“I’m Alexei Jankowski, son of the Hulk, brother of the Eagle, godson of the great Paul Wayne. Everyone already thinks my family somehow rigged the Draft lottery so the Empire could get me as the first pick, and believe me, they’re all probably convinced my family orchestrated this whole shitshow. They think we’re some hockey mafia already, Eli. And what you just did could prove them allright.
“And on top of that, youclearlydidn’t stop and think about what playing for a team owned by Jim Barclay would be like for me. You freaking know him personally, soyoubetter than anyonewould know he’s a fucking homophobe. He’s made public fucking statements about my brother’s team being a disgrace to the sport. And he nowownsmy ass. That kind of thinking bleeds down the totem pole, and I know for a fact the GM is a bigot too. I don’t know what the fuck Tucker did to convince him to get me, but he sure as shit stuck his neck out for this. For a favor fromyou.”
I step back, chest heaving with heavy breaths that seems to be doing absolutely nothing for my lungs.
“I told you,” I whisper now, my thoughts still spiraling but somehow still bursting out of me without me choosing the words. “In Buffalo, I told you talking to Tucker wasn’t something I should do, and you still went and did it.”
When the silence stretches on too long, I can focus again.
On the tears streaming down his face, on his shaking hands hovering just above his thighs, and on the discarded tablet showing a house I was imagining living in with Eli.
What a fucking joke.
How can I picture a future with someone who clearly doesn’t trust me enough tohear me? Someone who will always think he knows best?
A few minutes ago, I also thought he did.
Now we both know better.
He’s got nothing to say, and I’m all out of words.
“I can’t keep looking at you right now,” I croak out. “I’m going up to my room.”
“Lex—” he cries, but I just walk out and slam the door behind me.
And he doesn’t come after me.
Good.
I wakeup with crusty eyelids and a headache.
Figures.
It took me until the sky was lightening to actually fall asleep, but it’s not like all those hours helped me come to terms with anything—my thoughts are still scattered, blurred.
I don’t know what to do, who to talk to, or what I’d even say, but I know that I need to talk about this withsomeone.
Talking to Dad seems like the worst idea in the world. Despite everything, I don’t want him to know what Eli did, same with Mom—I don’t want their view of him to be affected... like mine has been.
Shit.
I’m for sure not telling Michael. If Eli wants to then he can go right ahead, but I’m not butting in there.
Telling Vinny would mean making him into a kind of accomplice, and also I don’t want to hear his infuriatingly calm reassurance, or his full-on panic—which are the only two possible reactions I’d get from him.
Calling Uncle Paul is one of the best options—he’s even-tempered, thoughtful, and knows everything there is to knowabout hockey—but since I have no clue what his reaction would be to finding outallthe rules have been broken, I’m not super confident there either.
Silas is out too because he’d tell Vinny, and even if he didn’t, it doesn’t seem fair to ask him to keep a secret from him.
It feels crushing, suddenly, the realization that the only person I feel like I can actually talk this through with is Eli.
I refuse to lie here in bed feeling that, allowing it to overtake me, so I spring up, and that’s when I remember I still have the brace over my nose, that I’m still healing.
It doesn’t hurt all that much anymore but it’s tender, the skin pulling a little and reminding me I’m fragile right now.
That pisses me off.
I’ve never in my fucking life been fragile.
