Ren sighs wearily. “Hockey is not that terrible. I guarantee you Bergmans have been skating on ice much longer than they’ve been chasing a ball across a field of grass, looking like demented sheep.” Ryder shoves him. “You were good at soccer, too. That’s what hurts.” “Wait, you chose hockey over soccer?” I lean in and lock eyes with Ren. “And they still acknowledge you as family?” Ren throws up his hands. “I’m a professional hockey player, and you’d think I sold organs on the black market. Jesus. He didn’t even tell you?” “Nope.”
