Seven

The game's about to start when Ronnie hands me a huge container of popcorn. "Here," she says, tossing a few pieces into her mouth. "You look like you could use some buttery goodness."

I laugh and accept the popcorn but keep my eyes trained on the ice below us. We don't always sit in the family suite for games, but the team we're playing against tonight should be an easy win, so sitting further away doesn't bother me. It's the nailbiters that have me wanting to sit rink-side.

"I'm fine," I assure her. And it's true. I am. But I'm also stressing a little because I've got a self-imposed deadline for my book, and I should probably be sitting at home writing tonight instead of watching the guys play. I've just always loved hockey—my Dragons, especially. Missing a home game would make me feel like I failed the team somehow.

"You sure?" Ronnie asks. I glance at my friend, who is peering at me over her white-framed glasses. "You seem a little tense tonight."

"Ron." I say her name in the sternest voice I can manage. "I'm okay. Can we just watch the game, please?" The curiosity in Ronnie's expression has me wanting to spill my guts about school and writing. Maybe she suspects I'm keeping something from her.

Sisters are like that. Biological or not, they always seem to know when you're trying to hide from them. But to tell Ronnie, a successful woman in STEM who prides herself on not only her schooling, but her dedication to a field that's highly respected in our world, that I'm now a romance author with no desire to get a degree makes my overthinking brain go haywire.

What will she think of me? Will she immediately tell me I'm making a mistake and pressure me to go to my dad? Will she lecture me and point out all the ways I'm ruining my life by not continuing with school? I can't see her taking this lightly. Yeah, Ronnie is a total free spirit and quirky, but she's also brilliant and level-headed.

No, I can't. I can't tell her and let her think I'm ruining my life. At least not until I have more to show for my work than just a couple months of phenomenal sales and a bestseller tag. She'll want proof, evidence that this can be an actual career; I'm sure of it.

Ronnie tilts her head and opens her mouth like she's about to say something when Indy comes bounding up to us with a beaming smile and small bottle of water, easing the tension. "Daddy said he's going to score for me tonight."

Ronnie smiles and brushes a hand over Indy's hair. "I bet he will, little miss. Come here, and let's watch." Indy hops up in her lap, then Ronnie sets her chin on Indy's shoulder. They're so cute together with their matching dyed hair.

I focus back on the players, watching intently to see if everyone is up to par tonight. This has always been my favorite part of the games. The build-up, the prep, seeing the anticipation in all their faces…Assessing them during warm-ups is second nature to me now. They usually roll their eyes and try to argue when I point out particular weaknesses, but even Dad says I have eagle eyes when it comes to their abilities.

Gray twists and lifts his shoulder in a circular motion, no doubt working out his sore muscles. He had to see the physical therapist the other day for an irritated ligament, and I'm sure it's bothering him. My gaze swings to Forshtay when I remember that he wasn't feeling well at practice earlier in the week.

He appears more like himself than the other day, but there's still something off about him. I narrow my eyes, trying to figure out what it is that stands out to me. My focus is glued to the way he rushes back and forth across the ice during a drill. And then it hits me. It's the way he's skating. It's too…fluid.

I realize I never got around to asking Gwen how he was doing. But an illness wouldn't make him skate better. An odd foreboding settles in my stomach as I look around the suite. Gwen's not here yet.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I send her a quick text message.

Hey, you coming tonight?

Setting my phone in my lap, I look down to see the guys line up. Leaning close to Ronnie, I whisper, "Do you know where Gwen is?"

Her brows furrow as she glances behind me. "No, I don't. Think she's okay?"

I purse my lips and wonder if I should text again to ask just as my phone buzzes.

Gwen

I'm actually not going to make it. Pretty sure I caught a stomach bug. Joel knows I'll be watching from home.

"She's not feeling well," I tell Ronnie. "Maybe she caught what Joel had earlier in the week."

Ronnie grimaces. "Aw, has he been sick?"

I turn back to the ice, assessing him. "That's what Dad said."

A distracted hum is the only response I get from Ronnie before she's back to chatting with Indy.

I want to let all these insignificant little details go, but for whatever reason, I can't. I inwardly groan. Okay, not for whatever reason. The reason is I'm anal about weird things and overthink and question literally the smallest discrepancies to the point of driving myself crazy. Thus the seeking of an OCD diagnosis.

The game starts, and the guys take off. Defense looks solid, despite losing Cyrus. The Dragons have definitely taken a hit with his absence, but Dad's done a good job of moving guys around to compensate.

If something was seriously wrong with another player—like Joel, for instance—it would be a devastating blow to the team. But I'm sure what's going on with him is nothing. Gwen herself said she's not feeling well. Likely they just have a virus.

I do my best to shut my incessant questioning thoughts down and focus on the game.

Maybe because of his offensive position or maybe because my curious, hyper-focused brain just can't let a thing go, my gaze keeps settling on Joel. He spins away from an opponent with a sort of flourish I've never witnessed from him before, and my spine snaps straight.

"Oh, that was nice," Ronnie says, before raising her voice in a cheer. "Go, Joely!"

Why did that move strike a familiar image in my brain? I stare into space, mentally cataloguing any and every place I've seen that before. It was almost like a figure-skating move…

My thoughts all crash into each other with a resounding screech. I lean forward and pin my gaze to Joel, assessing and analyzing every swift stride, every slap of the puck, even the way he gestures across the ice to his teammates.

