Five

Irun a hand through my hair for probably the hundredth time this morning as I step into the Dragons' rink. I take care to keep my eyes lowered while I pass any personnel, like I'm used to taking these halls meant only for staff and players.

It feels wrong to have my hair this short. Cool air nips at the back of my neck, reminding me what lengths I'm willing to go to for my family.

Am I crazy? Possibly. Kenzie certainly thought so when I explained the situation to her last night. She didn't tell me not to do it, knowing how seriously I take my family's financial stressors, but she did caution me to be careful. Which I intend to be.

At least no one can accuse me of not being dedicated to those I love.

But to be honest, this will help me too. Joel's always made more than me and he's contributed the larger amount to help my parents while I've given what I could when I could, but it's never felt like enough. But this…this is me doing my part for everyone and hoping we don't get burned in the process.

Joel and I spent the better part of last night going over what I'll need to know for practice today. He told me exactly which doors I'm to take to get to the locker room, what to expect once I'm inside; he even detailed his exact routine for suiting up. And I took the time to memorize every player, putting a name with each face.

Thankfully, he wears earphones and listens to music until it's time to hit the ice. At least with that buffer, I won't be forced to hold a conversation with anyone. He claims that everyone keeps to themselves, as it's still early and the guys are usually tired.

But I already know that even if the morning routine goes smoothly, I'll have to deal with more snags later, thanks to the image Joel has earned on this team. He's a goofball. Sometimes excessively loud and obnoxious. I know because he's been that way our entire lives.

I wouldn't say I'm his total opposite, but I'm definitely more introverted. It'll take some effort to keep up with his annoyingly upbeat self for sure.

Alone in the hall, I practice a full-mouthed, carefree smile in case I might need to pull one later. Once I reach the locker room, I swipe my key card and open the door. Voices echo off the walls, and my heart begins to hammer in my chest.

It's okay, I remind myself. I know these guys. If they start to suspect something, the plan is to play it off like a big joke and call Joel to confirm it.

But that's if they suspect me today. What if it's not until we're a few practices in that they begin to wonder what's going on? Our physiques, our looks, even our voices are nearly identical. But our skills vary significantly. I'm not as good of a player as Joel, not even close. I tried to brush up on my skills in his driveway yesterday, absorbing his critiques on how to up my game, but with not having played a real game in years, it was rough. Way rougher than I initially thought it would be. My only saving grace is that I'm a better skater than he is.

But my double axels and lutz jumps won't help me convince Joel's teammates and coach that I'm a professional hockey player. I internally groan at my stupidity as I round the corner to face the very guys I'm tasked with fooling.

The broody guy from Brokedown that I now recognize as Baros is seated on a bench facing Gray while Archer stands with his back to me and digs something out of his bag. Gray nods in my direction, and I immediately avert my eyes with a quick dip of my chin. Joel's locker is situated right next to Doyle's. Aiden turns as I approach.

"Good mornin' to ya."

I set my gear down and unzip the bag, avoiding all eye contact. "Morning." That one word comes out way too gruff for a greeting, but there's little I can do about it now. Dropping onto the bench, I pull out Joel's skates and practice jersey.

"Rough night?"

I glance up at Aiden, whose eyebrow is quirked slightly. My heart once again begins to pound erratically. Does he know? Can he tell I'm not my brother?

"Nah." I force a light tone. "Just feel like I might be coming down with something." At least that's true. It feels as if I might get sick at any moment. But maybe if I can play my weirdness off as being ill, no one will think twice about it.

"Is Gwen sick too?"

I almost slip and ask why that would matter before I come to my senses. "Uh, no. She's fine. It's just me."

Aiden backs up a step. "You do look a little pale and sickly. Maybe keep your distance today, eh?"

Despite the devastating blow to my masculine pride, I chuckle and murmur, "Gladly." Stuffing the earphones in my ears, I finish getting ready and breathe a sigh of relief that at least one of Joel's teammates seems effectively fooled.

