I love that this kid shows me absolutely no deference. It’s refreshing, especially in a hockey-crazed town like Pittsburgh. Most people are all up in my business, trying to get me to sign their boobs and pecs and leave their phone numbers on Gordie’s dog poo bags.
I hang up with my dog sitter, take a leak, and lace up myskates, wondering where my brothers are. My twin, Tucker, and I are the youngest of four kids. Three of us play hockey for the Pittsburgh Fury, the team our dad played for and won a handful of Cups. He’s a legend in this town, and I know my brother Gunnar lets that mess with his head, but he’s a goalie, and they’re weird.
Tuck and I have twin mojo. A coach would be nuts to break us up. Hell, I thought Tuck was nuts for wanting his own bachelor pad, and it’s been a big adjustment living separately from him this year. I would probably have been content to room with him forever, but I get that we’re adults now, and we’re supposed to differentiate.
Tuck bursts into the locker room and slides onto the wooden bench beside me, planting a kiss on my cheek. Which I allow because I love him. “Hey, Fucker.”
He flinches. “Why does everyone call me that?”
“Because it rhymes with your name, and you’re a fucker.” He’s been trying to think of a suitable annoying nickname for me for the several decades we’ve been alive. What do I care if he calls me Derpy? Doesn’t have the same impact.
Tuck glances toward the door, shakes his head, and starts suiting up. “I just had the best fucking massage. I think I slept through half of it. Not even sure how I rolled over.” He stretches his arms above his head. “I have a good feeling about today’s game.”
I run a hand along my scruffy jaw. I sort of hate the requirement to stop shaving when we make the playoffs. I know beards are hot right now, but I find them itchy. At least Adam seems to think it’s hot.
Tuck and I match each other’s pace, getting dressed as the other guys file in, suit up, and head out to the ice. The goalies must have gone out early or something because I don’t see any sign of Gunnar.
Tucker tosses his bag into the locker above his cubby andslams the door. “Who all is here today? From the family, I mean.”
I glance up, considering. “Mom and Dad. All the uncles…honestly, I think everyone.”
Our oldest brother, Odin, just moved back from England with his girlfriend. Our cousin Stellen just finished law school. When I say everyone is here, I mean there are 25 members of the Stag family in the stands, ready to make some noise.
Tucker gives me a pointed look. “He going to show this time?”
I swallow the hairball that his question creates in my throat. “He’ll come. He’s sitting somewhere different, though.”
“It’s insane that you’ve been with this guy for six months, and I, your more-handsome twin, have only met him in passing. You know that, right?”
“Jesus, Tucker, I know. You know it’s still scary to be queer in this society, right? Cut him some slack.”
My brother shakes his head. “Of course I know that. And any person you date should know our family is a safe place, Bruh.”
I close my eyes, think of my dog, and take a few deep breaths. “Look, I can’t talk about this now. Let’s just focus on beating Montreal, okay?”
He pushes to his feet. “You’re right. But wearetalking about this after we win tonight, okay?”
I follow him out to the ice, wondering how annoyed I should be that he’s giving voice to all the quiet concerns I’ve been afraid to name for months. I truly believe if I give Adam enough time and space, he’ll come around. Like, he will literally come around to family dinner. I don’t need to trot him around town on my arm. I don’t need him to be my date at the hospital gala. But my brother is right. Our family is the best, and pretty much all I want in the world after a Cupvictory of my own is to bring the person I’m dating to a lazy summer day at our vacation house, where we all fight over card games and shove each other into the pool.
I glance up at the empty arena and emerge from the tunnel toward the ice. I look to the seat I reserved for Adam. He’ll be there. I know he will. And maybe, when we win, I can skate up to the glass, press my glove against the barrier, and he’ll lean in and smile.
CHAPTER 4
LENA
The case snaps shutwith a satisfying click. Every instrument was in its place, every tool properly sterilized, and every emergency medication was measured and ready. If nothing else in my life is predictable, at least I have this—the beautiful order of my profession.
I run my fingers over the embroidered logo above my pocket: DR. SINCLAIR, PITTSBURGH FURY. The branded scrubs actually fit my plus-sized frame, a luxury I hadn't expected when I took this job. It’s a real treat to just grab work clothes that fit comfortably.
"Everybody in this organization is king-sized," Coach Thompson commented during my orientation, gesturing to the equipment room stocked with gear for every possible body type.
I hadn't been sure if that was a compliment, an observation, or something else entirely, but the following wardrobe allowance made me too grateful to question it. Plus, now my salary is nearly double what I made at the hospital, enough to actually make progress on my mountain of student loans instead of just treading water with minimum payments. Thompson can say whatever he wants.
Through the open door of my office, which is attached tothe locker room, I can see the players gearing up, stern and quiet beneath heavy padding. It’s playoff game seven. The culmination of a season's worth of work, hope, and sacrifice.
My mind drifts back to the last game when Anton declined pain medication during an emergency extraction after taking a puck to the mouth.
"No drugs," he'd insisted through a mouthful of blood. "Need head clear for third period."
