“I live in a houseboat on Lake Union. It provides a lot of privacy.”
He nods. “Nice.”
“And that was your mom back at the rink?”
“Yes. And before you ask, yes she’s from Quebec. Yes, I’m adopted. Yes, I have a different accent.”
“Right.” I bob my head. “She seemed very nice.”
A small smile forms on his lips. “She is one of a kind. My parents took in several children who had unusual needs.”
“Ah. Like your…” I tap my right ear.
Konstantin nods. “Yes.”
Small talk has never been my strong suit, and it sure as hell isn't his. I ask about the Sin Bin apartments. He says they're fine. I ask if the guys upstairs are loud. He gives me a look that says the question is stupid for reasons I should already understand.
I realize a beat too late that loud isn't exactly his problem.
Smooth, Thorne. Real smooth.
His mom's voice is still rattling around in my skull.Are the boys on your team even using the sign language or tapping their sticks to call for passes?And his answer, flat as pavement:Sometimes.
"So, the on-ice stuff," I say, picking at the label on my beer. "Our signals. Why does it keep breaking down between us?"
Konstantin leans back, studying me. "Every new team is different. I spend the first couple of months figuring out which guys will learn to talk to me and which ones won't bother." He shrugs one shoulder. "Most don't."
I squint. "What about the stick taps? Your mom mentioned it on the phone."
His jaw tightens for a second, and I realize I've just confirmed that I overheard more than he wanted me to. But he lets it go. "Some of the guys do it. Some forget.I can't exactly send out a memo telling everybody to change how they play because the new guy has a hearing problem."
His words make me scowl. "It's not like you can help it."
“True.” He takes a moment to say the next bit. "I can’t make players want to help me. All I can do is try to anticipate and lead."
I take another pull of my beer and sit with the weight of what he's telling me. He assumes that all the players are the same. And I haven’t gone out of my way to disabuse him of the notion.
“I’ll do better. You only have to remind me once, okay? But please. If I’m not doing something right that will make a difference in how we mesh, how the team plays, tell me. I want things between us to be smoother.”
Kuznetsov dips his head. “I’ll try.”
"What happened to the interpreter you had in Los Angeles?"
Something flickers behind his eyes. "Oleg." He says the name like it costs him something. "We worked together for two years. He knew every signal I used. He knew when to step in during meetings and when to let me handle it. He could tell when I needed a break from auditory processing before I could." Konstantin rubs his jaw. "He couldn't come with me. His wife's family is in Los Angeles."
"And the Havoc are supposed to find a replacement."
"They say they're working on it." His tone makes it very clear how much stock he puts in that promise. "It's been over a month. And they were told way before I got here."
I think about every team meeting since Konstantin joined the roster. Cross talks fast and paces around the room. Beck chimes in. The assistant coaches talk over each other. And Konstantin sits at the back, quiet, nodding along.
“Fuck.” I shake my head. “This is going to be dealt with, immediately. I’m sorry we’re making it so hard.”
He shrugs, eyeing me as he sips his beer. “It is what it is.”
“Nah. I’m a captain. I should do better. And the whole team should. What a fucking letdown.”
My burger arrives and I look at it without seeing it for a few seconds.
