4. Robbie

I open the door to the extra bedroom and gesture to the queen sized bed in the corner. The blue striped comforter is new, and someone patched over the holes left behind from everything I tacked to the walls growing up before adding a coat of sky blue paint. It doesn't look like my room anymore. The bed is new. The rug swapped out for something covered in dark triangles and lines. The only hint that this space was once mine are the framed photographs standing at attention on top of the dark wood dresser.

I'm going to ask my parents why this room was okay to change, but why I'm not allowed to replace the washer. I suspect the answer has something to do with the name is on the deed. And the credit card.

"Are these you?" Spags steps forward to get a better look, squinting his eyes just the tiniest bit. He needs glasses. It's something every single person on the team is aware of, but he just won't give in. To be fair, it hasn't affected his game much. Up close, he plays by feel. At a distance, he can see roughly ten steps ahead of the other team's defense. If he keeps his head on straight, this kid will be the future of the league. The old-timers like me just need to get out of the way.

"Don't tell me this is Varg."

The picture in question is indeed Vic and his twin brother. I'm there too, standing between the tall blond bookends. We'd just won our first AAA game and our arms loop around each other's shoulders. My helmet is askew. The twins are still clutching their sticks. All three of us are sweaty and red-faced and grinning like we'd just won the lottery. It definitely felt like we had.

"He was number twenty-five even then?"

I nod.

Twenty-five and twenty-six for as long as we'd played together. Until Erik quit. Sometimes I'm surprised Vic never picked another number. It might have been easier to reinvent himself as a solo player if he had. To leave the matching numbers behind and choose something new. Different. Then I think that it might have been the only connection he still had to a brother that had effectively cut out the rest of the family after his diagnosis and surgery. Trauma and fear and loss can do that to anyone.

At least it all worked out in the end. The brothers are back together, even if only one is on the ice, and they're both happily married. It's the whole reason I'm babysitting this week.

"This Vera?"

My mom took that photo at the local playground. Back when it was still the red and yellow metal monstrosity that scalded the skin off your thighs if you tried to slide in the summer heat, and melted your palms down to nothing if you tried to climb. The same playground where we got Vic to stick his tongue to the tetherball pole because we'd seen it in a Christmas movie, and Vera's dad had to come get him unstuck.

It was right after she moved here at eight. I recognize the overalls and pigtails. I remember the crunch of bone after throwing my first punch into one bully's nose. The way her pigtails swung as she sized me up.

I grunt an affirmation. Downstairs, a door slams closed and footsteps tread into the kitchen.

"That your mom?" Spags asks. He's wearing what I can only call a manic smile. The kind that immediately raises my hackles and spikes my blood pressure. "I've been waiting all day to meet the lovely Vivian."

I growl at him.

Literally. Like a dog.

The idiot rubs his hands together and cackles.

"You boys make it here okay?" My mom's voice floats up the stairs and I do not like the twinkle in Spags' eyes. Not one bit. Even when I know he's just messing with me.

"No," I say, trying to keep the word low enough that my mom won't overhear the warning. "Don't even think—"

"No?" Apparently I wasn't quiet enough. "That's strange. Dad's car is out front. Was there a problem?"

Spags flops backward on the bed, a fist pressed to his mouth to hide the howls of laughter.

This isn't going to work. I'm going to kill him—probably before the end of the week—and then I'll have to bury his body in the backyard. Knowing my luck, I'll probably pull something or get caught. Not only would I be depriving the team of the rookie, but myself, too. We can't afford to lose two centers, especially not the ones from our first and second line. Although this kid might very well take the first line spot from me this season. That thought doesn't sting like it once did.

"You should see your face." Spags gasps for air. "You're actually plotting my death right now, aren't you?"

More like planning for the cleanup rather than the actual murder, but I frown harder, knowing he's read me like a fucking book.

"Don't worry Dad. We both know you'd miss me too much." He props himself up on his elbows. "And I'm sure your mom is great. I love an older woman and I can objectively say she's probably a smoke show, but I also know she's happily married."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and huff out a breath. The temptation to pull out my phone and text Vic to come get the kid is almost overwhelming. How bad could it really be?

Hi Vic, it's me.

I know you're on your honeymoon and are most definitely screening my calls, but would you mind swapping custody with me?

I'm fantasizing about murdering the idiot.

And other things, my brain helpfully supplies.

Oh, and Vera's here. Send help. I'm going down hard.

Yeah, that would go over real well. Jack is a good kid. He means well. But he also has the preternatural knack for finding any crumb or molehill of trouble and turning it into fucking Mt. Everest. He's like a toddler with unlimited access to Mountain Dew. Occasionally we can trust him out of sight, but the silence is dangerous. After a near miss with a solicitation charge, a close call only charisma can counteract, it was universally agreed that Jack Spaeglin needed a keeper. And I can't complain. I only have to handle him for the duration of Vic's honeymoon, and Quinn and Erik had him right until the moment they put him on the plane.

