Crosschecked By The Wrong Twin(A Hockey romance)

Chapter 6: we can never get along

I didn’t answer right away.

I stood up first, because being below him had been humiliating and I refused to let the room keep controlling me. My legs wobbled slightly, then steadied. My hands brushed my knees like I could brush off the heat of being tackled.

Tristan pushed up to sit on his heels, not fully standing, like he was still deciding whether he should act like he was angry at me or impressed.

He looked at me like he couldn’t decide which face belonged on him.

I turned to face him fully and kept my expression neutral. Straight.

“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”

Tristan’s mouth twitched. “You’re insane.”

I gave him a look that turned the word into a compliment. “You weren’t exactly graceful yourself.”

His eyes brightened a fraction—like the tension between us was crackling into something he recognized.

He sat back a little, finally getting enough space to stand without looking like he needed me as a floor.

Then he laughed—quiet at first, like he couldn’t believe I’d done it, then louder like he couldn’t stop himself. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

He tilted his head, eyes searching my face for the tell—the flicker that would say I was lying. When he didn’t find it, his grin faltered.

His voice dropped. “Juniper what the f**k was that?”

The question wasn’t just confusion now. It was hot terrifying anger. The kind of frustration that meant he’d just realized he wasn’t fully controlling the narrative.

My heart slammed again.

I forced my breath slow. “Dating.”

He stared, then scoffed like he was trying to regain dignity. “Dating.”

“Yes.”

Tristan’s eyes sharpened. “Since when do you decide to start making choices like this?”

I held his gaze. “Since when do you think you get to walk in here like you own my room?”

His grin came back, smaller this time. “I didn’t walk in.”

I arched my brow. “But you fell on me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Oh, so now it’s an accident?” My voice stayed calm, but my pulse didn’t. “Because earlier you were acting like you didn’t care.”

Tristan’s jaw flexed.

We both knew the real truth: he cared. He always cared. Even when he pretended he didn’t. Even when he tried to be the kind of cruel that made him untouchable.

He leaned back slightly, as if he could feel my anger and wanted to see whether I’d keep it going.

Then his face did the thing it always did when he tried to pretend he wasn’t affected.

He smiled like a dare.

“Okay,” he said, like we were bargaining. “So you want a boyfriend storyline, correct?”

I nodded once. “Yeah, and I want you to help.”

Tristan’s eyes flicked toward the broken lamp on the floor. Toward the paper I’d managed to keep out of his sight—for now. Toward the speaker still muttering bass like it was refusing to stop.

Then he looked back at me.

“Let me guess,” he said. “You want to make Nolan jealous.”

I didn’t deny it.

I swallowed. “Be my fake boyfriend for three months.”

The words sounded insane in my own ears, but I’d already committed. And in a moment like this, commitment was the only thing that kept the truth from cracking open.

Tristan blinked once, slow.

Then he laughed, sharp and disbelieving, like I’d offered him a joke. “Three months?”

“Yes.”

He dragged the word out like it was absurd. “To make Nolan jealous.”

“Yes.”

His eyes narrowed, and for the first time since the lamp crashed, he looked genuinely interested instead of just entertained.

“Enough to make Nolan jealous… and what? You think that fixes everything?”

“It doesn’t fix everything,” I said, and my voice got quieter despite myself. “It gives me something I haven’t had in a long time.”

He watched me.

“Control,” I finished.

Tristan’s expression flickered, like I’d hit somewhere he hadn’t expected.

I kept going because stopping would mean feeling everything. “And maybe,” I added, “you might actually get your favourite chaos back.”

His grin returned instantly, like my words flipped a switch in him. “My favourite chaos.”

“Your favourite chaos,” I repeated, and the straight face was still there because it was a shield. “You like it when things burn. I can give you that.”

Tristan’s gaze lowered slightly, like he was imagining the scenario. Like he could already see Nolan’s face.

Then he looked at me again—dangerous, amused.

“Okay,” he said, voice light, but his eyes weren’t. “So you want me to fake date you for three months.”

I nodded.

“And in exchange,” he continued, “you get Nolan jealous.”

