Page 59 of My Brother's Teammates

It’s just a matter of time before Harrison explodes, and when he does, the fallout will be catastrophic.

For all of us.

Jace is so caught up in Charlie, who is now being sloppy-kissed by the nerd in the stands, that he’s seemingly oblivious to the brewing volcano that is his best friend.

Mateo’s still scowling at the screen, but Jace bites down on his mouth guard with such force it should probably break in two. Harrison’s fingers tap against the butt of his stick as he watches, his body temperature visibly rising like the mercury in the thermometer on an August day in the Quarter. His face is so red there’s a vein throbbing in his temple. He’s focused on Jace’s reaction to his sister on the screen.

Harrison’s cheek twitches, his eyes narrow, and just as he reaches his mitt out to what I assume is clamp down on Jace’s shoulder, the whistle blows.

Saved by the end of the time-out.

Or so I thought.

Back on the ice, Jace skates right over to where Charlie sits in the stands. He pounds the Plexi so hard Alec’s beer falls from where he’s stupidly placed while he macks on our girl.

As the polo-shirt-clad date jumps to his feet to make sure his precious shoes don’t get covered in beer, two things happen.

The cameraman focuses on Harrison's bright red face as he scowls and flexes his jaw, then pans back to Jace and Charlie.

Like a man possessed, Jace thumps the glass again, startling Charlotte, her wide eyes filled with confusion.

Shit.

How the hell have none of us ever noticed Jace is ass-over-tits in love with Harrison’s little sister?

That has to be what this is. There’s literally no other explanation for his behavior. The jealousy flares from his body like a goddamn flash of lightning.

He’s like a fucking caveman. Charlie’s date jumps out of his skin. His face pales, eyes widen, and I’m pretty sure he shits his pants.

“Stay the fuck away from her.” Jace isn’t mic-d up, but he’s not fucking quiet.

The ref blows the whistle, drawing Jace’s attention back to the game. In theory. His face tells me he doesn’t give a fuck about the game. If the arena got hit by a meteor right this second, Jace would only be pissed Charlotte got hit by an outer-worldly object.

It takes less than ten seconds of play to realize that Harrison isn’t letting go of the bone he’s gnawing between his teeth, either. He shoves Jace into the boards. Hard.

Jace eats ice, falling flat on his face. Clearly, he wasn’t prepared to be hit by Hurricane Fournier, and when he springs to his feet, he rounds on whoever hit him. His eyes flex wide, and everyone in the arena can lip-read his, “What the fuck, man?”

Harrison simply shrugs and skates away.

They spend the end of the second, and damn near the whole of the third scowling at each other on the bench and on the ice. In the locker room during the period break, Teo and I run interference so security doesn't have to call for an ambulance to transport Jace’s lifeless body to the local morgue.

Not good.

If we weren’t finishing up a hockey game, they’d be beating the shit out of each other right now. We’ve all seen Harrison fight. Dude’s a machine. No one in the fucking league likes taking a hit from another player, but Harrison… People actively avoid him like the plague.

When another two goals slip by me in the closing minutes of the third, my body heats with shame and fury. Distracted by Harrison wanting to murder Jace, who wants to murder Alec, who just kissed Charlie—when we all want to kiss Charlie. And so much fucking more. Fucking fuck.

In a fraction of a second, my blood’s boiling over, my body’s shaking with a visceral rage I can’t contain. I take pride in the fact I’m cool as marble. My composure is one of the things I’m known for as an NHL goaltender. Cool under pressure is my tagline.

But as soon as the buzzer counts down the final seconds of the game, I swing my stick at my goal with every ounce of aggression rattling around in my body, and watch as it splinters into pieces. Just like our fucking team.

TWENTY-TWO

Charlotte

Apparently, letting Alec hightail it from the stadium, figuring out my own way home, and going to stay with a friend for the night after the game to avoid conflict wasn’t the right call. It’s noon on Sunday. I desperately need a shower and clean clothes, and from the moment the elevator dings and I step out onto our floor, three muffled angry hockey player voices drift down the hall to meet me.

As I inch closer, holding my breath as though they might hear me creeping down the hallway, or, I dunno, breathing, their voices get louder.

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