous high rises with stunning views that you can only afford on his seven-figure hockey contract.

Miller plays center for the Chicago Wildcats, and from the looks of it, this off-season and injury rehab has done him some good—not just physically, but mentally too. I haven’t seen him even attempt a smile in years.

Not that I’ve seen him much in the past nine years.

We’re twins. Both with mops of almost black hair—he claims brown, I prefer black—and gray eyes from our dad. Our matching bronzed skin is from our mother. Miller has far less freckles and tattoos than I do. That’s how they told us apart as toddlers—freckles, not tattoos.

The freckles are from Mom, and I love that I’m the only one out of the three of us that inherited them.

After last season with Boston and an injury that they didn’t know if he would recover from, they traded him to Chicago.

When the news broke, people were devastated, Miller included. He’s been playing with them since he was drafted out of college,and as a single parent, moving and transitioning teams wasn’t going to be easy.

Our parents live in Boston and helped with Riley.

“Riley, come here.” Dad mode on.

The kid jumps down from my arms and sulks over to his dad. “Yeah?”

“We need to order when the waitress comes back. Can you sit in this chair and tell me what you want?”

“Do they have chicken tenders?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you climb up and we can find out.” He pats the chair next to his.

“Okay!” Riley squeals cheerfully. Miller helps give Riley a boost when he can’t get into the high-top chair. Opening the crayon set that came with the kids’ menu, he rolls them to Riley.

I observe my brother closely. I don’t get to see this side of him often. Watching his games on TV, he's ruthless and focused when he’s on the ice. Complete opposite to the tender person sitting across from me.

He’s such a good dad, even with the cards he’s been dealt. The unconditional love and care he has for Riley is admirable. Whenever he decides to settle down, he will make some girl the luckiest in the world.

“Chloe, what are you going to get?”

“Caesar salad and fries,” I tell him. Miller rolls his eyes. “What?”

“Do you need an espresso martini to go with that?”

“Nope, Diet Coke.”

“You are so basic.”

“Yeah? Then why are you going to order the same thing?”

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