Page 107 of Facing Off
Two months after my ninth birthday, there still was no proof they did. But Quinn was gone. Now that I’m in my twenties, I’ve learned a lot of the truth from Quinn himself.
His biological family won custody in court and took him away. So quickly that sometimes I think I dreamt up those nine months we spent together. Or how much I cried afterwards, missing him like half of me was gone.
My foster guardians didn’t like me whining so much.They hated it, so I had to train myself to stop caring. To believe that because Quinn had found his real family, he didn’t want to be my brother anymore. That I was replaceable. Not really wanted by others, so I had to learn towantandrelyon myself.
The truth is much more complicated than that.
Quinn doesn’t like to talk about it, but I know now that he wasn’t given access to a phone when they took him away. He couldn’t call or write to me. And that once he was in a place to do so, it was impossible to find me because of how many times my foster guardians moved around. But it was only when he had money to hire a private investigator that Quinn was able to track me down.
That was around five years ago.
Now he’s standing in front of me, holding himself back from asking for the third time whether I need anything or not.
In the background, some Team Canada players are setting up a corner for video games. They’re loud and poking fun at each other. The smell of popcorn and pizza fills the air.
I cross my arms.
Quinn tucks his hands into his pockets. “I can’t believe you’re here. I didn’t think you wanted to come.”
When he found out he was playing for Team Canada in Oslo, he’d offered to pay for my flights and accommodations if I wanted to come along.
I’d turned him down for the same reasons I usually did. I was busy with ballet.
Except now…
I clear my throat. “Um, yeah.”
Quinn glances over to where Hughes is talking to Lokhov about Jung. Then he looks at me again. His eyebrow rises. “And you two came here together?”
“It’s not a big deal.” I defend, my voice going higher than usual as I scrape a hand through my hair.
At the same time, Kavi strolls over to us and asks Quinn, “Did you tell her yet?”
“Tell me what?” I ask, desperate for a change of topic.
Kavi steps closer, spreading her hands out. “Okay, it’s surreal. But we met your doppelgänger here. Someone exactly like you.”
“A Sonya copycat,” confirms Quinn, his expression amused.
Hughes walks over, apparently having overhead. He smirks. “Not possible. No woman compares to our Sonya.”
“Actually, it’s ahe,” says Quinn. “He plays for Finland.”
“Call him over.” Kavi gives me a knowing smile, her eyes lit up with mischief. “I want to see them together. What if they’re soulmates?”
From the corner of my eye, I see Hughes’ smile drop.
“Hey, Mikael Saros,” yells Quinn, gesturing at the couches where some other athletes are lounging. “I want to introduce you to someone!”
A tall giant of a man gets up and heads toward us, his gait leisurely. He’s dressed in all black, his hand casually in his pocket. His hair is so blonde it’s almost white and somehow neatly unruly, cropped on the sides but longer at the nape of his neck. It makes the contrast between his features and clothes even more striking. I have no idea if he’s all tattooed like Lokhov is, but his knuckles are marked with ink. The whole look is intimidating and lethally sexy.
Piercing gray eyes cut to Quinn when he reaches us. “Yeah?”
“Meet Sonya,” says Kavi.
This isn’t planned, but a staring contest ensues. Our mouths settle into familiar downward shapes.
“Apparently we’re alike,” Mikael says eventually.
