Page 45 of The Fake Date Agreement

“You used to be the biggest dreamer in the world,” I remind him.

He had his eyes set on hockey. Nothing could sway him from it, and I thought nothing ever would. Then a car skidded on black ice one night, two people died, and he turned his back on hockey to look after me.

“Real life has a habit of knocking sense into you. How’s the final paper for public policy?” Leather creaks, and I envision him standing from the brown leather couch in our dark green living room.

I regret mentioning it to him now. It had been a moment of stupidity. I’d brought it up thinking I’d ask his opinion about dropping the module, and he’d been so proud that I hadn’t gone for an easy module I could coast through.

I couldn’t tell him I was already behind, so I’d lied then, and I’ve continued to lie about it to everyone since then.

“Regretting my life choices,” I tell him. “But I’ll get it done.”

“I’m working tonight, so I need to get some shuteye. Speak soon, little brother.”

We say our goodbyes and hang up.

I grab a couple of roast beef sandwiches from the dining room, along with a banana and a bottle of water, refusing an offer to play foosball with my teammates. I head to my room, determined to put a serious dent in this paper.

It’s two in the afternoon now. I have maybe two or three hours of reading time before this party. And that’s only if no one comes knocking on my door wanting to hang out. It’s the weekend, so I’m not holding out any hopes about being left alone.

Back in my room, I demolish my food at my desk and open my first book.

I’m reaching for my highlighter when my phone vibrates across the desk.

As I tell myself to ignore it, that this damn paper isn’t going to write itself, my eyes are already scanning the text message that pops up on the screen.

Caleb

Need you at the rink.

I blow out a sigh and consider ignoring it.

And I do.

For five seconds.

I let my book close on its own as I pick up my phone.

If Caleb is at the rink, he’ll be poring over the playbook. I have no clue how many hours he’s spent over the last few years fine-tuning plays from a decades-old notebook. Some are older than we are. Some are plays that set us on this path to championship glory.

Every power play starts as an idea when we’re playing around on the ice.

Sometimes, things happen organically. We’re fucking around. Someone turns. Someone skates here. There’s a tiny window, and we look at each other and think… that could work.

Then it’s a messy scrawl on a piece of paper, illegible to almost everyone but Caleb.

Those plays and that playbook have turned this team from one of the worst in the league to one of the best. That playbook is Caleb’s baby, and he never tires of fine-tuning it every chance he can get. As team captain, his responsibilities are more than I would ever want, and the thought of leaving him to deal with it on his own…

My fingers hover over the keyboard.

Just tell him you’re busy and to ask someone else on the team for help.

I type out my response.

Me

On my way.

“You truly are an idiot, Reid,” I mutter, getting to my feet.

---