Felicity

My brother is everything that’s wrong in the world.

He’s a pigheaded oaf whose idea of commitment is finishing an entire carton of ice cream in one night. His social media following exploded—as did his fan mail and unsolicited blowjob offers—after he started posting his favorite dirty fan letters on Instagram. Everyone knows his vengeance isn’t just cold, it’s fucking Antarctica.

He interferes with my love life while going through women like they’re M&Ms.

He’s lazy in practice.

That’s right.

Nick’s a lazy turd who does the bare minimum, but because he delivers every single fucking game, he gets away with it.

Actually, he gets paid millions for it.

I was blessed with brains.

He was blessed with hockey instincts.

So now I live in Gammy’s drafty, dusty, ghost-infested row house, while he lives here, in a warm, cozy, energy-efficient apartment downtown. His furniture is overstuffed brown leather, his floors bamboo, his lights don’t buzz, and his bar is stocked with top-shelf everything.

Which I guess isn’t so bad.

Since I’m currently sporting a gin-and-tonic buzz that looks damn good on my swollen knuckles.

Or something.

“I’m moving to a shack in the mountains,” I announce.

And I mean it

Because I’m not that buzzed.

Just buzzed enough to see life clearly.

“You can’t do that,” Nick tells me. “You can’t afford the mountain.”

I flip him off, because he’s right. My bank account can get me through another few months, but I was supposed to have a full-time job lined up at the end of those few months, and it’s becoming increasingly obvious that neither the Thrusters, nor anyone else, will ever want to hire me. “I can afford it after I blackmail you.”

“Blackmail away.” He grins. Or maybe that’s his piña colada grinning for him. “Charm school will make it all better.”

“Will Ares still have to do charm school?” I whisper.

I can’t say his name any louder than a whisper, and even then, his name makes my chest dip like I’m on a roller coaster and my heart pound like I’m trapped in a dark room with snakes.

A whole-body shiver passes through me.

I miss him.

I miss him so much I can’t breathe without feeling the bruise in my heart. It’s been six hours, and he hasn’t answered my text.

Everyone else in the world is texting me.

But not Ares.

Of course he’s not texting. He’s doing things like getting x-rays and consulting with doctors about how much longer he’s out and—

And I can’t go on.

Because there’s no amount of alcohol in the world that could block out his pain.

And the knowledge that it’s my fault he’s hurt.

Nick’s watching the Colorado-Boston game on the big screen TV above his gas fireplace, sipping his piña colada.

Ignoring my questions.

I throw a pillow at him, think of Loki, and promptly burst into tears.

“Shit! Fuck. Stop it. Stop!”

Nick’s drink goes flying as he leaps out of his chair. “Here. Chocolate. Have some chocolate.”

I shove away the Hershey bar. “It’s not vegan, you asshole.”

Which is uncharacteristically mean of me—I don’t expect the world to cater to my veganism—but I hurt.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

He thrusts his hand through his hair, making it spike. “Even if I knew what he did wrong, I can’t kick his ass for you, Felicity. You won’t let me. Coach would kill me. And I already have to have extra sessions with the anger management counselor, which is total bullshit, because I’m not mad, I’m just devious. There’s a difference.”

“This isn’t about you!”

“Fuck. Right. Sorry.” He dashes to the compact kitchen and swings open the cherry cabinet. “Here. You want some powdered sugar?”

I gape so hard my eye twitches. This is where Lucy or Tim or Harold should say something for me, but I don’t want to vent.

For the first time in my life, I don’t want to talk out the side of my mouth, possibly ever again, and I don’t know what this means other than that maybe I’m dying.

He frowns at the box in his hand. “Why do I have powdered sugar?”

Undoubtedly because one of his puck bunnies wanted to do something with it that I don’t want to think about.

“Whoa, hey, hold up. I don’t bring girls here.”

What, now I’m talking without moving—or not moving—my lips?

“Judgy McJudgerson,” he grunts. “You’re fucking impossible, you know that? I can’t even make you quit crying with chocolate or ice cream like a normal—fuck. Shit. I didn’t mean that. Felicity—Felicity, wait—”

He catches me in a stranglehold before I can stomp out of his house.

It’s not his fault either.

He’s right.

I’m not normal.

And that’s the entire problem. I’m why he gets in trouble. I’m why Ares is hurt.

And I don’t want to know who I’m going to hurt next.

“I would fucking hate having a normal sister,” he says. “You’re the awesomest of the awesome. You make every other sister in the world look like a boring pansy-ass. If I had to get a real job, I’d take you to interviews and make you talk for me even though you’d tell them all I had herpes and like to suck my own dick, because that would be fucking hilarious.”

I quit struggling.

Mostly because it’s hopeless. He’s made out of steel. I hate his muscles.

But I manage to get in a good pinch to the back of his elbow.

He yelps.

“I guess you’re not so bad,” I grumble.

“Your friends love me.”

I pinch again, because sometimes he’s really dumb and he doesn’t learn. Doesn’t learn to dodge my devious pinches, or to not suggest he’s got something going on with any of my friends.

“Also, I’d totally kick Berger’s ass for you—oof.”

He grins, rubbing his chest while he lets me go. “Nice one.”

Only my brother would compliment my shoving skills.

Or maybe not. I could see Ares appreciating his sister getting in a good kick or shove.

Dammit, my eyes are leaking again.

“It’s not his fault I’m a freak,” I mutter.

For once, Nick doesn’t have a quick comeback.

He watches me like he would a wounded monkey.

Dammit.

If I never see Loki again, I’ll…I’ll…shit, I don’t want to cry again.

“Why…” He trails off and sighs. “Why aren’t you at the hospital?”

I stare at the stupid poster he keeps on his wall of himself from his rookie year with Minnesota.

Where Ares is from.

“Fuck, Felicity…are you dumping him?”

Isn’t that the question.

I didn’t say the words.

But Ares—he knows people.

He knows me.

The EMTs were loading him into the ambulance—the team’s doc insisted, because he knows Ares too—and we locked eyes, and I saw it.

He knew exactly what I was thinking.

That I’m not normal. That me wanting him makes him not normal.

That I’m a complication.

Not an asset.

That he’s better off without me.

That’s the last thing I thought before the doors closed.

And he saw.

He saw me.

He’s Ares.

He knew.

He knew I called him just as much of a freak as I am. He knew that I had to let him go.

He knew that I won’t be responsible for taking the rest of his career away from him the way I’ve probably taken the rest of this season from him.

That I make men crazy.

Look what I’ve done to my own brother.

“What the fuck, Felicity?” Nick mutters.

“He can do better,” I whisper.

“No, he fucking can’t.”

I jab Nick in the gut this time. “Because there’s something wrong with him? Because he doesn’t talk much? Because you think he’s stupid? He’s not stupid, you moron. He’s not dumb. He’s heart. He’s commitment. He’s integrity. He’s loyalty. He is. He just is. He’s perfect and right and so much more than most people can ever conceive of being. And he doesn’t need a mess like me bringing drama into his life and threatening his career.”

Nick’s rubbing his gut, his glower getting darker and angrier with every syllable out of my mouth.

“Or maybe,” he growls, “the one person in the entire world who’s looked deeply enough to see him as something more is exactly what he needs.”

“No, he—”

“Hockey isn’t life. Even for Berger. For a really smart person, Felicity, sometimes you’re really dumb.”

He shoulders past me, snatches the remote, turns the TV off, and stomps to his room where he slams the door.

I don’t know what just happened, but I’m crying again.

And I don’t know if I’m ever going to be able to stop.