Polite bullshit wasn’t going to work on him. And that was fine by me. For the past two weeks, Elliot had kept Clay and the rest of those assholes from ripping the roster apart. And I respected him for that.
“So,” I began, then paused, then looked over at him, trying to think of the right words.
Elliot didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on Karter down the tunnel. “Spit it out, Zotov.”
I ran a hand over my face. “Thanks for helping keep the guys mostly off my case since I got back. You didn’t have to.” The words scraped out of me like gravel. I wasn’t built for showing gratitude, especially towards Elliot.
He snorted. “Don’t thank me. I still don’t like you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Finally, Elliot looked at me. His eyes held nothing warm. “I respect your game. That’s it. The rest of you can go to hell.”
I shrugged off the sting of his words, not rising to the bait. “So why bother running interference all the time? You’re putting your own neck on the line.”
Elliot shifted his weight. He said nothing for a long moment, instead focusing on tugging one glove off, then the other, the leather rasping against his palms. “My father’s running for Senate. You think he wants a locker-room cover-up splashed across the news cycle?”
“Right. The campaign.”
“So, he can’t cut Karter off right now. And he can’t cut me off for backing Karter.” Elliot slapped his gloves against his thigh. “Disowning both Johnston sons four months before an election isn’t exactly a winning strategy. So congratulations. You’re untouchable... for now.”
I gave him a short nod, staring right back, as I tried to process the information. Their dad was boxed in. “You’re gambling a lot on that theory.”
Elliot laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m not gambling anything. I simply need you playing at one hundred percent. Coach trusts you on the ice, so fair enough. Besides, I wanna win this, so I’d rather you play with your mind fully on each game, not on waiting for my father to bury you.”
“Right. The game.”
“The game,” he repeated. “That’s the only reason I’m putting up with you being with...” Elliot paused, then shifted again, “well, being with Karter.”
I studied his face and the way he kept glancing over at Karter. “So you’re doing all this for the win.”
Elliot didn’t even pause. “I’m doing it because I love my brother more than I hate you.”
I held his stare, jaw locked, and let the silence stretch. A Johnston had drawn a line in the sand and put himself on the wrong side of it. All for Karter. Which meant Karter at least had one person in his family fully backing him.
Elliot pulled his gloves back on, flexing his fingers. “Are we done here?”
I gave him a single nod. Nothing else needed saying.
Elliot nodded back and walked off towards the team locker room without waiting for an answer.
And I followed after him.
Pushing through the solid double doors of the locker room, every conversation seemed to die mid-word. Even the scrape of skate blades against the rubber flooring stopped.
This had been happening time and time again, ever since I’d been back. There were snide remarks, constant glares, but at least there was none of the outright fighting I had to put up with a couple of weeks ago.
Clay and Dominic had the premium position stalls on one side of the room locked down as if they owned the place. They too had stopped messing with their gear the second I walked in, their heads swiveling to track me down the center aisle.
Dominic let his skates drop, the blades cracking against the rubber flooring, and slouched back with his arms draped wide over the top of the bench. “Look who decided to show up. Thought maybe you’d hitchhiked back to Detroit by now.”
I didn’t break stride. “And miss your sparkling conversation? Not a chance.”
“You think you’re actually playing today, Zotov?” He tilted his head, a grin stretching slowly.
I dropped my bag next to my stall. “Roster says I am. Can you read, or do you need me to sound it out for you?” The zipper on my bag snarled as I yanked it open and pulled out my skates.
Dominic’s grin stretched slowly, but his eyes stayed flat. He stayed slumped against the bench, arms draped wide, waiting. Beside him, Clay stood rigid with his fists clenched at his sides.