“Yes.”

His grin widened. “And I get—what? A chance at stealing Mabel back like you think I’m still playing some stupid game?”

I didn’t like that he said it like that. Like Mabel was a prize, like I was just offering him ammunition.

But the truth was uglier than his wording.

I wanted my life to shift. I wanted Nolan to see how much I could do without him, I wanted him to see I was the best for him. And most especially, I wanted Tristan’s chaos directed somewhere that wasn’t inside me.

So I didn’t flinch.

I kept my tone steady. “If you want it, you can try.”

Tristan leaned forward, eyes sharp. “Try?”

I stare at Tristan like he’s grown another head. He’s smiling—like the word ‘fake’ has amused him on its way out of my mouth.

“That’s absurd,” he says, and the way he says it makes it sound less like an opinion and more like a judgment he’s handing down.

“I’m serious,” I say, keeping my voice level even when heat climbs my neck. “Three months. We sell Nolan the version of me I should’ve been all along—close enough to look real, distant enough to make him rethink what he thought he had.”

Tristan leans back, slow and intentional, like he’s settling in for entertainment. “You think you can manipulate someone’s attention with a schedule and a lie.”

“It’s not a lie,” I snapped before I could stop myself. “It’s a performance with a purpose. Nolan’s attention isn’t stable—so we make it unstable on purpose.”

His eyes flick to mine. Cold. Interested. Not impressed.

“That still doesn’t make it a plan,” he says. “It makes it a stunt.”

I hate how easily he’s able to take my momentum and turn it into something small in the space between us.

But I don’t let myself flinch.

Because if I let him win this part—the ‘absurd’ part—then he’ll win the rest, too. The part where I become passive again. The part where I ask permission to want what I want.

“I’m not asking you to approve it,” I say. “I’m asking you to participate.”

Tristan’s mouth quirks. “Says the person that came to me like I’m a tool.”

“I came to you because you’re the only person who can make it work,” I answered, and the words came out harsher than I meant. “You have access. You can create the shadow that pulls his focus.”

His gaze sharpens, like he’s taking inventory. Then he shifts, the smile fading.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s granting mercy. “I’ll consider it.”

Hope sparks in my chest, quick and dangerous.

He holds up a finger, stopping it.

“But only if you follow three conditions.”

My stomach drops. “Conditions?”

“Three,” he repeats. “You don’t touch this arrangement without agreeing first.”

I force myself to breathe through the anger. “Why are you even acting like you’re doing me a favor?”

“Because you brought me a ridiculous idea,” Tristan says easily, “and I’m saving you from the part where you embarrass yourself.”

That word—‘saving’—hits like a lie with perfect tailoring.

My eyes narrow. “Protection doesn’t require control.”

Tristan’s expression doesn’t change much, but something in his tone does—measured, exact. Cocky disguised as careful.

“Protection,” he corrects, “does require structure. If we’re going to put you in a position to be seen, we make sure you’re seen the right way.”

I should walk away.

I should refuse.

Instead, I steady my voice and push back anyway, because I’m tired of being swallowed by everyone else’s rules.

“Fine,” I say. “Say your terms.”

He holds up the first finger.

“Condition one: you attend my hockey matches.”

I blink, thrown for a second by how normal it sounds compared to the rest of what he’s going to say.

“Every one?” I ask.

“Every one I play,” Tristan confirms. “No skipping. No disappearing. If you’re going to be part of this, you’re not doing it halfway.”

My teeth press together. “That’s not protection. That’s surveillance.”

“It’s consistency,” he counters. “For both of us.”

The words ‘for both of us are supposed to sound fair.

They don’t.

I swallow, then meet his eyes again. “And you’re sure you want me in the crowd acting like we’re… something.”

His stare lingers on me like he enjoys the friction. “You don’t get to decide how it looks. That’s the point.”

I hate that my body reacts to him even when my mind is furious.

Tristan lifts his second finger.

“Condition two: you wear a fan jersey,” he says, “my team. My number.”

My mouth goes dry. “You’re asking me to—what, brand myself for three months?”