"Vera, on the other hand," Spags taps his index finger on the wooden frame of a picture on the bedside table. Another one of the two of us, older this time, dressed for her prom. I'm looking at her like….well, it doesn't matter now. I really should tell my parents to get a photo album like normal people. "I could shoot my shot with her. I've been told I'm charming."

Red bleeds into the edges of my vision and I blink it back. She is not yours . The words shudder through my brain, echoing in the cavernous space between my ears. He's goading me. He's getting to me. He knows he is and I can't let him see how much.

"She will chew you up and spit you out on the ice."

Spags' laugh is too bright, too loud for this small space. His hand drops away from the photo and I feel mine unclench. I hadn't even noticed I'd balled them into fists. My palms sting from the tiny indentations left by the sharp edges of my nails.

"That's half the fun, though." He winks.

An aneurysm.

I'm going to have an aneurysm and die and it will be all Jack Spaeglin's fault. I can see my tombstone now.

"Go." I point to the guest room door and Jack skirts past me, still shaking with laughter.

I stand for a minute, sucking air down my parched throat. There's something wrong with me. A cold. The flu. Something . My heart rate is higher than it should be, my core body temperature raised. I'm having trouble forming words, breathing, putting together coherent thoughts. Which also means I have to be nice to Spags. If I'm really out of commission, he might have to take over the heavy lifting with the guest coaching spot next week. It'll be okay. I'll drink fluids. Rest. I've never missed a practice because of illness. I will not start now with this youth program.

Spaeglin's footsteps thunder down the stairs and I should probably go be the one to introduce my mother to her newest rescue. She has a good sense of humor and he's relatively harmless, but he's still Jack.

I'm at the top of the stairs when I head back into my old bedroom and grab both pictures of Vera. I slide them into the pocket of my hoodie. Just for safe keeping.

Spags is sitting at my parent's breakfast bar, his hands folded neatly on the granite top. He's still in his suit and with his feet hooked over the rung of his stool, and his mouth tipped into a more sedate version of his standard smile. He looks every inch of the teenager he is. It's like déjà vu, seeing him here in my space and feeling like I'm that kid again too, back in high school, with my whole life ahead of me.

My mom helps ground me in the present. Gone is the bob of dark hair and in its place is a short crop of silver gray. Her wrists are thinner, the skin looser, with a few extra spots. My mom slides a giant glass of lemonade towards him and he takes it with a calm thank you. I'm tempted to ask where the real Jack is hiding, but that would be mean.

"Thank you for letting my stay with you, Mrs. Oakes." Jack says, and the temptation is back full force.

My mom pats the back of his hand and smiles. "We're happy to have you, honey, but please call me Vivian."

I lean down to kiss my mom's cheek and she smiles. She smells the way I always remember—like Chanel No 5 and pine trees—but her skin is thinner. A few wrinkles I don't remember paying attention to before. It has to be Vera; seeing her again and slipping straight back into old habits. That must be why I feel like my past and present are colliding, swirling, mixing.

"I'm surprised you're here."

I freeze, a gallon of milk clutched in my fist and my head in the open fridge door. Me. Her actual son. I'm the one she's surprised to see?

"I assumed you'd be with Vera."

Vera?

Why would she assume that? Unless she knew Vera was coming to visit? But decided not to tell me. Is this some sort of plot to shove us back together? The thought tears through me with alarming speed. I shut it down.

"She had us drop her off in a small town on the way here," Spags says. "She needed to pick up a gift."

"For her dad, I bet." My mom nods like none of this is surprising for her. "His birthday is this week."

"She mentioned something along those lines." Jack smiles and sips his drink as if this is a normal conversation.

I can't imagine a situation in which Mom wouldn't tell me Vera was going to be in town. Unless she visits often and I didn't know. I don't make many trips to Kimmelwick during the season, that's true. My parents travel for all the games local to them, or come see me in Quarry Creek. I don't remember any reports of Vera being photographed or spotted here in central New York, but then again, the town doesn't advertise when I come to visit. They could close ranks around her, too. I hope they do, if she wants that.

But maybe, just maybe, I could have been seeing her during my visits. Is that something I would have wanted?

Jack excuses himself to the bathroom and I try to tune back into the present a bit more.

"You could have brought her by to say hello," my mother says, as if there was any prior planning involved with driving her back from the airport. As if this entire morning hasn't been one cosmic joke the universe is playing on me. "I miss that girl."

Me too.

"I didn't know she was going to be here," I say.

"She surprised you too?" My mom presses her hand to her upper chest in a move I know means she's getting ideas.

"She's here for her dad's birthday." Aka, not me. I don't know who needs to hear it more. My mother, who clearly has misread the situation, or me and my traitorous thoughts.

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," my mom says, and my brain feels like a rock tumbler trying to keep up with what she's implying. "But we all know how much Vera always meant to you, and how easy it would be to slip back into that again. You two always just fit. Like it was fate. She was meant to be…"

Mine.

