Chapter 15

Amelia

My boots stick slightly to the soda-stained floor as I shuffle down the aisle. I purposefully came late to the game so Riley wouldn’t see me during warmups. I don’t want to distract him. It’s weird, but it feels like the chatter around me takes a nosedive as I approach my seat for the ticket Riley gave me, right in front of the glass. There’s also a feeling of dozens of eyes boring into me. I slip into the seat, trying to make myself as small as possible, but it's like I've turned on some invisible spotlight. My ponytail feels too tight, and the jersey I’m wearing is loose, but suffocating.

"Here for the eye candy, or do you actually like hockey?" a voice teases from behind me. I don't bother turning around. She’s probably just trying to make conversation.

I lean forward, resting my arms on my knees, peering through the glass. There's Riley, number seventeen, gliding across the ice effortlessly. Does anyone suspect why I'm really here? That I'm watching him not as just some random fan?

My gaze darts around the rink, catching snippets of conversations, laughter, the occasional pointed look. Nobody here knows Amelia Brooks is anything more than a face in the crowd. They don't know I'm dating the captain of the Chicago Blades—or that my twin brother is out there too, playing for the rival team. I’ve purposely hidden our shared genetics behind different jerseys and my mother's maiden name.

I chew on my lower lip, considering the layers of secrets I live with. A nervous laugh escapes me because it's all so ridiculous. Here I am, adding one more secret to that pile with me and Riley, and nobody has a clue. Or do they?

The puck skitters across the ice, a blur of black against white, and I can't tear my eyes away from Riley as he moves with it. His muscles flex under his jersey and sweat glistens on his brow. Not even halfway into the game and things on the ice flare up; bodies crash, sticks clash, and suddenly it's not about the puck anymore.

"Riley!" My voice is lost in the roar of the crowd, but I'm on my feet, hands pressed against the cold glass. My brother, with that same fire in his eyes that I see in the mirror, barrels into Riley. They're a tangle of limbs and snarled aggression, their rivalry seeming to be more personal than anyone in these stands could guess.

Gloves drop.

"Come on, break it up," I mutter with a shaky breath. The refs swoop in, their whistles piercing the chaos, but not before fists have flown, words have been exchanged, and penalties have been called.

"Two minutes for roughing," calls the announcer.

I sink back into my seat, right next to the Sin Bin, where they'll serve their time. I didn’t think about it when I sat down. Then again, I didn’t expect my brother and the guy I’m seeing both to be in there at the same time.

"Fucking asshole," Riley's voice cuts through the muffled sounds of the game.

"Back at ya, bro," my brother shoots back.

I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stave off the chill that's got nothing to do with the temperature in the Blade Dome. Watching them, two people at odds over a rivalry game, and so many other things they don’t even know. It makes my stomach knot up.

"Dear Lord," I whisper, feeling like impending doom is coming soon. It's a mess, all of it, and I'm smack in the middle, wishing I could run away.

The game sound hums in the background as my brother's voice cuts through the glass, sharp and accusing. "Those photos that popped up online—what the hell, man?"

I blink, confusion racing through my mind. Photos? My heart stutters, panic rising in me like floodwaters. I try to focus on their faces, Riley's furrowed brow visible even through the smudged barrier of the Sin Bin.

"If you’re talking about the ones I just got before we hit the ice, I have nothing to do with that, and want the fucker dead, whoever is responsible," Riley replies. What are they talking about?

My brother's lips press into a thin line, and even from here, I can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. They're talking about me, about something I can't even grasp.

"Then explain how they got out there," my brother snaps. He looks ready to leap right back over the boards and onto the ice—or at Riley's throat.

"What the fuck is it to you? Why do you care?" Riley counters, leaning forward to stare my brother down. "I wouldn't do that to her. I care about her. "

His words are almost desperate, and they swirl around me while the cheers of the crowd are oblivious to the drama unfolding off-ice. The naked truth in Riley's eyes sends a shudder through me.

Care about me? The thought lingers, but it's overshadowed by a bigger question. What photos are they talking about?

My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up to a barrage of notifications. I swipe through them frantically.

"Shit," I mutter, my breath catching as I finally see. There they are—my photos, unedited and glaringly honest, splashed across different hockey fan accounts. There’s an image from my OnlyFans account paired next to a photo of me in my Blades work uniform. Then the others are of raw footage that’s revealing a side of me not even Riley has seen.

This is my secret, but also my escape from the suffocating expectations and the shadow cast by my brother’s legacy. Now though, it's out there for all the world to see.

The images on my screen blur as I realize the posts are set to public; Amelia Brooks, the sister of a Michigan Vikings hockey star, Chicago Blades staff member, and the mystery girl behind the provocative OnlyFans account, one and the same. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat as I grasp the magnitude of what's just happened.

"Dear Lord," I whisper to myself. It feels like I'm suddenly standing at center ice, naked under the harsh spotlight with nowhere to hide.

My fingers tremble as they clutch the phone. I feel eyes on me, or maybe it's just the paranoia creeping up my spine. The noise around me is laced with whispers and judgements that I can almost hear, though the crowd is focused on the game. The heat of embarrassment is burning me up.

"Because she's my sister, asshole. No one messes with her." My brother’s confession hangs between them. "I've been cleaning up after the punks who think they can pick on her all of our life. So when I heard she's seeing you, and then suddenly her life’s plastered all over the internet? You bet I'm pissed."

"Your sister?" Riley echoes, his voice ricocheting off the plexiglass, disbelief etched into every syllable.

I'm frozen, the revelation that my brother – my twin – has been my silent guardian angel crashes into me. He's been fighting battles I never knew existed, defending me in the shadows while I blindly believed in the security of my double life.

"Look, I didn't post anything about her. I wouldn't." Riley's defense.

Their voices fade as my heart pounds against my chest, echoing the slam of hockey sticks and skates carving lines in the ice. The only thing louder is the blood rushing in my ears from mortification.

I've been outed. The truth hits hard, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't stay here a moment longer.

I can barely feel my legs moving from the shock, making my way to the aisle.

"Amelia, wait!" Riley yells as I come face to face with the penalty boxes in order to climb the stairs to get out of here. Although, I can't look at him, can't face those piercing blue eyes that always seem to see too much.

"Please," he continues, his words laced with urgency, "I never told anyone about us—about you."

His denial ricochets off the walls of my skull. It's too late. The damage is done, images of me laid bare for the world to scrutinize. His protests feel empty, even if they're not. I don't know what to believe anymore.

"Save it, Riley," I spit back. My pulse throbs in my temples as I shove past bodies, past the smell of spilled beer and fried food until I'm out the doors.