Page 3 of A Stealthy Situation

“Stop being dramatic.”

“You … fire?”

“Yes. Also expelled. Lucky me.”

Holy shit, I might be sick, and it’s not the alcohol this time. “They threw you out? What the fuck, dude? Need me to go down there and talk to them?”

He grins my way. “You can’t even talk to me right now. What are you going to do? Throw up on the dean’s shoes?”

“I’ll make him take you back!”

“First, that’s impossible. Second, you go to San Diego State, and then they’ll realize there’s two of us, and we’ll be in even more trouble than I’m already in.”

Please, please, let me be hallucinating.

I lurch to my feet, too worked up to sit still. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

Emmett climbs into the bed he’s made himself on the spare mattress. “Dunno.” I’m sure I spot a smile slipping onto his face, but I blink hard to clear my vision, and it’s gone again.

“We have to do something,” I slur, pacing. “If West finds out … or Asher?—”

“We’re not telling them.”

That calms just a smidge of my panic because our older brothers are going to be pissed. They’re both huge hockey stars—West is retired and a head coach now—and all our lives, they’ve pushed us to follow in their footsteps. We were on that path too. The Dalton duo. Set to enter the draft and be some of the top picks. It was only a few months before it happened that Emmett and I decided we fucking hated the pressure we were under, the way the media treated our brothers, and how much we’d have to sacrifice just to play a sport we didn’t love anymore.

We ran to the other side of the fucking country, from Vermont to California, to go to college where no one gives a shit who we’re related to.

And what did we tell our furious big bros? We were getting our degrees to make a difference in the world.

Holy fuck, they’re going to kill us.

I glare at Emmett standing right in front of me. “You’re an asshole.”

“I’m over here.”

I sway on the spot, turning to find he is, in fact, still in bed … and I’m abusing my reflection.

“Fuck.”

“We’ll talk about this some more tomorrow.”

“Talk about your face tomorrow.”

“That sounds like a funner topic.”

I groan and stagger over to collapse again, hoping the third time’s a charm. Alcohol really doesn’t like staying upright.

But even as I try to switch off my brain, the worry is overriding it.

We came to California with a plan. We were going to succeed.

Now, Emmett has nothing, and even though it wasn’t my fault, I can’t help but feel responsible.

I’m him. He’s me.

If he’s struggling, then so am I.

There has to be a way to get him back in. This can’t be it.

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