For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of us gasping for air. The cheap hotel sheets were twisted around our legs, damp with sweat, and the lamp on the nightstand threw a dull yellow glow across the ceiling. I lolled my head to the side.
Aleksey lay beside me, eyes half-closed, one hand resting on his chest. The bruise on his jaw had darkened to a deep plum. He looked sated and completely unguarded, the way he only ever looked when it was just us.
I reached over and traced the white scar along his jaw with one finger.
“Do you remember a few months ago, back in the attic?” I asked.
His eyes opened, dark and heavy-lidded. “When exactly?”
“The first night. I had my door locked, and you were standing on the other side telling me locks don’t last in that house.”
A rough laugh scraped out of him. “I bet you were scared shitless.”
“I was.” My finger trailed down to his chin. “But when you finally walked away, I just sat there on my bed and waited. I think I might have, kinda, wanted you to come back.”
His brow shifted, something flickering behind the exhaustion. “I didn’t know that.”
“We didn’t know a lot of things back then.” I let my hand drop to his chest, palm flat over his heartbeat. “I thought you were just some psycho who wanted to make my life hell.”
“You probably weren’t that far wrong back then.”
“No. But I was wrong about the rest of it.” I traced a slow circle over his firm abs. “I thought I’d hate you the whole season. That you’d make me miserable, and I’d just survive it. Now I’m here.”
Aleksey caught my wrist, grinning as he brought it to his lips and kissed it.
Chapter 28 - Aleksey
The offer from Milwaukee came in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon, three days after we had won the championship.
A dull ache still gnawed at my right thigh, but the bruise from that final hit had already faded to a sickly yellow-green. The pain had faded too, but it was enough to still make packing my old duffel bag take twice as long.
Most of the guys living in the house had already cleared out the morning after we hauled our gear off the team bus, scattering to waiting cars while I sat on the front steps with ice strapped to my leg.
The Ice House was a ghost now. Empty hangers rattled against the closet rod, the radiator ticked somewhere in the background, and the sour bite of industrial cleaner clung everywhere.
That’s when my phone buzzed against the bare floorboards.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Leadsom. Milwaukee Cranes?” The scout’s voice crackled through the speaker, brusque and familiar. “How’s the leg, Zotov? Looked like you took a beating in that final.”
“It’s holding together.”
“That’s good, because we’re not looking for guys who stay down.” A short pause followed by the shuffling of papers in the background. “Anyway, I’ll cut to it. AHC affiliate contract, two years. And if you manage to keep your penalty minutes low and your plus-minus high, there’s a possible NHC call-up waiting on the other side. We want you at camp in July.”
The offer rocked me back like a slapshot. Two years, and then a real path to the National League. It wasn’t the Chicago dream I’d sketched out in my head as a freshman. And it was not the massive contract with a huge bonus that would have solved every single one of my money problems at once. But it was still something solid. Something earned.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah.” The word scraped out rougher than I intended. Gripping my phone tighter, I forced my voice steady. “I’m in. July. I’ll be there.”
Leadsom snorted, a dry, knowing sound. “Try to sound a little excited, kid. Most guys at least crack a joke when they get their first offer.”
“Are we celebrating or negotiating?”
That pulled a short laugh out of him. “Fair enough. I’ll email the paperwork tonight. Welcome to the organization, Zotov. Try not to get into any fights before camp.”
“Absolutely.”