For now, anyway.

Too soon, I have to lose the earphones to head out onto the ice with the team. Fooling my teammates is one thing, but I expect that fooling the coach will be a feat all its own. Joel explained that Coach Pratt never comes into the locker room before practice. Apparently, he waits in the rink for us to line up and begin conditioning, which, holy smokes, is way more intense than I anticipated.

I'm a figure skater. I work tirelessly in and out of the gym to keep in top shape for lifts and jumps, but working out with the Dragons is forcing me to work muscles I haven't used in a very long time.

Thankfully, I make it past conditioning without giving in to the urge to vomit all over Joel's jersey, and we begin to scrimmage. Coach Pratt calls out the starters and my nerves spike. "Doyle, Calloway, Baros, Yates, Forshtay, and Sullivan, get into position." He lowers the clipboard, then begins picking out guys for the opposing team while the six of us get into formation.

I've probably watched my brother play hundreds of times now, but nothing settles the churning in my gut at knowing I'll have to hold Joel's spot on this team. My mind goes back to when we were both co-captains on our high school hockey team. We played off each other's moves, completely in sync. I'm channeling that energy now when Archer slaps the puck across the ice and the scrimmage begins.

Halfway through, two women walk up to the bench near Coach Pratt and call for him. I instantly recognize the brunette as his daughter, Chantelle. The gentle sway of her long dark hair as her gaze sweeps over the players momentarily distracts me.

Ever since accidentally meeting her eyes at Brokedown, there's something about her that arrests me. I can't quite put my finger on what it is though. She's pretty, yeah, but it goes deeper than that. She's got this curious gleam in her eye and her lips are always tipped up in a playful smirk like she's daring anyone to speak to her.

Someone barrels into me from behind, and I hit the ice with a thud. Groaning, I heave myself up to my knees to see Turner laughing his dumb head off. "Better watch your back there, Joely. Someone might knock you on your butt."

I roll my eyes and push to my feet. This is bound to be a long, arduous practice.

Sweat pours down my face as I remove my bucket and swipe the hair from my forehead.

"Whatever sickness you've got is affecting your game, Joely." Aiden takes his own helmet off and shoots me a curious look. "Might need to check yourself for a fever."

I do my best to ignore his ribbing as we walk off the ice. "Yeah, think I need a nap."

"What's that?" Lincoln shouts behind us. "Forshtay needs a nap?" His chuckle grows louder as he catches up to us. "That explains how slow you were out there today. Gwen keep you up too late last night?" He bounces his eyebrows up and down suggestively, and I inwardly cringe.

Never could I think of Gwen as anything but a sister, yet cringing at the mention of my supposed wife probably wouldn't be a good thing.

"Something like that," I mumble, doing my best not to tip these guys off.

As we head into the locker room to change, anxiety creeps into my limbs. I can't screw this up now, not after getting in an entire practice. But Joel warned me this is when the guys spend more time talking and joking with one another. Makes sense. But I aim to get in and out undetected.

At least I've got this sickness to use as my excuse. Too bad I can't milk this for the entire four weeks that Joel needs me to impersonate him.

We all begin tearing off our gear when Coach Pratt saunters into the locker room with his clipboard of death—or at least that's what I'm calling it now since every time right before he called out a new drill, he glanced at it to know what we should be doing next. My entire body feels like it's been wrung through a torture device, thus the clipboard of death.

"All right, guys," he says, taking a seat on one of the benches. "Let's talk strategy before Friday."

My gut immediately rolls at the thought of playing in an actual game. Sure, I loved this sport once upon a time, but this isn't high school. Not even close. And it's my brother's career on the line here.

God, please hurry and heal that shmuck before I have to play in a game, I pray silently.

"Okay, so we've got our offense…" Coach Pratt begins talking game strategy, and I do my best to pay attention. It's hard, though, when all I can think about is whether anyone notices how profusely I'm sweating.

"Forshtay, you okay?"

