Page 1 of One Shot

Prologue

Laur

“One shot!” Nick roars in his best douchey jock impression—which not so surprisingly sounds similar to his real voice. I came up to West Michigan University for my brother’s first game of the season. As soon as I dropped my bags off at his house, he whisked me off to lunch and some surprise. Mom would be here in a few days with our stepdad, Dominic.

I can’t help but question where the hell my brother is taking me as I step out of his F-150 into an empty parking lot of a small building with darkened windows and no signage. He can sense my unease but chuckles and pulls me towards the entrance. If Nick’s taking me here, it can’t be as seedy as it looks from the outside, right?

My big brother is my best friend. Growing up, people would mistake us for twins but now, our friends joke that we are as weirdly close as twins typically are. I would do anything for Nick, and I know, even though he refuses to let me date any of his friends, I mean the world to him too.

Nick might have a few inches on me and his shaggy light brown hockey flow is lighter in color than my long brown wavy locks, but we both have the famous Bellinger smile. The smile that takes over a room with one grin—or so I’ve been told. We also both share an obsession beyond love for hockey.

Nick thrusts the door open of the seedy building, which I instantly see is far from sketchy. There’s a chic lounge area. Then I notice the trendy tattoo sign. We’re at a tattoo shop! I can’t help but squeal in excitement.

“NO WAY!”

Nick must have had tattoo appointments booked for the two of us for weeks. He starts to tell me about how this is the top tattoo shop within fifty miles, despite the grim outside appearance. We’ve talked about getting tattoos for as long as I can remember—matching ones to be exact. We both wanted something to symbolize not only our love for hockey, but for our dad who passed when we were young. Nick had other ideas beyond the one matching tattoo.

“I’m not getting ‘one shot’ tattooed on me, Nicholas. That’s yours and Dad’s thing. I’m not a hockey-bro and never will be!” I wince as I hear the tattoo gun turn on. “Aren’t you worried about having to play tonight with a sore arm from those tattoos?” I almost screamed the last word as the tattoo gun pierces my skin now. I’m terrified of needles.

“One shot!” Nick replies. He notices me wince, rolling his eyes.

“Toughen up, Chip,” he laughs but takes my outstretched hand in his.

He didn’t even flinch when he got both of his tattoos done before me. What a showoff.

‘One shot’ is what Dad would always say to Nick after every hockey game, every practice, every loss, every win. All it takes is one shot to change your entire life. You could be one shot away from your dreams. Why not take it? What’s holding you back? You are always one shot away from being your best self, being the best player, or reaching your goal. That’s all it takes—just one shot.

I’ve believed in my big brother more than I’ve believed in anyone or anything. I knew as soon as he signed on the dotted line of his NHL contract after he graduated West Michigan next school year that I would also get the “one shot” tattoo without any convincing needed. It’s the best way I can think of to congratulate him and celebrate his biggest accomplishment and goal since he could skate —playing for the NHL.

Dad passed when I was only six. The memory of feeling the scratch of his stubble when he kissed my cheek goodbye before heading onthe road for a hockey game is starting to slip away. It seems like more pieces of him fade the older I get. Sometimes I wonder if the memories I have of him are really mine or just stories that other people have told me. But one thing I am sure of is that Dad was a hockey legend, and Nick is following in his footsteps.

“Done!” the tattoo artist declares five minutes later.

“Wow, that was fast,” Nick says.

I’m thinking the opposite. It was the most pain I’ve ever been in. Well, almost the worst.

I hold my arm out to admire the small tattoo. Nick’s forearm gleams with fresh black ink. He holds it out to mine, showing the phrase ‘one shot’ on his forearm and a wyvern below it. The wyvern above my wrist is almost a perfect replica of his, but in fresh white ink that still looks bright and bold against my fading summer tan. Nick refused to get white ink—his hair wasn’t the only thing fairer than mine. He took after our dad’s Eastern European side more than I did.

When Dad played college hockey, he played for the West Michigan Wyverns. Nick just so happens to be captain of that team now. Dad was captain his senior year, but Nick made captain his junior year—the only junior captain in Wyverns’ history.

“For Dad,” Nick says.

“And for the new captain. I hear he’s only a junior?!” I tease. “Congrats, Nicky. Dad would be so proud. I am so proud.”

His broad, muscular arms pull me in for a tight hug. I squeeze him back tight. I can’t wait to watch his first game as captain. I hope that I get to transfer to West Michigan next year to be a part of it all.

Chapter one

Laur

They say that God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle, but the two worst moments in my life happened within twenty-four hours of each other, turning me into a shell of a person. Physically, I’m alive. My heart is still beating. My brain is still functioning, but my body and my heart are in excruciating pain. I am bruised, broken, and shattered—just like the pieces of the windshield scattered along the interstate. That windshield used to be attached to my brother’s F-150 less than ten seconds ago.

The memory of when Nick got that truck plays like a movie in my head. It was a few months after his fifteenth birthday. The piece of crap was rusted, barely functional. Mom said she had no idea how he even drove it seventeen miles home from the old man’s shop. Nick spent every free minute he had between school and hockey working on that truck. Mom and I didn’t think he could do it by himself. But he kept at it.

Eight months later, he called me out to the garage. I could hear the excitement in his voice and see the pride in his blue eyes, the same color as mine. The truck didn’t have any more rust. Except the ironic paint color he chose was pretty damn close to a rust color. He turned the key in the ignition, and it purred to life. “Runs smoother than silk,” he said.

My draw dropped, audibly cracking, as I caught the keys he threw at me.

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