Today kicked off Troy’s second season playing with the Blades. He was good. Not amazing, but just good enough to survive his rookie year. That and the sheer rush of your first pro year would ultimately get you to a point of being decent enough to make it look like you belong—not make you legendary.

The game ended tragically. The Blades lost by eleven with Hartman as center. I watched Detroit take the triumphant win and winced at the crushing close-up of my twin. I shouldn’t have looked, but against all my internal warnings, I did it anyway.

I watched my brother stride past the mocking signs and banners, the bangs against the glass and inaudible shouting from angry fans and do his own walk of shame as the camera trailed him.

Sweat beads trickled down his face and despite his efforts to hold back, the Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, the jaw tight as ever, matching my own when I dealt with tough clients. His dark hair slick and streaked back from multiple frustrated sweeps.

There wasn’t much of a difference to us. Barely one at all, even our green eyes were identical. The only difference was so faint, our own parents couldn’t tell us apart sometimes.

Finishing off the smokey amber liquid Finn had poured me as soon as I walked in an hour ago, I placed the glass down and waved goodbye to my favorite bartender.

“Should’ve watched from home,” I told him, without an ounce of humor in my tone.

Finn shook his head and pointed back down at my seat. “I was told to expect at least fifty people tonight for the season opener party—win or lose. Sit your ass back down.”

“Fine, I’ll have a glass of water while I wait for you to get the call from the Hartman fan-club.”

Correction. The Troy Hartman fan club. Not to be confused with the August Hartman—yours truly—the other twin.

The one who continued to swear, I intended on a career in finance over sports. Hockey was fun for a while and I was alright, I suppose. But I didn’t need it.

Not the way Troy needed it.

“Why didn’t you go to the game?” he asked.

“Work.” The simple word poured out of me without a thought. Because it was always my reason.

Finn nodded and glanced at the screen. He never questioned how much I worked or that it came before anything else. How else would one get promoted to senior hedge fund manager in a matter of eighteen months. I made up less than five percent of the nation’s youngest portfolio managers in the last two years. You didn’t get that without living and breathing the damn job.