“You really think they’ll let you on the ice with the way you look? You’ll probably get some shit from your coach but no one’s letting you play.”
His foggy eyes brightened. “Great, then you can sit it out for me on the bench, August, come on I’m—”
“This is your life,” I snapped. “And in case you’d forgotten, I have a job.”
Troy stepped back, swiping a hand across his mouth and nodding. “Fine. Fine. I’ll get cleaned up.” He started for the bathroom then turned back with a frown. “How’d you know about Harper?”
I couldn’t pinpoint why, but I didn’t exactly want to share the fact that Harper ended up on my couch last night—curled up in my clothes, which were granted massive over her slender frame, but unbelievably alluring.
Harper was a secret I felt like keeping all to myself.
“I ran into her. I’ve got to run, good luck at the game.”
Troy kept a hand on the doorframe of his master bathroom and didn’t move. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I just…I felt like I hit a wall after that game and it knocked me out cold. And now…it’s like I can’t seem to get up, you know?”
My jaw hardened. It wasn’t the reaction someone should have when hearing their only sibling in such distress. But this shouldn’t have been my responsibility.
I handed this man my life two years ago at St. Francis College when the scouts came and I put on his jersey. A life that he swore was all he needed not to fall off the wagon. It was a no brainer the way he saw it.
If August Hartman doesn’t show up, but Troy plays the game of the year, then I wouldn’t have to choose between hockey and finance.
He was right. I didn’t need it.
Not as much as he did.
And now I was here dragging him off the floor again.
I forced my usual hard expression to relax. “I know. And I know the press isn’t helping. But this is not a way to prove them wrong, Troy.”
His eyes leveled mine. “You think they’re wrong?”
No. But I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.
Sophomore Slump was not only spot on for Troy, but it was also the way he played. It was effortless, and not in the best of ways. The guy had the weight behind him, he had the basics and the practice. But his passion wasn’t for the sport.
It was all for the attention. The fame, the cheers, the girls. When you’re centered on all that, you lose focus, patience, timing—all things you need during a game.
“I don’t know,” I answered when I had nothing better to say.
Unfortunately, Troy knew me better than that. He punched the door and screamed, half in pain and half in anger.
And I did something I hadn’t done in years. I reached for his head, gripping it between my palms and holding it firmly until he relented. “Look at me,” I urged.
Eyes that didn’t quite match my own looked up at me hesitantly. The redness and dark circles surrounding them didn’t surprise me. It should have hurt to see him like this, but it only made my chest burn with anger and regret.
This is my fault.
“I didn’t give youeverythingso you could blow it all up because of insecurity. You hadonebad game. It happens. Do what everyone else does. Shake it the fuck off and get back on the ice.”
“I’m not good,” he whispered, his voice shaking with shame or fear.
My next words seemed like they were spoken for me. By someone I swore I’d never be again. “I’ll help you.”
Hopeful gray eyes looked back at me. I held them and he nodded as I released him.
I waited a few minutes before leaving to ensure he was okay and didn’t go reaching for a drink. “So, that article, you think it was Harper?” I asked against my better judgement.
Troy wiped his washed face with a towel and tossed it aside. “What? No. Harper works at the B-Lines, at the café in the lobby,” he scoffed. “Harper’s no reporter.”
