Troy stepped back, swiping a hand across his mouth and nodding. “Fine. Fine. I’ll get cleaned up.” He started for the bathroom then turned back with a frown. “How’d you know about Harper?”

I couldn’t pinpoint why, but I didn’t exactly want to share the fact that Harper ended up on my couch last night—curled up in my clothes, which were granted massive over her slender frame, but unbelievably alluring.

Harper was a secret I felt like keeping all to myself.

“I ran into her. I’ve got to run, good luck at the game.”

Troy kept a hand on the doorframe of his master bathroom and didn’t move. “I don’t know what’s going on with me. I just…I felt like I hit a wall after that game and it knocked me out cold. And now…it’s like I can’t seem to get up, you know?”

My jaw hardened. It wasn’t the reaction someone should have when hearing their only sibling in such distress. But this shouldn’t have been my responsibility.

I handed this man my life two years ago at St. Francis College when the scouts came and I put on his jersey. A life that he swore was all he needed not to fall off the wagon. It was a no brainer the way he saw it.

If August Hartman doesn’t show up, but Troy plays the game of the year, then I wouldn’t have to choose between hockey and finance.

He was right. I didn’t need it.

Not as much as he did.

And now I was here dragging him off the floor again.

I forced my usual hard expression to relax. “I know. And I know the press isn’t helping. But this is not a way to prove them wrong, Troy.”

His eyes leveled mine. “You think they’re wrong?”

No. But I certainly wasn’t going to tell him that.

Sophomore Slump was not only spot on for Troy, but it was also the way he played. It was effortless, and not in the best of ways. The guy had the weight behind him, he had the basics and the practice. But his passion wasn’t for the sport.

It was all for the attention. The fame, the cheers, the girls. When you’re centered on all that, you lose focus, patience, timing—all things you need during a game.

“I don’t know,” I answered when I had nothing better to say.

Unfortunately, Troy knew me better than that. He punched the door and screamed, half in pain and half in anger.

And I did something I hadn’t done in years. I reached for his head, gripping it between my palms and holding it firmly until he relented. “Look at me,” I urged.