Leaving her to climb out of that hole she dug for herself, I head for the locker room.
I sit down on the bench, moving slowly now that I'm alone. There's no real reason to hurry, besides my late lunch walk with Gordie. Most of the fun of going home these days revolves around Mollie, I guess.
Plus, there's the whole keeping our relationship a secret thing. That's weighing on me, I realize. I need to come clean with Mollie tonight about that.
"Hello?"
My head snaps up, thinking that someone is talking to me. But I realize after looking around that it's Kuznetsov. He's not facing me. He's looking down into his phone, rumbling a laugh.
"Kostya, mon petit chou," a woman says. Her accent is French-Canadian, her voice soft. "I'm not interrupting, am I?"
"Non. It's fine." Kuznetsov rubs his face with a big hand. "But how are you, maman?"
"Ca c'est. Tell me, how are the boys there treating you? Any better than your last team?"
I hear Konstantin’s pause and wonder what to read into it. "Better, yes. There are still difficulties. You saw the last game, non?"
"Oui. You seemed... stressed. Do you want your father or I to come interpret during your next game?"
Another beat of hesitation, then Konstantin shakes his head. "Non."
The woman, Konstantin’s mom, sighs. "You are very tough, mon chou, but you should take help where you can get it. You know your père or I would drop everything to make things easier for you. Dit moi, are the bêtes on your team even using sign language or tapping their sticks to call for passes?"
"Sometimes."
"Oh, Kostya." She sounds mournful. "I should move to be where you are, n'est-ce pas?"
"Non, non." He glances over his shoulder and stiffens. "Maman, I'll call you back."
I cringe. "Sorry. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."
Konstantin stands up, grabbing his hockey bag. When he starts to leave, I feel like even more of a dick.
He's struggling to find his place on this team, in this league. I'm one of the captains of this team and yet I've only seen him as my competition, so far.
He is, but obviously there's more to him than that.
"Kuznetsov." I wave my hands, stomping my foot. When he turns back to me, brow arched, I lift my bag to my shoulder. "Want to go get lunch?"
He gives me an unreadable look. "With you?"
"Yeah." The way he says it makes it sound like I just asked if he wants to hold a poisonous snake. "You like burgers?" I ask. "Or sushi?"
Not giving him a lot of options, I usher him out of the room. He looks at me like I'm trying to trick him. "I could eat a burger."
"Fantastic. I'm driving." I clap his shoulder, hoping that I'm comforting him and not signaling that I'm a serial killer.
We go to The Secret History, which has a perfectly fine burger encased in the exceptional vibes of the place. It's a weird time to be at a bar, too early for anything like happy hour. The whole bar has two other patrons in it, so I grab a booth in the front.
It's too early for either of the bar's owners to be here, so we give our orders to the girl working and then settle into the booth.
"Are you living upstairs?" I ask.
Kuznetsov nods, looking around. "I didn't know that this place was here, though."
"The Havoc pays extra to keep a private room in the back that's closed to curious tourists." Our beers come, and I take a sip. “It comes in handy for post-game drinks.”
"That's a nice perk of living here." He pins me with his gaze. "You have a house somewhere else, I'm guessing?"