My head snaps up and I blink. "Yeah, Coach."

He eyes me for a minute before saying, "You seemed a little off today."

"He's sick, Coach," Gray pipes up.

I nod and run a hand through my freshly cut hair that's now soaked with sweat. "Sorry, Coach."

"It's all right," he says. "Get some rest before Friday, though. We'll need you on your best game for our offensive strategy to work."

I nod again, then stare at the floor, hoping and praying he doesn't see through me. It was easier to front as Joel with the bucket and pads on. Speaking of pads, holy icicles, those things were heavier than I remembered.

After Coach finishes going over plays, I grab my things and rush out the door, calling a quick see ya over my shoulder to the guys. They're most likely confused as to why I didn't shower since Joel usually does but staying just to get clean isn't exactly high on my priority list when I'm trying to fake my way through this. I've had all the pretending I can handle for one morning.

There's nothing but silence on the ride home as the grueling practice replays in my head. I wasn't as terrible out there as I thought I'd be, but I definitely wasn't at Joel's level. And I seriously doubt I'll be anywhere near it during his recovery. I can keep trying, keep working at it, but walking on the ice after over five years of not playing was harder than probably both of us anticipated.

My phone rings as I reach a stoplight. When I see it's Joel, I put it on speaker. "Hey, man."

"Hey, how's the new hockey player?"

Tightening my grip on the steering wheel, I reel in my irritation. "Not great. But I survived. How about you?"

He ignores my question. "Why? What happened?"

Sighing, I hit the gas when the light turns green and head toward my apartment. "Nothing especially bad, it's just—"

"Did someone say something? Suspect anything?"

"Dude, you gonna let me talk or not?"

His sigh over the phone is even louder than my tired one from moments ago, and I can picture him scrubbing a hand down his jaw. "Fine. Tell me."

"It went okay," I say honestly. "But I'm nowhere near your level of skill."

"Duh. Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay, well. I told everyone I wasn't feeling well. So now they think you're sick."

He laughs, then I hear him murmur something to Gwen, who must be listening in the background. "Go on."

"That's pretty much it," I say. "I'm exhausted and cranky, and kudos to you for doing so well at such a tiring sport all the time."

"Look, I might be better than you at hockey, but you won't see me doing any crazy jumps on the ice in yoga pants. That's all you."

"Yeah." I blow out a frustrated breath. "I know." Apparently, I'm even too tired to fire back at his yoga pants remark.

"So," he says, holding out the o. "Do you think this is going to work?"

I shake my head, momentarily forgetting he can't see me. "Honestly, Joel, I don't know. No one seemed to suspect me while we were in the locker room, but I left almost immediately after Coach gave us some plays for Friday."

"Yeah, I figured you would." His tone isn't judgmental, but more understanding.

"I just don't feel like I can risk it. I'm not you, and a long, drawn-out conversation in which I sound intellectually superior to you would most definitely tip them off."

He scoffs. "You're a jerk, you know that?"

"I'm sorry, what? Would a jerk do what I just did for you today?" I'm kidding, but also…not. I'm too tired to joke with him right now. And I still have to meet Kenzie later to practice the new routine she wants to try.

"No, you're right," he says, sounding uncharacteristically remorseful. "I really appreciate what you're doing for me and our family, Jude. You know that, right?"

"Yeah, man. I know." I pull into the parking lot at my apartment building and roll into my designated spot. "I gotta go, all right? We'll talk later. Tell Gwen I love her."

"Sure. This is all for her, anyway, isn't it?" he jokes. I've always said she likes me more than him. It's obviously not true, but the comment gets under his skin anyway.

I smile and head upstairs to my apartment. "You know it. See ya later." We hang up, and as soon as I make it inside, I toss the heavy bag full of gear onto the floor. My only thought is to take a shower, eat something light for lunch that won't upset my already rolling stomach, and fall into bed for a nap so I can meet Kenzie later without feeling completely drained of energy.