There are now way too many differences for me to ignore.

As if he senses me watching him, Joel looks directly up at the suite. A pair of blue eyes fill my mind. Ones similar to his brother's, but more piercing, more…I don't know. Just more.

"Hey, Ron," I say as I get to my feet. "I need to run to the restroom; I'll be right back."

Barely paying me any attention, she winces when Archer gets hit. "Okay, yeah. Go ahead."

Clutching my phone in my hand, I book it to the ladies' room, then lock myself in a stall. I pull up Joel's brother Jude's social media profile. He frequently shares skating videos of him and his partner, Kenzie. I click on one from their last competition.

Jude skates in long, practiced strides with a flourish that speaks of years on the ice. Then he does an axel, a spin move that sends him flying up into the air, and lands perfectly on one skate. The first part where he built up into the move was so similar to how Joel just evaded his opponent, I'd almost think he taught his brother the trick. But it's too similar…almost like…

No. There's no way Jude would be playing in Joel's place tonight.

And why would he?

The sickness Dad mentioned comes to mind. Could Joel be so ill he couldn't make it, so he sent his brother instead? If that's the case, why not just call Dad and admit that he was too sick to play?

Joel's proud, like most of the guys on the team, but he's not stupid. To send your twin in your place just because you're sick is ridiculous—even for a goofball like him. That's like Hollywood movie plot type stuff. Not a real-life solution.

Yet I can't shake the feeling that something is up. And my obsessive mind won't let it go. Which is why after the game is over, I forego waiting with Ronnie for the guys to come out of the locker room. It's our usual practice, but the hamster wheel my mind has started on is like a never-ending needle poking me to confront Forshtay and find out what's really going on.

I'm now waiting outside next to the door where the guys exit into the parking lot. It's not odd at all for me to confront one of the guys after a game if I think they can improve. Sure, they find it annoying, but it's what I do as a hockey player myself, an avid fan, and dedicated Coach's daughter.

They put up with me, at least.

But this will be different. The guys won by a solid four points, and they all did decent, but Joel still wasn't quite himself. And after watching that video of Jude, I just can't let it go. He'll probably think I'm crazy, but it is what it is at this point.

Archer and Ronnie left with Indy a few minutes ago, then Bridger and Freya headed out. Aiden and some of the other guys are still inside, along with Joel. Or…who I hope is Joel. The door opens and I straighten. My entire body tenses when the man I'm seeking steps out.

He doesn't see me against the wall, focused as he is on getting to his car. I pick up my pace and call, "Hey, Joel."

He halts and turns, his face freezing when he sees me. "Uh, hey."

I catch up to him and find myself unable to keep from scrutinizing every minute detail of his face. On the surface, everything about him looks the same. But his hair is freshly cut, not quite as messy as Joel's. I step closer and focus on his eyes. They're a distinct deep blue with little flecks of yellow…

"Can I help you?"

His rudely stated question yanks me back to reality. "How's your brother doing?"

His head rears back. "Um, what?"

Narrowing my eyes, I cross my arms. "How is your brother doing?" I repeat, more slowly this time.

He swallows, and I don't miss the dip of his Adam's apple. "He's good."

"He wasn't here tonight. Neither was Gwen."

With a single nod, he says, "Yeah, I know. He was busy, and she wasn't feeling good."

I tilt my head to the side, letting my gaze snag on his hands, wrists, and arms. I can't find anything out of the ordinary. "And are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." The harshness in his voice has me locking my attention on his face.

"Something is off with you. You're not yourself."

With a shake of his head, he scoffs. "Look, I'm tired. I've got to head out." Not even deigning to give me a bye or see you later, he runs a hand over his hair—exactly the way Jude does with his longer locks at the end of a routine—and turns to go.

Again, I rush up to him. "Where did you learn that spin you pulled in the game?"

His breathing grows heavier, but he won't look me in the face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Would Joel respond that way? No. He'd likely make a joke or something, or maybe even rag on me for paying such close attention to him.

"Yes, you do know. In fact—" I lunge in front of him to stop him from going any further. "I think something weird is going on with you and your brother."

I cross my arms again like a sentry and dare him to try and get past me. "Look, whoever you are. The well-being of this team is important. To me, to my dad, to everyone who is a part of the Denver Dragons' franchise. And for you and Joel to play some dumb prank—"

I stop abruptly when his eyes go wide at my implication. Jackpot.

"You're not Joel, are you?"

He blinks, then laughs like I'm a lunatic. "Of course I'm Joel. This is the most bizarre conversation I've ever had, Chantelle. And frankly, I don't have time for it."

He goes to shove past me, and I let him, stunned. The way he just spoke to me was condescending on an entirely new level. Joel wouldn't act that way to me. Now more than ever, I can't disregard the feeling that something is off.

I turn and yell, "Well, I'm going to call Gwen and find out what's really going on!"

He doesn't respond at all, just waves a hand in the air before disappearing between a couple of SUVs. I run a hand through my hair and jog to my bike. I thought after confronting him, I'd have some clear-cut answers. But now I'm more confused than ever.

Did Joel or Jude play in the game I watched tonight? And if it was the latter, what reason did they have for switching?