Mom turns away, swiping a paper towel over the granite counter and sliding a cutting board into the sink. She's trying too hard to appear nonchalant, putting too much effort into avoiding my eyes.

I make a non-committal noise, frowning.

"There's no pressure here. You're an adult." Mom wrings her hands together, our furrowed brows matching. "But I'd be lying if I said Dad and I—Cecelia and I—didn't hope you'd find your way back to each other."

The kitchen phone rings and my mom grabs for it like a lifeline, saying hi to my dad and turning her back to me.

Mom is seriously jumping the gun here. Or she's as delusional as I am. It's possible that it's genetic, my inability to get over this one freckled girl. A reason I still search her name out in headlines. A reason I think of her before every game and then lie to myself about it.

"Psst."

I turn at the sound and find Spags hiding out in the doorway to the kitchen. His blue eyes are open wide, his hair disheveled as if he dragged his hands through it. He's tipping his chin at me, clutching his phone in his hand, and I can't imagine why he's acting so secretive, but it's possible he's just plugged the toilet and doesn't want to ask my mom for the plunger. Something dumb like that.

I'm probably just reading too much into everything, including the conversation about Vera. Of course Mom and Dad loved her, thought of her as a daughter for years, probably designed our wedding invitations. I remember their surprise when I told them we'd called it quits.

"Pssssssst." Spags is just getting louder, and he looks like he might be dancing over there. Could he not find the bathroom? It's hard to miss, especially with the floral wallpaper and the "shit happens here" sign my mother hung up on the door.

I spare a glance at my mom, wrapped up in her own phone call, and make my way to the rookie.

"You need to see this," he says as I step up next to him in the hallway. He looks nervous, sweat beading on his upper lip and his eyes wild. He's waving his phone enough that I can't get a good look, but something about it is bothering him.

"Hey," I tell him, clapping my hand on his shoulder, trying to be reassuring or some shit. "Whatever it is, we can fix it." I dig my fingertips into the curve of his deltoid, trying to slow the rapid breaths he's taking. "Breathe Jack."

"I swear I didn't mean for this to happen." He's babbling words at me. "I swear."

I move my hand from this shoulder to his wrist and slow the waving. He has a social media post pulled up, but I can't see the details as he jerks the phone around.

"I mean, it wasn't me, but it kind of was and I'm so, so sorry. I don't know how to fix it, but I will. I'll call Tristan and—shit. She'll think it's my fault too. Because it is. And Cap is going to cut my balls off and feed them to his demon cat. And—"

I'm not sure how to stop the stream of words tumbling from his mouth. I also have no idea what's happening if he won't show me the damn phone. I try to catch his eyes, but the kid is still babbling, anxious, and clammy, and I'm not exactly the guy with tact. It's easier to take the phone out of his hands and look for myself.

"Passcode," I say to him, my demand harsher than necessary.

He rattles off six numbers and I punch them into his phone, watching the dark screen fade out to see a kid who looks way too young to be on social media grinning into a camera as she talks a mile a minute.

"What am I looking at here?"

"Just give her a minute, she'll start over," Jack says. He actually seems a little less frantic now that I have his phone in my own hands.

"Who is she?" She looks like a kid. Should that worry me?

"Just some girl online."

"She's a child." I glare at him. "Why are you following children? Haven't you learned—"

"She's two years older than me," Spags says, and dammit, I feel old and tired again.

"Never did I ever think a stupid layover in the middle of nowhere would be the best thing to like ever happen to me. Like ever. Like ohmygod," she says that as all one word, I swear. " Everyone knows Robbie Oakes is a full meal, the little kiss and point he does before every game? Like RIP me. Am I right? But to see him in person? With Vera freaking Novak? I'm in heaven. I had no idea they were from the same town, but I ship them so hard. Pictures are linked in my profile!"

There's a lag and then she starts again. Her hands clapped over her mouth as she jumps and dances around what looks like a bedroom, apparently because of me. And Vera. There is an alarmingly high number of likes and comments. The numbers keep increasing as I watch.

"Get me to the pictures." I thrust the phone back at Jack and watch as he navigates through a series of menus I'd have taken hours to figure out. He taps the profile image of the girl and the screen fills with a selfie. The girl is grinning, curls wild, and behind her, silhouetted against the glass windows of the Genosa International Airport, are three grainy figures.

The blond in the dark suit has a phone pointed at a couple that doesn't even notice him. The other man has a damning Arctic sweatshirt on, the number sixteen visible on the sleeve. He has an arm looped low around the slim waist of a tall woman with deep red hair. Despite the picture quality, I can see the freckles that paint her from top to toe. I can also see the soft smile and closed eyes as she leans into the press of my lips.

Some new pop song blares from Spags' phone and I watch the screen switch to a photo of just the two of us. Smiling at each other. Like no one else exists. Bold white letters scroll along the bottom of the image.

Fuck. Me