At that, the lingering tension from the phone call confrontation drained out of my muscles.
Aleksey and I then killed the rest of the morning to early afternoon doing absolutely nothing. Since Matt was probably still hiding out at whatever girl’s apartment he’d crashed at last night—doing his best to dodge me—that left us with the entire attic to ourselves.
Aleksey eventually dozed off against the headboard. Pinned beneath the solid heft of his arm, I stayed awake, listening to the wind rattle the window frame as I stared up at the peeling paint on the slanted ceiling.
Right before two o’clock, my phone vibrated against the duvet.
Reaching for it, I tapped the phone screen and opened a new text from my mother:
I don’t understand everything, but I love you. Give me time.
Reading the short text stripped any remaining anxiety right out of me. Sinking deeper into the mattress, I dug my teeth into my bottom lip and gripped the plastic phone case tightly.
Aleksey shifted on the sheets. Looking as if he were still half-asleep, he slid closer, hooked an arm across my collarbone, and hauled me tight against him.
The text from my mother sat unanswered on the screen. I knew I should have replied. But instead, I eased into Aleksey and decided it could wait.
Chapter 26 - Aleksey
Istared at the black ink that spelled outZotovunder the starting defensive line. Coach Corby had slapped the printed sheet against the wall right outside our assigned locker room the second we climbed off the team bus.
A few weeks ago, I was flat on my back under a rusted sedan, brake fluid dripping onto concrete. Now the cold coming off this arena’s ice rink bit in deeper than any Detroit garage floor ever could.
The concourse carried the noise of the crowd from the rink, as my other teammates from the roster bumped my shoulders, hauling their gear bags past me and pushing through the locker room doors. Out in the wide public hallway where I stood, cameras flashed behind me.
I dragged my thumb over the plastic teeth of my jacket zipper, and the tight knot at the base of my throat loosened with each click. Black ink on a printed sheet wasn’t supposed to feel like anything. But my name,Zotov, stared back at me from the starting defensive lineup, and for once I didn’t wait for someone to snatch it away.
Footsteps approached from my right. A guy in a tailored suit broke away from a media cluster near the VIP entrance, navigating through a flow of arena security guards to stop directly in my path. He held out a thick paper business card. A blue and silver Milwaukee Cranes AHC hockey logo was stamped on the card.
“Aleksey Zotov.” The man did not phrase it as a question. He pitched his voice low, almost blending into the background crowd chatter.
I took the card. The paper felt thick against my fingertips. “Who’s asking?”
“Leadsom. Milwaukee Cranes.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his heels. “We catch a lot of the Chicago network feeds. And I happened to have heard you had a rough patch with your college’s front office recently. But we also watched the tape from your last few games.”
A bitter taste flooded the back of my mouth. The Chicago NHC scout had pulled my draft offer the second the Title IX investigation hit the rumor mill. That dream burned down in a single afternoon.
Another suit handing out promises looked exactly like a trap.
“Milwaukee likes guys who play with a chip on their shoulder,” Leadsom continued. He studied the scuffs on my canvas duffel bag before meeting my eyes again. “And we’re looking for an enforcer who can actually read the play and skate.”
“Milwaukee Cranes,” I repeated. I rubbed my thumb over the raised foil logo. “Not exactly a direct ticket to the big leagues.”
Leadsom let out a dry huff of laughter. “It is an AHC affiliate contract. You produce on our ice for two years, and you get the call-up. Nothing is guaranteed.”
I shoved the card into the front pocket of my jacket. “I do not need a guarantee. Just drop the puck, and I will play.”
The scout offered a short, curt nod. He pulled his hands from his pockets and checked his silver watch. “Anyway, I have to run, but I want to see how you handle the pressure this weekend. Keep your head on straight, Zotov. Let’s talk after the tournament.”
Without another word, the guy turned and merged right back into the sea of arena staff and camera crews.
Shoving the card into my pocket, I walked deeper into the concrete tunnels. The concourse noise dulled to a low rumble behind me. Cold air carried the sharp, chemical bite of the ice resurfacer, and I dragged it deep into my lungs.
A Milwaukee Cranes scout wanted to talk after the tournament. That was real. That was something. But the team waiting for me in that locker room was a goddamn landmine, and I needed my head screwed on straight.
Karter had made it down the tunnel before me. He was stretched out on a rubber warm-up mat, legs splayed wide, fingers laced behind his head. His hair was shoved back like he’d run a hand through it once and called it good, the blonde streaks catching the overhead lights. I smiled despite myself. He looked locked in.
Footsteps scuffed behind me. I didn’t turn. Elliot stopped at my side, arms crossed, stone-faced as he stared at his brother.
