Not checking to see if she's noticing him is killing me. Mollie doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to run around with other guys. Then again, I haven’t actually asked her to be my girlfriend.
Shit.
Kuznetsov catches my eye and gives me a cool smile, then looks ahead again. Is it too much to ask that Kuznetsov be a terrible skater?
Beck whistles and I drag my attention back to what I'm supposed to be doing. Leading the way for theteam, not having a petty one-sided competition in my head.
Coach blows his whistle. "Edges!"
I follow Beck to the boards, all of us skating in a single file line of almost sixty players. The coaches stand in the middle of the rink, assessing us as we run through crossovers and starts and stops.
Then Coach directs us to start on the halfway line and skate to the blue line, breaking us into small groups. For the first time, Kuznetsov waits until Beck and I have already gone to take his turn. And his breakaway speed makes me suck in a breath.
"Damn,” Beck mutters. "That bastard is fast."
He pulls a quick hockey stop, shearing up a mist of ice before launching himself back in the other direction. Shit.
I'm definitely in awe of his edge work. Fuck. I lick my lips as I realize Jimbo Greene is in the stands, smiling like he knows he made a good decision bringing Kuznetsov into the fold.
Mollie skates around, casually capturing moments on film. She doesn't look at me once, which means she's either focused on her job or she's trying to keep our hookup a secret. Knowing Mollie, it's both.
Konstantin completes another breakaway drill and she gets the whole thing on camera. I watch her watch him, and something ugly settles in my chest.
Beck nudges me. "You're staring."
"I'm assessing."
"You're staring," he says again. But the bastard skates away before I can argue.
Coach Cross blows his whistle. "Tate! Kuznetsov! With me."
I watch Cross pull them both to the center circle—Beck and Konstantin, not me—and talk to them in a low voice for about ninety seconds. I have no idea what he's saying. I have no business caring what he's saying. I stare at a spot on the boards and tell myself I'm not bothered.
But of course, I'm extremely bothered.
Konstantin is younger. He’s extremely focused, talking to no one. And he’s a power forward, someone this built like a tank that can skate fast and create space for his teammates through sheer physicality.
I have the edge on experience and stick handling, but is it enough to keep the Havoc from getting antsy? The fact that I don’t know rocks me to my core.
After the next break, Beck skates over to me with a neutral expression that tells me nothing. "Cross wants full speed laps. You're leading."
"What was that about?"
“Later.” He shakes his head. "Just lead the laps, Thorne."
I lead the laps, my mouth pinched.
By the time camp breaks for the morning, my phone has seventeen notifications. I check them in the locker room while the younger guys shower and the veterans sit in the specific silence of men who know the first day of camp is no place to relax.
The notifications are from people I haven't talked to in months. College friends. Two journalists whose numbers I never deleted. Six from Juliet, our head ofPR, trying with increased aggravation to get me to call her.
That can only mean one thing.
I pull up ESPN’s website. It only takes a few seconds to hunt down the news I’ve been dreading.
NHL Legend Mike Thorne Engaged to Son’s Former Girlfriend.
In the article, my father poses with Naomi, her hand on his, the diamond on her ring finger visible from outer space. But they’re looking at each other with such a goofy expression that I snort.
