Page 29 of The Switched-Up Playbook
“I thought knowing that about him would make you more comfortable. You were so awkward around me at first,” Igrumble. It feels weird to speak for my brother in this way even when I know his intentions.
“Aw, that’s so cute,” Taylor coos the same moment Hart tells me, “You shouldn’t have done that. I’m sure your brother didn’t want me to know.”
“I know, I know,” I roll my eyes. “But Nicko forgave me.” Which is true. Nate did feel bad about outing me in front of his roommate without my consent, and I begrudgingly have to admit that Hart never abused that knowledge.
“But if you knew, why didn’t you call him out during the interview then?” Taylor asks curiously.
“Outing someone live on air is a horrible thing to do, don’t you think? I would’ve been worse than him then,” Hart points out.
Taylor weighs his head, considering that for a moment. “I guess you’re right,” he says with a sigh before reaching out to lightly punch Hart’s shoulder. “But hey, if you’re lucky, they’ll drop him over his injury. And with how Nate’s been playing today, the Rebels should think about signing him instead!”
Nicko, October 22nd
I’m half an hour away from getting my own life back.
The diner we agreed to meet in is still mostly empty when I arrive. I had to call an Uber instead of taking the car, because Nate is a scaredy-cat about driving in snow, and we had the lightest dusting of powdery flakes overnight. My heart squeezes with happiness when every step makes a soft crunching noise as I walk up to the entrance.
There’s something peaceful about the first snow, when the whole world stops in wonder to watch it fall.
The clock on the back wall shows it’s a few minutes past seven. The waitress, a curvy girl in her early twenties with cute curls framing her face, is still busy with starting the coffee machine. A neon sign behind her spells out “bats & badgers” although the last part looks as if it has been added more recently, the style not quite the same.
I blink a few times and turn toward the menu, reading over it even though I know I will settle for a regular black coffee anyways.
“Wait…” she says after she has started the machine. Loud gurgling and hissing fills the room, and she has to raise her voice to be understood as my order pours in one of the paper cups. There are bats and badgers printed on it, surrounded by footballs and hockey sticks.
“...aren’t you Nate van der Hoff?”
I pause at that, unsure of what to say. Technically, my time as Nate van der Hoff has almost come to an end, and I’m glad about it. We are too old to be doing this, and even though I enjoyed playing yesterday, the week has been stressful. As soon as Nate walks in here, we will swap keys and phones to sneak back into our respective beds and start the day as ourselves again.
And the next time I see Hart, I will make sure to capitalize on his weak backhand instead of sending him passes.
“Yup, that’s the legend himself,” someone says behind me, an arm wrapping around my shoulders before I can answer.
I relax as I recognize Nate’s presence, hesitantly leaning into the embrace. The tension leaving my body is almost painful, making me realize that I must have subconsciously drawn up my shoulders this whole time.
“Dickhead,” I murmur, rolling my eyes at him. He’s pulled the hood of my B-Tech sweater deep into his forehead, which makes me frown. Not the best clothing choice when we’re about to swap back again.
“Your goal last night wasamazing.” The waitress beams at me as she’s pushing my coffee over the counter, then she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, we’re supposed to be impartial and all,” she points her thumb over her shoulder to the gleaming neon sign, “but I definitely prefer the Bats.”
I should probably be offended by this, but my cheeks flush with sudden heat at the unexpected compliment. “Thanks,” I murmur and offer her the money over the counter, but she shakes her head.
“Oh no, winners don’t pay here,” she grins, so I quickly stuff it into the tip jar.
“Awww, look at that, my little brother became a fan favorite,” Nate coos at me as we make our way to the far end of the diner.
“Shut up,” I tell him and slide into a free booth. Obviously, I’m known on the Tech Campus; there’s no way around it as a student athlete. But it’s the first time someone actually complimented one of my goals outside of my team, let alone treated me to a coffee over it.
Most Tech students are far more excited about the football team.
“Itwasa beautiful goal,” Nate hums as he drops into the opposite seat. “Maybe you can make another one next week?”
I raise my brows at that, about to tell him that I plan on scoringtwofor the Badgers, when he pulls his hood back, effectively rendering me speechless.
I blink at the face that, stripped of fancy beauty products and contacts, should lookexactlylike mine. Only now, there’s a giant bruise adorning Nate’s left eye, the dark purple a stark contrast to his skin. The swelling hides his green iris almost completely, and for a moment I have the urge to reach out and brush my fingertips over it.
“What the fuck happened to you?” I ask, my stomach dropping as I take in the discoloration of his cheekbone.
Nate licks his split lip, then grins sheepishly before quipping, “Looks like you can enjoy your fame a little longer.”
