Tucker nods, his eyes darting to something—someone—behind me. I sense Alder's presence before I see him, and the shift in Tucker's expression tells me his twin has arrived.
"He okay?" Alder asks, his voice tight and edged with concern.
"Broken tooth, but nothing that can't be fixed," I reply without looking up, focusing on my work. "He'll be ready to go in a minute."
I feel Alder hovering, watching as I smooth the jagged edge of his brother's tooth just enough to prevent further injury. Our shoulders nearly touch as he leans in to check on Tucker, and I force myself to maintain absolute professional focus despite the proximity. Then, I sense when Alder skates away from the scene.
"All set," I say, backing away as Tucker spits one last timeand accepts his mouthguard from an assistant. "We'll do a proper fix tomorrow."
Tucker nods, and I’m aware of the crowd yelling and the cameras flashing, a low hum traveling through the arena, but I’m assuming it’s due to the injury.
I glance up into the ice-blue eyes of Alder Stag, who tips his chin toward the giant screens above the ice. I expect to see a replay of Tucker’s injury. Instead, I see … Brad. Brad is on the kiss cam, but he's not alone and certainly not uncomfortable. He's enthusiastically kissing another man, their hands clutching at each other's faces with unmistakable familiarity. It takes my brain a moment to process what I see, to reconcile the image on the screen with what I know to be reality.
The man Brad is kissing is Adam… Alder's boyfriend.
My lungs stop working. The sounds of the arena fade to a distant whine as I stare at the frozen image on the screen: eighteen thousand people watching my boyfriend kiss someone else—someone I know.
I feel myself sway slightly, grabbing the arm of the ref for support. There's commotion throughout the arena. I look away from the screen to see Alder standing motionless, staring up at the same image, his gloves and helmet discarded on the ice. His face contorts in what might be rage, anguish, or both.
Our eyes meet across the distance, a silent exchange of shock and betrayal that needs no words. In that horrible moment, we're connected by the same wound inflicted by the same hands.
The crowd's reaction shifts from excitement to confusion, and murmurs grow as people realize something is wrong. Cameras flash, capturing Alder's reaction while I stand frozen in relative anonymity.
I watch as Tucker approaches his twin, blood-stainedgauze still visible in his mouth, as he drapes an arm around Alder's shoulders. The medical staff around me are talking, asking questions I can't process.
"Dr. Sinclair? You okay?"
I nod mechanically, forcing myself back into professional mode through sheer will. "Fine. Just—worried about Tucker's follow-up care."
They accept this explanation, turning their attention back to the ice where the referees are preparing to restart play. I stand there, somehow both present and absent, my body going through the motions while my mind replays the kiss in an endless, excruciating loop.
The whistle blows. The puck drops. The game continues as if the world hasn't just shattered.
I watch Alder attempt to resume play; his movements suddenly seem wooden and unfocused. A Montreal player blows past him, then Tucker, then scores on Gunnar. The buzzer sounds, and just like that, the game is over. The season is over. And somewhere in the arena, Brad is with Adam, unaware or uncaring of the devastation they have just caused.
CHAPTER 5
ALDER
I waketo the sensation of what I hope is my dog’s tongue on my face. “Gordie, chill.” I groan, the effort of speaking too much for my pounding head. My entire body is one giant cramp, and I realize I’m folded in half on a sofa.
I peel open one eye. I’m in my living room, on the couch. The room is cluttered with empty alcohol containers, and … I groan. Two of my brothers are sprawled on the floor, and another is in my recliner.
Gordie whines and keeps licking. Shit. He probably needs to go out.
I rescued Gordon mid-season, and I never get hammered while I’m in season. Nobody could have prepared me for the horrors of having a small creature depend on me while I’m hungover as fuck.
I sit up, and Gordie starts yipping, which feels like tiny needles hammering into my eyes. I have no idea how Tucker and Gunnar are sleeping through this, but they’re probably still plastered. I glance at my body, see that I’m wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt, and decide that’s plenty to take a dog outside.
I rise to my feet, feeling the ache in my ribs where I was checked extra hard last night. Last night. Fuck.
“Come on, Gordo.” I hobble toward the sliding door and onto the small patio, wishing I were farther along in Gordie’s training so that I could just let him loose and know he’d come back. I clip his leash onto his collar and try sitting on the step, but Gordon Howe Stag can’t just piss in the grass by the porch. My picky-ass dog wants to do his business where other dogs in our neighborhood can see and smell him. I assume.
He drags me toward the drainage ravine, and I mutter brief thanks that he’s not pulling me toward the jogging path by the river where other humans are inevitably out and about. I don’t even know what time it is.
Twelve hours past my public humiliation? Fourteen?
The dry, caked feeling in my mouth mimics the sensations in my brain as I think about watching Adam suck face with another guy. In a hockey arena. In the hockey arena where I was playing game seven. If I had just played things cool, people wouldn’t have figured out that he meant something to me. If I had gritted my teeth and stared at my brother or something, this would still be a private pain.
