Konstantin watches my face. I can feel him measuring whether this is the golden boy putting on a show or whether I actually mean what I'm saying. Whatever he finds in my expression, his jaw loosens by a fraction.
He nods once. That's all, and it's enough.
"Teach me the signals I don't know," I say. "All of them. Not the basics. The ones you use on the ice that I should've asked about weeks ago."
He considers me for a beat, then another. "Tomorrow. During practice."
"Good." I pick up my burger and take a bite. “I don’t know what Cross is doing, but we’re going toreduce the friction and make it work like a well-oiled machine.”
Kuznetsov nods. He frowns, obviously thinking something. But whatever it is, he doesn’t say it.
It's quiet between us, and I let it simmer. Something shifted in the last ten minutes. I wouldn’t say we are friends. But we just had our first honest exchange since he joined the team.
Surely that’s something to be proud of.
I've spent weeks treating Konstantin like a threat. To my position, to my ice time, to my girl. Every minute I've been around him, I've been so caught up in my own bullshit that I couldn't see past it. The jealousy over Mollie, the paranoia about Cross replacing me, the ego of watching a guy skate faster than me and deciding he must be the enemy.
And the whole time, my teammate was drowning.
I'm usually good at this. I check on the rookies. I notice when a guy is struggling before the coaches do. Beck calls me the glue of the locker room, and I've always taken pride in that. But Konstantin walked onto this team with 85% hearing loss and a reputation he didn't earn.
And I never once stopped to imagine what that's actually like. I never considered what it would feel like to play a fast, loud, violent sport where you can't hear the whistle or the calls or the guys on your own bench. And he still plays well. He plays better than well.
He plays like a man who loves hockey so much that he refuses to let anything take it from him.
We finish our food. Konstantin picks up his check and I pick up mine, and we walk out into the afternoon without any big farewell. I clap his shoulder once and he tolerates it without flinching. For us, that feels like progress.
I drive home. In my truck, I sit with the engine off for a minute, staring at my phone. Then I type out a text to Beck.
me
Got a minute?
I hit send before I can second-guess it and watch the screen for a read receipt that doesn't come.
Inside, Gordie greets me at the door with his usual enthusiastic shove of his head against my hip. The house smells like Mollie's candle; the vanilla one she burns in the evenings. The couch has her throw blanket draped over one arm and Slothra tucked in the corner.
Everything about this place has her in it now.
So, I need to tell Beck about us. I need to stop hiding behind the excuse that keeping this secret protects us. It felt like protection when it started, back when we were new and fragile and I could convince myself that the bubble was for her sake.
It's not protecting anyone anymore. It's just the same isolation I've been choosing my whole life, dressed up to look like something better.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mollie
"Can you jump up?" I pat the backseat of Alex's truck and am immediately rewarded when Gordie hops up, then tries to lick my face. I laugh. "You're the best boy, aren't you?"
Alex deposits his backpack in the back seat with a grunt. "Do I get praise too?"
I shut the door and pull him close, kissing his lips. Today he's decked out in his gym shorts, hoodie, and a backward cap that's short-circuiting my rational brain. The fact that he hasn't shaved for a couple of days and looks a little scruffy gets my motor running.
"You're a very good boy for coming on a hike on your day off," I purr.
His eyes flash. "Remember that when we get back and I insist on fucking you in the shower even though you're tired."
I laugh and peer up at him. "I'll try."
