Puck Drills & Quick Thrills (CU Hockey 5)

Technically, I didn’t have to take the job at CU. Between the NHL money I earned, minus a considerable chunk for reckless living and spending, and life insurance from our parents, we’re not suffering. But that money won’t last forever, and Coach Hogan offered me the coaching job when he found out I was back.

Maybe I should’ve declined the position until the kids were older, but coaching at the collegiate level isn’t given to you every day, and positions rarely come up. If I hadn’t taken it, it might have ruined my chance of getting in the game at a later date.

Paul is a great boss and so lenient when it comes to my home life.

“It’s not turning back on!” Hazel screeches.

I sigh, put down the pan, and leave the kitchen to find her pressing the power button every couple of seconds, harder and harder each time. “Hazel.”

She keeps pressing it, more frantically now.

I reach for her hand. “Hazel. I’ll buy you a new one.”

Tears fill her blue eyes. “Forget it.” As she stands, the chair behind her topples over, and she storms up the stairs. The behavior is so unlike her, I stand there staring, unsure what to do.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” Rhys chants and runs his hands through his messy, dark blond hair.

“Language,” I scold.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Rhys takes over trying to turn the computer on. “All the photos Hazel has of Mom and Dad are on this laptop.”

Oh fuck.

“I forgot. I forgot about the stupid don’t unplug her laptop rule, okay? I wasn’t thinking. And now … Shit, what have I done?”

See, this is the type of thing I’m not equipped to handle. I can’t throw money at it to make it all better.

I’m still trying to figure out a solution when the blaring sound of the smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off.

Double fuck.

I run in there and throw the pan right into the sink and douse it with water. With the amount of food Asher and I burn, it would probably be more cost-efficient to get takeout every night.

Doubt seeps in that I can do this at all, but then Asher waltzes through the door after practice, whistling, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve seen him look remotely happy.

His dark hair that matches mine is still wet from the showers in the locker room, but that’s definitely a smile on his lips.

“Who are you, and what have you done with Asher Dalton?” I ask.

“Ha, funny. Sooo funny. Why’s Rhys freaking out? And …” He pauses. “Can I hear crying? Wait, is that smoke? Burn dinner again?”

I slump. “Rhys unplugged Hazel’s laptop, and the battery died, and now she’s freaking out that she’s lost all her photos of Dad and June.” June was Asher’s and my stepmom. Our mother died when Asher was just a baby. This family has suffered way too much death, and all I want to do is make it easier on my siblings, and I’m failing.

“Can we take it to a tech store?” Asher asks. “They’re good with recovering stuff like that, right? We should probably get her an external hard drive too. Or sync her computer to the cloud so it doesn’t happen again.”

And this is exactly why I asked my brother to help out with the kids. We’re the same yet so different. There’s a balance between us—one of us stormy, the other calm at any given time. Though in those moments where we’ve both got dark clouds rolling above us, the world needs to watch out because all hell is about to break loose. But in times like this, where I’m lost, he has an uncanny knack of bringing me down and helping me to think rationally.

We have issues, and I’ll never deny that. Asher has been lashing out at everyone and everything since that fateful car crash, except at our younger siblings. Like me, he can’t deal with the thought of them thinking their grief has ruined our futures, so he always plasters on a smile for them and pretends he’s not dying inside. The same way I pretend I’m handling everything and am not drowning every single day.

I can tell when Asher’s faking his smile for them, but there’s nothing fake about the smile he has right now. “Why are you so happy?”

“Oh, no big deal or anything. Just Professor Fuckstain—”

Genuine fear slices through me. Fear for my job and Asher’s future. “Please don’t tell me you vandalized his car or TP’d his office.” I rub my temples. “Please tell me you didn’t kill him.”

Asher snorts. “You’re funny today. You get laid recently?” He holds up his hand. “Actually, on second thought, don’t answer that. Don’t want or need to know.”

I don’t tell him I’m not trying to be funny. With Asher, any of the above could be a legitimate concern. Sure, murder might be a stretch but not a far one.