Page 156 of Can't Always Get What You Want

“Good.” My brother looks satisfied. “Mission accomplished.”

I lift my gaze to stare at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shrugs. “It means—that was a set up and you passed.”

“Excuse me?”

He grins. “What? You think I’d go full nuclear on Luca for no reason? I’m not psychotic and I don’t have a death wish—dude could kick my ass if he really wanted to.”

My eyes get as wide as they’ve ever gotten. “Wait. You planned that?” Is this some kind of fucking joke?

“Look,” he says, walking toward me for a hug. “I’ve been overreacting for years. You were never the problem, Nova. The problem was I didn’t want to see someone I care about get hurt. And I was trying to be your big brother instead of letting you do what’s best for you.”

I nod against his chest as he wraps his big, bear arms around me. “So what do I do now?”

I feel him smile into the top of my head. “You make it up to him.”

“How?” My voice is muffled against his sweatshirt.

“Go big or go home.” He laughs. “You’re going to have to figure out real quick how to shout it from the rooftops.”

I pull back enough to look up at him. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” he says. “You show up where he is.Where people can see you. Where he can see you. And you stop pretending this is a secret you have to protect. Put it out there.”

Panic rises in my throat. “Gio…”

He holds up a hand. “Nope. No more excuses. You want to love him? Then do it. All in, all the way. Out loud. In front of his teammates. In front of God.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

He’s right—and I’m out of excuses.

35

luca

Icould have made that pass in my sleep.

Unfortunately, tonight—I miss it because tonight I am playing like total shit.

Absolute, flaming garbage.

The pass bounces off the sideboard and ricochets like a goddamn pinball. Parker, who’s had my back since the first day of training camp, gives me a look as he chases it down, no time to dwell on my fuck-up.

My legs are heavy, my hands feel disconnected from my body, and everything I do is a split-second too slow.

I’m late to every puck. Sloppy on every line change. And Gio, who’s locked in at goalie like his life depends on it, is clearly two seconds away from launching one of his pads at my head.

I don’t blame him.

“Babineaux!” Coach bellows from the bench, clipboard thrashing as his face turns beet red.

I flinch.

“Get it together!” Gio shouts from his crease.

Focus.

---