“Call it protection,” Tristan replies, voice colder now, stripped of charm. “Everyone watching needs to recognize what they’re watching. If you want Nolan to react, you give him a clear signal.”

“I’m not a billboard,” I say.

Tristan’s gaze sharpens. “Then don’t look at it like one.”

He watches my face, like he’s waiting for me to crack. Like he’s used to people bending because he says the word ‘protection’ with enough certainty that it feels like the truth.

I refuse to give him that.

“I can do the matches,” I concede, hating the compromise. “But the jersey—” I shake my head once. “No. That’s too much.”

Tristan leans in slightly, just enough to make my pulse misbehave.

“You’ll do it,” he says, like he’s stating something already decided. “Unless you want this arrangement to fail for the sake of your pride.”

My hands curl at my sides.

I feel the edge of panic, like my own fear is trying to pull me backward into the version of me that waits.

I force my voice steady. “You’re framing it as protection, but it’s dominance.”

Tristan’s eyes gleam. “Both can be true.”

He lifts his third finger.

“Condition three,” he says, “you move into my apartment.”

The room tilts.

For half a second, I can’t even speak. My thoughts scatter like they’ve been shoved off a ledge.

“No,” I say finally, and it’s sharp—pure, immediate refusal. “Absolutely not.”

Tristan doesn’t look offended. He looks unsurprised.

“You don’t get a veto,” he replies.

“I’m not vetoing the idea,” I say, pushing back with everything I have. “I’m vetoing the part where you take away my life. My space. My autonomy.”

His expression hardens, and the dominance stops pretending.

“Protection,” he says again, slower this time. “Because if you’re still bouncing between places, Nolan can pretend you’re not really there. He can keep his doubts alive. We’re not going to give him that.”

I swallow, throat tight. “Or you can control what I’m doing.”

Tristan’s gaze doesn’t flinch. “Yes.”

That word is so clean it makes me furious all over again. I stare at him, trying to find the crack where I can pry myself free.

But he’s not offering me a crack.

He’s offering me a frame.

If I say yes, I become his version of this arrangement—his schedule, his signals, his proximity.

If I say no, I lose the one thing I came here for: ‘agency’.

My voice comes out quieter. “You want me living with you so it looks real.”

Tristan’s mouth tightens. “So it ‘is’ real. For three months.”

“For ‘your’ rules.”

“For the rules that keep you from becoming collateral damage,” he says, and there it is—the only moment where the word ‘protection’ might actually have a blade hidden inside it.

My chest rises and falls once, twice.

I’m still angry.

I’m still not convinced.

But I’m also watching how quickly my heart is losing arguments my pride keeps trying to win.

I force myself to look him dead on.

“Matches,” I say. “Jersey—maybe. But apartment… no. Not like that.”

Tristan’s stare holds. Unmoving.

“Then you can say no,” he replies calmly. “And you can watch Nolan decide for himself whether you’re worth the risk.”

The threat isn’t loud, it doesn’t have to be.

I feel it anyway, my own fear of being ignored, of being treated like an afterthought in someone else’s drama.

I press my palm against the edge of my own composure until it stops trembling.

“Okay,” I say, even though my stomach twists. “If you want me in your space, then you don’t get to treat it like you’re granting me permission. You get to agree—”

Tristan raises his eyebrows. “Agree to what?”

“That it’s my choice to step into it,” I say. “And if I’m doing this, you don’t get to punish me for having boundaries.”

His silence is brief.

Then he nods once, like he’s marking a checkbox.

“Fine,” he says. “Within reason.”

I hate the sound of ‘within reason’. I hate that it makes me feel smaller.

But it’s something.

He lifts his eyes to mine again, final and satisfied.

“Then it’s settled,” he says. “Three conditions. You push back if you want—within the structure.”

My pulse is still loud in my ears when I realize what this agreement actually is:

He didn’t accept my idea because he thought it was good.

He accepted it because he knew he could shape it—into something he controls, something that still might get me the outcome I’m starving for.

I swallow hard, keeping my face composed.

“Tell me the first match time,” I say, like I’m not bracing for impact.

Tristan smiles faintly. “Good.”