Page 17 of Winter Break Up

“I did before I got in the car. We played a little hockey this morning at the rink.” He flashes me a cocky smile, and I hate that my brother is always in a good mood.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty positive person. But I’m never the one people choose to talk to first or rub elbows with. That’s always been Charlie, he’s like the mayor of any event, and everyone seems to know it. I’m his prickly sister, and I don’t know when that title was given to me or what I did to earn it, but I can’t seem to shake my self-consciousness about it.

“Hey, Mrs. P.” Mercer shoulders his way through the door, that big body consuming more than just space in the kitchen.

When he’s in the room, it’s impossible for me to look anywhere else. But especially right now, when he’s in some type of hockey jersey and his hair is wet from sweat or a shower. Those burly shoulders and tapered waist check every box on my ideal list, and Mercer has always been the sexiest man I’ve ever seen. This attraction between us has never simmered; it’s almost unfair how much I still want him.

“Hey.” He settles next to me at the kitchen counter and looks down through those thick black lashes.

The way he lowers his voice, it’s almost like that greeting is intended to mean more. I’m not sure if the animosity he showed me in the first few days back in our hometown has faded, but we’ve not been trading barbs like we had. If anything, Mercer has been bringing up old inside jokes or including me in some of his and Charlie’s antics during work hours.

As much as I regret breaking us up, I’ve missed the dynamic of our friendship trio more. Now that I’ve seen glimpses of it, I’m clamoring for more.

“Boys, if you get washed up, I’ll let you taste test these raspberry thumbprints,” Mom offers and nods toward the sink.

Immediately, they wrestle each other for who will get to wash his hands first. Even if they’re boneheads, it warms my heart to see my brother with his best friend. Like he mentioned, it took some time after things with Mercer and I had gone south. Charlie deserves to have this kind of relationship in his life, and the guilt still fills my gut when I think about how I almost lost it for him.

“Is your knee recovered enough for you to play hockey?” I ask Mercer as he takes a seat at the counter.

The nurse’s point-of-view in me is always curious about anything having to do with medicine.

He pops a cookie in his mouth and grins. “Worried about me, Em? Don’t worry, I’ve done months of rehab, and the doctors say I look good as new. I’m already outrunning these fools in my private training sessions, a little bit of hockey won’t hurt. Plus, when Charlie says hockey, he means the two of us trying trick shots into the net.”

“And let me tell you, neither of us was made for ice sports.” Charlie snickers. “Stick to soccer, my friend, or you’ll never go pro.”

“Ain’t that the truth.” Mercer takes another cookie and fist bumps my brother.

“What’s going on with free agency, sweetheart?” Mom asks Mercer, and I know she worries about him.

My family has known Mercer since we were all little kids, and my parents couldn’t be prouder of what he’s accomplished. But without a lot of people in his corner, my mom and dad have always worried that he’ll be taken advantage of. Even if he is smart and level-headed, which we’ve always known him to be, there are a lot of shady characters in the sports world. People who are just looking to make a buck off someone else’s back.

“After my season ended, it wasn’t looking good. The way I tore everything, the doctors and my agent weren’t sure I’d even be able to play. I guess the commentators did give me some credit to getting my college team to the championship, even if I couldn’t play in it. The draft was a surprise, but I’m trying to bounce back.” I can tell that he’s trying not to show emotion when talking about it.

But I’ll never get the image of him going down on that field out of my head. It wasn’t often that I watched Mercer’s games; sure, I tried to avoid them but eventually caught clips online or someone would inevitably post a thirst trap of him. But that day, I’d been watching the online feed to pass the time. It was the twenty-third minute of the first half in one of their early season games. When he went to cut for the ball and try to use the toe of his cleat to sink it into the corner of the net, he crumpled to the ground instead.

I’d screamed when it happened, and my roommate Zoe thought I’d hurt myself or something. Not in the physical sense, but my heart had broken on the spot. Soccer is Mercer’s passion, it’s his lifeblood, and it was so unclear in those minutes after what had happened that I feared the worst.

I watched the screen with rapt attention as he tried to stand and failed, his face twisted up in pure agony. When the trainers ran on, assessed him, and then carried him off, I felt tears coming down my face. If he could never play again, he’d be devastated.

News had come out via a world-renowned sports talk show later that night; Mercer Russell, predicted to go number one in the draft, had torn his ACL and MCL and was currently in surgery. I remember the sports pundits droning on and on about recovery rates and probabilities. They kept mentioning rehab and certain players who never came back after injuries like this. It scared me to death.

Only once Charlie texted our family group chat that he was out of surgery and the prognosis looked okay did I take a breath, but not a deep one. Part of me felt like I should have reached out then, but why the hell would Mercer want to hear from me?

My brother kept me clued in, mostly because he was filling my parents in, but it had taken months of assessments to rule out that Mercer would never play again. His injury had far-reaching consequences, though. He couldn’t play for most of his senior season. His team made it to the championship and won, but without him. Which meant scouts saw nothing of his play, and teams didn’t want to take a chance on a guy who was barely out of surgery for tearing both important ligaments in the knee.

He wasn’t drafted.

The day felt like a lead weight around my neck, so I couldn’t imagine what it felt like for Mercer. According to Charlie, he wouldn’t talk about it. Only kept saying that he would be picked up in free agency and was trying his damnedest to make it happen. Since the draft was a blow he wasn’t expecting, Mercer decided to stay until his college graduation rather than drop out to try to hustle for pro teams.

“Well, sure, we’re all so excited to watch you make your return. Mr. P and I have plans to come down for your first pro game.” Secretly, I knew it was so he could have someone familiar at his game since his grandfather couldn’t travel well.

“That’d be so awesome.” His face lights up.

“But what is your agent saying?” Mom pushes, and I know she’s keeping this up because she thinks no one has sat him down for this conversation yet.

On the one hand, I want to know everything about his future plans. On the other, I wish I wasn’t here for this. In a few short months, Mercer and I will be living different lives, our paths intersecting less and less. It’s painful to hear how he’ll be moving on, how he’ll eventually establish his career. Put roots down. Maybe buy a house. Someday, he’ll meet a girl and probably fall in love. The images move through my mind like a movie, and I just want to turn it off.

Mercer ruffles a hand through his hair. “He predicts I’ll be picked up. He says for sure, but of course, I can’t count on that. My stock has definitely taken a hit since my injury. I mean, we saw that with the draft. Teams will really be looking at my progress in private training or invites to their camps to assess if I’m still the same player. I’ll show them I am, of course. But yeah, hopefully, it works out, and then it’s just picking up and moving to my new city. I can’t wait. I mean, it’s a little nerve-wracking, like waiting for something you’ve thought about your whole life. But obviously, this is the job I want, this is what I want to do. I’m ready.”

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