Page 52 of Ice Cold, Red Hot
“Yeah.”
“So was this like… a month ago?”
“Fuck off.”
Blake moved around in the kitchen, leaving me alone for a blissful minute or two, and then he dropped into the seat by my side.
“Didn’t realize I asked for company,” I muttered.
“You didn’t. But you clearly need it.” He dropped a water bottle in my lap and shoved a sandwich at me, which I pushed away like a grumpy toddler.
After a minute, I gave in and took it, and for a little while, we both watched the game onscreen. My ghost cut across the blue line and I could almost feel the instinct that had kicked in at that moment. Some loser steps in to block, but he’s too late. I shifted, faked right, dragged the puck left and passed him. But that left me at a shitty angle - no room, goalie tight on the post.
Today? I’d balk. But my ghost? He snapped his wrists, quick and clean, and sent the puck bar-down—off the crossbar and in.
“Dude!” Blake exploded at my side. “Bar-down from that angle? Filthy!”
For a second I was caught up. He was right—that shot was pure talent. Which I had. Which I threw away. “Thanks, man.”
We watched for a second longer, and finally, I couldn’t take it. “You gonna tell me why you’re here, Blake? Because I can probably guess. I ruined my shot. I embarrassed the family. Let’s hear it.”
Blake was quiet a second, and I turned to look at his face. How long had it been since I’d really looked my big brother in the face? Years, probably. Because recently, it’d been hard to look at him without feeling the weight of the comparison between us.
“Dad might think that. I don’t.”
“Like it doesn’t matter what Dad thinks. You’ve only ever felt what it’s like to be the golden child.”
Blake met my gaze and held it, shaking his head slowly back and forth. “Success doesn’t mean you’re immune to screwing up. It only means they don’t lecture you for it anymore.”
I let out a sound that was half snort, half laugh. “You don’t screw up.”
Blake sat taller, leaned in. “You think I never wanted to hit some chump in a bar? You think I didn’t do it once or twice?”
I stared at him.
“I guess you didn’t hear about the time I got fined by the league. Almost lost my contract.”
I shook my head. It was like Santa Claus admitting he’d almost forgotten Christmas once.
“I punched some idiot in the tunnel after a playoff loss.” He sighed. “Dad covered it up with some PR magic. But I thought I was done.”
“No one told me.”
Blake nodded. “The thing is… no matter how much you love the game, it never loves you back. And when you tie your entire identity to it? You just realize how delicate things are when you’re faced with losing it.”
Nothing had ever made as much sense as the words he’d just said.
I leaned back into the couch, set the uneaten sandwich aside, the plate on the floor at our feet. “The thing is, I thought I could earn it all. If I just kept my head down, did everything they said. I’d deserve it. The team. The girl.”
Blake’s eyebrow rose. “The girl?”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter now.”
“It does if she’s the reason you quit giving a shit.”
“She’s not.”
My brother scoffed. “So why haven’t you bothered to shower since you got home? Why haven’t you left the apartment?”
