Page 6 of Shattered On Ice

“You’re off the clock, motherfucker, and I’m not sitting in the chair across from you asking for this. We’ve talked about boundaries before, too,” he reminds me.

It’s taking me longer than usual to shake myself out of work mode. I’m not usually so focused on my brother’s attitude and psychological needs as a rule. We have a pretty healthy dynamic because of living closely. We’d kill each other if I constantly looked at him through a therapist’s lens.

I hold up my hands and shake my head, chastised.

“You can’t fault me for trying. I hate seeing you get worked up about him. Have you at least been meditating and repeating your mantras when he’s bugging you the most?” I hedge.

My brother pins me with a dark stare. It’s like looking into a mirror, if that mirror were warped so I was taller, broader, and far more masculine. Our eyes are still similar enough that most people recognize us as brothers, even if they can't tell we’re twins. He got the height, width, and athletic genes. I was happy to follow the more academic pursuits our parents enjoyed as a rocket scientist and chess grandmaster. Rook is the outlier in our family, excelling at sports and turning that into a career.

“I don't think repeating calming phrases is enough to deal with that jackass, but thanks for the reminder.” He rolls his eyes and dries his hands on a towel. “I try to meditate when I do my visualizations and sometimes when I do yoga, but my mind is busy and loud, so that’s tough,” he admits in a moment of unguarded honesty.

I smile, my shoulders relaxing.

Rook has ADHD and a very busy brain. He was medicated for a bit when he was younger, but didn’t like how it made him feel. He goes without now and just “raw dogs life,” as he says, which can make things quite interesting. He’s always fun, but his impulsivity can get the best of him, and he finds it hard to focus on things he doesn't deem interesting. Which, to be fair, I get. Who wants to do the boring stuff? When it’s going through the pile of mail that’s accumulated in the weeks of busy travel and practice during his season that results in him missing important bills or appointments, it can be a problem. We’ve found workarounds and adjustments. He’s been good about keeping up with things once we set everything to ebills that I can monitor as a backup. It’s kind of how we’ve always operated. We always have each other’s backs. Except for one tense year in our past.

“Glad you're keeping up with the yoga practice,” I tell him, focusing on the positives as I get Indiana’s special fresh dog food out of the fridge. She starts bouncing around our feet excitedly with raspy yodels. “I know it’s good for your game as much as it is your mind.”

“I’m way more flexible now, too. Kingsy does it every day and can do the splits, and that dude is big. If he can do it, I might as well try.” Rook takes the dog bowl from me and tries to coax a trick out of Indiana. She ignores his commands and continues jumping against his legs, demanding her dinner. He sets the bowl down without completing a successful trick.

I laugh. “That dog knows at least four commands. She’s smart enough to know you’ll give her food without doing anything because you’re a sucker,” I tease.

“It’s fine. She’s a very good girl,” he says dismissively as we leave the kitchen. “Want to watch something?” he asks.

I look at him with a raised eyebrow and all the judgmental condemnation only a brother can give. “Like Sports Center or a game?”

He makes a face and pulls his shoulders up. “Well, yeah. Or we could watch Brooklyn 99. That shit’s funny.”

“You’ve watched that show a million times and quote every episode. I prefer my TV without the director’s cut commentary, thank you.” The snark is real in my tone as I tell him how I feel about his suggestion. He’s particularly bad about smacking me and telling me when his favorite part is coming up, and then gleefully reciting it verbatim.

“Well, what are you going to do while we wait for dinner? Sit in silence and read? Write down your big thoughts in your journal? Stop being so damn boring,” he huffs. He throws himself onto the sofa and looks up at me as I perch on the arm. “Why don't we go out? There’s a bar around the corner I’ve been wanting to check out, and I finally have the time. Come with me!” He bounces up and shakes the leg I have resting on the arm of the couch.

Yeah, that’s exactly what I want to do, check out a sports bar on a Friday night with my brother. It’ll probably be full of straight guys getting rowdy over their favorite sports ball team while they become progressively drunker as the night goes on.

“Not my scene,” I say without inflection as a soft letdown. “But thank you for inviting me. I appreciate that you still want to be seen with me in public, despite your superstar sports hero status.”

Rook frowns and pulls back like I’ve said something hurtful instead of the truth. “Bro, I always want to hang out with you, you know that! You’ll always be my first best friend. Westy’s getting close, but he could never edge you out for best best friend status,” he says with a teasing smile.

My heart stutters before breaking into a sprint against my ribs. Ah, Westin. I should know better than to think about my brother’s teammates, but here I am, somehow slipping into an old pattern that is achingly familiar and rooted in trauma.

“I’ll check on dinner,” I say, sliding off the couch and turning away from Rook before he can see the thoughts playing across my face. He would hate me if he knew the little that’s happened already.

I’ve been trying not to think about my brother’s best friend, a near-impossible task after that thing in his kitchen last week. Holy hell, was that unexpected. I felt a connection with him from the moment our hands touched, and the looks he kept giving me piqued my curiosity. It also sent me spinning into a vortex of anxiety that I would lose my brother again over any possible thoughtless actions. Yet, I acted impulsively anyway because I was drawn to Westin’s magnetic energy.

A cursory glance at the oven timer shows dinner still has ten minutes left in the oven. I look into the living room where Rook is sprawled out on the couch, settling on a re-watch of Brooklyn 99 after all. I drag my hands down my face and lean back against the counter as the memories flood in, washing away the carefully patched wall I’ve put in place exactly for this purpose.

I sigh and start drying the dishes Rook washed so I can put them away. Anything to keep myself busy.

From what Rook has said, Westin’s kind, funny, and supportive of all his teammates, regardless of their sexual identity. It was evident how much he cares about them. His desire to feed and give them a safe place to vent about their Stanley Cup loss together was telling.

I liked him immediately.

It didn't hurt that he’s stunning and perfectly my type—tall, with shaggy hair framing broody hazel eyes, a scruffy beard that’s perfect for my fingers to comb through, big shoulders that engulfed me when he pushed me against the refrigerator, and a hard body honed from years of playing at the top of his sport. I froze for a moment, making space and slowing whatever was happening between us, knowing it was a dangerous game. But it was impossible to stay guarded with that big, beautiful man staring at me like I was exactly what he’s always wanted. I was willing to walk a fine line just to feel his lips against mine for a brief second, even knowing that he’s on the same team as my brother.

Oh, and not just my brother’s teammate, but also his best friend.

I roll my eyes. That’s it. I’m an idiot. An absolute masochist for being attracted to another of Rook’s friends.

Did I learn my lesson the first time? Apparently not, and I’m a glutton for punishment because I don't learn from my mistakes. I’m the worst. I’ve made a career out of recognizing patterns, yet I don’t know how to change them when I’m analyzing my own life.