1
“Comeon.Comeon.”I rapped my heel on the footrest of the bar stool, watching the screen—or rather several screens. As if something remarkably different would happen on another TV, as Troy Hartman missed yet another easy shot.
“The hell is up with you, tonight, bro?” I muttered under my breath, my teeth clenching with nerves. It wasn’t an easy game to watch. It was downright painful watching my brother play as though this were an unscheduled scrimmage as opposed to the season opener of the new NHL season.
“All that fame gettin’ to his head?” Finn asked, pouring another Guinness for the patron to my left.
“Maybe.” Somehow I doubted it. My brother would’ve known to bring his A-game tonight. This wasn’t just any game for the Brooklyn Blades, it was their chance at redemption. After coming in third in the Stanley Cup finals last season, the team was being booed before they hit the ice. Which in the big picture, meant nothing to anyone except the fans. They wanted to see you bust out of the gate and kick some ass. They were here because they wanted you to prove them wrong. To see you turn it around. Your performance set the tone for the rest of the season, and it was hard to get them back off a bad opener.
Which this—clearly was.
And it was Troy Hartman killing it for them. And not in a good way.
Since the season opener was in New York this year, at Brooklyn Arena, home of the Brooklyn Blades, I was summoned to attend the absurd festivities at Finnigan’s Pub in downtown Manhattan, which wasn’t set to start for another hour. Since I worked on Wall Street—and late most nights—I headed over straight from the office, knowing it was unlikely I’d come back down this way after the game if I watched from home—or even from Troy’s special guest seats at the arena.
Today kicked off Troy’s second season playing with the Blades. He was good. Not amazing, but just good enough to survive his rookie year. That and the sheer rush of your first pro year would ultimately get you to a point of being decent enough to make it look like you belong—not make you legendary.
The game ended tragically. The Blades lost by eleven with Hartman as center. I watched Detroit take the triumphant win and winced at the crushing close-up of my twin. I shouldn’t have looked, but against all my internal warnings, I did it anyway.
I watched my brother stride past the mocking signs and banners, the bangs against the glass and inaudible shouting from angry fans and do his own walk of shame as the camera trailed him.
Sweat beads trickled down his face and despite his efforts to hold back, the Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, the jaw tight as ever, matching my own when I dealt with tough clients. His dark hair slick and streaked back from multiple frustrated sweeps.
There wasn’t much of a difference to us. Barely one at all, even our green eyes were identical. The only difference was so faint, our own parents couldn’t tell us apart sometimes.
Finishing off the smokey amber liquid Finn had poured me as soon as I walked in an hour ago, I placed the glass down and waved goodbye to my favorite bartender.
“Should’ve watched from home,” I told him, without an ounce of humor in my tone.
Finn shook his head and pointed back down at my seat. “I was told to expect at least fifty people tonight for the season opener party—win or lose. Sit your ass back down.”
“Fine, I’ll have a glass of water while I wait for you to get the call from the Hartman fan-club.”
Correction. The Troy Hartman fan club. Not to be confused with theAugustHartman—yours truly—the other twin.
The one who continued to swear, Iintendedon a career in finance over sports. Hockey was fun for a while and I was alright, I suppose. But I didn’t need it.
Not the way Troy needed it.
“Why didn’t you go to the game?” he asked.
“Work.” The simple word poured out of me without a thought. Because it was always my reason.
Finn nodded and glanced at the screen. He never questioned how much I worked or that it came before anything else. How else would one get promoted to senior hedge fund manager in a matter of eighteen months. I made up less than five percent of the nation’s youngest portfolio managers in the last two years. You didn’t get that without living and breathing the damn job.
Troy and I had many happy hours at Finnegan’s over the last year and a half, but we didn’t do much outside of having a few drinks and the occasional weekend at our parents’ house in Staten Island—not by choice. And, despite living in the same apartment complex by the Brooklyn Bridge, my brother and I lived very separate lives ever since we graduated.
But Finn was right, there was no way I’d get away with not showing tonight.Not with the reunion Troy’s fan club planned for him here after what was supposed to be tonight’s big win. Gina Malone, our old high school head cheerleader had arranged for a gathering here—to celebrate and sing the man’s praises. If you asked me, the girl was trying to sink some claws into the famous NHL player ever since he was drafted more than a year ago.
I popped a mint just as the crowd started pouring in and stood again, moving to the back so I could quietly check my emails regarding a new strategy my team and I were working on. Once Troy showed up, I could buy him and all his friends a round, then slip out before I’m forced to re-live homecoming. Watching people fawn all over my brother was right up there with walking barefoot on hot rocks on my favorite things to do.
“I’ll keep you covered,” Finn assured, knowing my unspoken plans.
When Troy’s name popped up on my phone in the middle of my drafting an email to a junior analyst, I hit ignore and kept typing. Aggravated that I’d lost my train of thought.
Thirty seconds later, a text came through and I swiped down to read it.
Blinking, I read it again. Then again, knowing I had to be reading this shit wrong.
