Page 101 of My Brother's Teammates

My chest aches with her gone. I didn’t know we needed her to complete us, but now that we’ve had her, the space she’s left is blatantly obvious.

I’ve almost texted her no less than forty-five million times in the past couple days, but ultimately, she’s asked for space to breathe, to think, and I need to respect that. Even if it’s hard as fuck.

I’ve had to pluck Teo’s phone from his hands probably as many times, as well. I love him, but my dude doesn’t always understand boundaries. I think it’s more he doesn’t want to understand them. In this instance, neither of us do. We just want our girl back under our roof.

We’re both lost. I miss her giggling, her pink cheeks, her plush curves… Hell, I even miss her trying to burn the house down by making breakfast.

It’s hard to believe someone clicked into our lives and routines as well as Charlotte did in just a couple of weeks. And now she’s gone as quickly as she came.

In the words of Teo, I don’t like it.

I know I should be more focused on the fact I’m now trudging toward the bench instead of my crease, but with a chunk of the team as fragmented as it is, I’m focused more on finding a solution. Bringing Charlotte back would anchor at least Teo and me, and Jace too, when he comes home—but would it cause an even bigger rift with Harrison? I mull over our situation as the game starts.

The first period is scoreless, and Rhys is doing better in the goal than I care to admit. I’m starting to think Coach knew what he was doing by putting him between the pipes instead of me, but when the first puck sails past his shoulder a few minutes into the second, his head drops.

If a single goal’s going to flummox him, he’s not the guy I thought he was. He’s rattled, shifting his weight from skate to skate, and his shoulders are curled forward as he stares at his toes.

Our opponents celebrate their goal, Harrison—who finally graced us with his presence minutes before we took the ice—skates back to the net. I don’t know what he says to Rhys, but Rhys nods and stands a little straighter.

As he skates back to the bench, Harrison ignores Jace—who arrived shortly after Harrison—and Mateo’s questioning stares. Jace follows him off the ice and sits next to him on the bench. He nudges him with his knee, and Harry throws a scowl back at his friend.

When Mateo slides onto the other side of the bench, making a Harrison sandwich, the tension in the arena goes up about three hundred percent. It’s like watching a kettle boiling. Harrison has gone from mildly irritated to vibrating and ready to spout off.

I reach out to tap Teo on the shoulder, but Coach calls a line change before I can warn him. He’s playing with fire, and for some reason, he seems to want to get burned.

When another goal slips through Rhys’s five-hole, my teammates don’t stare at him with judgment and loathing. No, they stare at me. They don’t even pretend they’re not mad at me. Hell, I’m mad at my-fucking-self.

Problem is, I wouldn’t be any better between the pipes right now than Rhys. My mind’s not in it, and neither is my heart—that’s with the pretty little redhead who stole it.

Until we figure out what the hell is going on between us all, and how to move forward, we’re all stuck.

A third goal whizzes past Rhys’s blocker, and the home crowd visibly deflates. It’s not likely that we’re coming back from a three-nil shutout.

The final minutes of the game are ticking down, the atmosphere on the bench between line changes is glacial—at best—and every time Mateo playfully bumps Harrison’s shoulder either on the ice or on the bench, I think it’s going to be the last time he breathes.

Until one of the biggest defensemen in the league shoulder-checks Mateo into the boards with a crunch that echoes around the arena. My heart stops as the hit reverberates in the sudden silence. The sound of the hit is always the thing that gives away if it’s a bad one.

When he crumples onto the ice, my worst nightmare starts to play out in front of my eyes.

Get up, Teo.

It’s the straw that pushes Harrison over the edge. While Teo’s unmoving on the ice, Harrison’s already gloves and helmet off, raining punches on the defender.

Jace is crouched over Mateo on the ice, his lips moving. Mateo isn’t getting to his feet, but he’s moving. The medical team isn’t rushing out there to treat him. This is good news, it’s all good news, so why is there a relentless pain stabbing in my chest?

It feels like a lifetime before Mateo makes it back to safe harbor on the bench, and once he’s given the nod to the coaching staff that he’s okay, he shuffles along the bench to sit next to me.

He can’t really turn and have a conversation with me—we’re not really at the disclose our relationship to the team level. At least I don’t think we are. Are we?

“You okay?” I force my voice to sound normal, to stay level, force myself not to let the welling panic and worry in my body come out of my mouth when we’re surrounded by people and cameras.

He nods, tossing me a wink over his shoulder. “All good. It’d take more than that to bring me down.” He must see something on my face when he stares up at me standing behind him. He reaches a hand back, takes mine, and squeezes it. It’s a simple act, but it thaws the shards of ice in my veins.

When Harrison makes it back to the bench, he beelines straight for Mateo. “You okay?” His face is bruised and bloodied, but his intense stare is focused on my guy, the concern for his safety touching. It’s a beacon of hope. If Harrison’s worried about Mateo, that means there’s a chance he’ll forgive us and we’ll be fine, right?

It wouldn’t be like Harrison to put on a show for the sake of it, and even if it was, there’s no way he could fake that apprehension and worry.

Harrison looks up at me, then back to Mateo. “That was a big hit. Keep an eye on him.”

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