Page 133 of Off Limits: The Firsts

Then again, it’s not like they notice me much at all.

“How should I respond to his texts?” I ask. “Thanks for the negativity? The criticism? How exactly should I respond?” I chuckle, the toxicity I endure to talk to my brother is ridiculous.

“He means well. He’s the reason you’re there, you know.”

“Jonah, Mom? Can I talk to him?” Exasperation hits an all-time high.

“Yes. Sure. I can’t remember the last time you called for him.”

Two days ago.

Two fucking days ago. And two days before that.

There’s shuffling on the other end of the line as she goes through the process of connecting his headset to the phone line so he can hear me.

“Okay, it’s connected,” she says, her voice distant.

“Hey J.” I suddenly feel calm and pause after my greeting because in my head, I can hear him talking back, I can feel my twin responding. God, I miss him. “Just wanted to call and check in. I’m sure Mom is driving you crazy with her fussing and repeating the same thing over and over. I get it. I totally do.” I close my eyes and listen to the ventilator for a beat. “We’re playing Rampage tonight. Those guys are fucking assholes but yeah, I’ll keep my stick up like you taught me. It’s going to be a tough one. Ferguson knows how to play me. It’s like he knows which line I’m going to take before I even know myself. And their double team defense is strong. We’ve been working on a way to overcome it. It’s like a play you would have made up. Perfect in every way for them and harder than fuck to defend against for me.”

So I talk to my brother for the better part of an hour like I always do, caught in that indecision that I’m being an ass for talking to him about things he’d kill to be doing and treating him like he’s gone completely.

The worst part about it is that I call him because I want to, because he’s the only person that quiets the anger. But as I hang up, I wonder if my calls only feed his.

Dekker

Something’s off.

I can’t put my finger on it but watching Hunter play, the difference is noticeable from the last game to this one.

There is none of his intuitive anticipation of where his opponents are going to play several passes before it happens. There’s no showmanship as he dodges defenders left and right while keeping the puck in action. There’s a loss of the ferocious determination to get the puck in the back of the net.

Normally I can’t take my eyes off him because his ease of play enthralls me. Tonight, I’m all but cringing every time he gets the puck. It’s almost as if he’s the star kid on the first-place hockey team that’s creaming the last-place team so the coach has told him to hold back and pass twelve times before he attempts a shot.

But he’s not shooting.

No, instead he’s passing it off and then falling back when normally he’s the heart of the offense.

If the Jacks were in their own arena, the crowd would be booing him after every pass. This crowd here senses something is off and has been cheering each and every one, because it’s to their advantage.

Someone has knocked the king off his reign-of-terror throne and it’s not pretty.

I welcome the distraction from the scoreboard when my phone buzzes at my hip.

Lennox.

It’s sad that I’m immediately on the defensive before I even answer the phone.

“Hey, Len,” I say, walking toward the back of the press box and pushing a finger to my other ear. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in.”

“For?”

“No reason,” she says, but a lifetime of living with her tells me she’s fishing for information.

“So you just called to say hi?” I can’t remember the last time one of my sisters did that.

“Yes . . . and, never mind.”