Troy raised a brow at me. “That depends, anything I should know?”

“Yes,” I answered simply and tossed him this week’s issue of Brooklyn Lines magazine. “Turn to page four.”

He flipped to it. “Yeah, I saw this, amazing article right? Good sketch too. When’d they get that?” He rubbed his chin.

“That’s her sketch. Harper drew it,” I told him, impatience eating at me.

“Are you sure? It doesn’t say—”

“I know, damnit. Just…if it comes up, you, Troy, know that she did that. It’s not credited to her, and I don’t know why, but it’s hers.”

Troy raised a brow. “What’s going on with you two?”

I put the car in drive and started moving. “Nothing.”

He shrugged and chuckled, “Well listen, I don’t typically like to finish what others started, but let me know if you want her off your hands—”

“You keep your hands off her. Understood?”

He jerked. “Or what?”

“I would really second guess asking me that right now.”

The rest of the ride was quiet and we arrived early, like mom had asked.

We’d barely set our bags down before dad bellowed us into the den. Finally, my brother seemed about as anxious as I’d been all week.

“Grace, I need a few minutes with the boys.”

“Tell them to wash their hands,” she called from the kitchen.

“Sit down.” Dad’s voice was placid as he turned on the television, which was paused at one of the games. It was hard to tell which.

“You want to tell me what the hell’s been going on the last few weeks?”

I stayed silent. I wasn’t one to question my father’s intelligence. But I also wasn’t sitting down. I stood against the windowsill with my arms crossed. And in the same respect, he knew better than to ask me to.

“What do you mean?” Troy spread his hands apart and kept his voice even.

Robert moved closer and hissed so our mother wouldn’t hear. “I mean what the hell have you been doing while your brother’s been playing your games?”

Troy shook his head and turned his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You don’t think I could tell my own sons apart for Christ’s sake?”

Troy stood.

“Sit down, I’m not done.”

“I can’t do it, okay? I get back out there and tank again, I’ll be branded as a sophomore slump.”

“Then you need more practice, more training. You need focus, Troy. Do you have any idea what could happen—who knows about this?” He looked at me when he asked.

“The team Captains,” I answered, my arms still crossed.

My father’s arms spread wide. “Don’t you have a job that you’re always too busy for your family for? Now, you’ve got time to join the NHL?”