Two weeks until Aleksey goes to Milwaukee. My own sophomore year after that. And yeah, the thought of walking into the Ridge Cross team locker room as the first openly gay guy on the roster still twisted my stomach into knots. But the sag of this old mattress, the heat of Aleksey curled around me, the steady thump of his heartbeat under my palm—all of it felt a hell of a lot more real than anything I was afraid of.
So, I lay my hand flat against his chest and let my eyes stay shut.
Chapter 30 - Aleksey
Eight Weeks Later
My locker room stall was in the far corner, the smallest one in the room, and I’d never been happier to get the worst spot in my life.
The strap of my duffel bag dug into my shoulder as I stood in the doorway of the Milwaukee Cranes training facility.
My back stiffened. Every guy in this locker room was older, bigger, and had been fighting for NHC pro contracts longer than I’d been skating. Part of me still waited for a tap on the shoulder, half-expecting someone to walk up, say there was a mistake, and tell me Hastings had made a phone call to ruin my contract.
I scanned the room the way I read a forecheck, clocking who was older and who had already written me off. As I neared it, my corner stall looked like the worst one in the row, wedged as far from the coaches’ office as you could get.
Rookie territory.
Exhaustion hit all at once, a pressure behind my eyes that five anxious hours of poor sleep had done nothing to fix. I was starting over from the bottom again, and some part of me wanted to resent it. But my championship ring sat in my bag. And Karter’s name was in my phone. I wasn’t starting from nothing.
The fresh rubber floor grabbed at my sneakers as I walked over, dropped my bag, and sat down. Scars crossed my knuckles, old splits from fights and cheap gloves, the calluses thick enoughthat I barely felt the tape as I wound it around my blade in tight, even wraps.
A few moments later, a shadow fell over the bench. I looked up.
The guy standing next to me had to be at least six-five. The top half of his left ear was gone, clearly sliced clean off years ago, leaving behind a pale ridge of scar tissue.
He caught me looking and tapped the scar with a thick finger. “Helmet strap snapped. Ninety-seven.” His flat tone was my warning not to ask for any more details. So, I gave him a nod and went back to my tape.
“Clarke,” he said, dumping his bag into the next stall.
“Zotov.”
He leaned against the wooden divider and crossed his arms, looking me over like a cut of meat. “You’re the Ridge Cross kid. I heard you almost lost your spot on the team over some off-ice bullshit.”
He was testing me, fishing for gossip, probably. My grip on the roll of tape tightened.
“Didn’t lose a thing.” I set the tape down and met his stare. “And I got the championship ring to prove it.”
Clarke let loose a short bark of laughter. “You talk like that to everyone, or just the guys who could break your jaw?”
I shrugged. “You asked.”
The silence stretched. Neither of us blinked. Behind Clarke, another team player was yanking on his pads, the Velcro tearing loudly in the quiet.
Then a slow grin split Clarke’s face. He reached out and clapped my shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth.
“Good,” he said. “We need that energy here. Half the rookies come in here apologizing for the air they breathe.”
“Yeah, that’s not my thing.”
“Didn’t figure it was.” He turned back to his bag, still grinning. “Gear on, Zotov. Coach doesn’t like waiting, and I don’t like rookies making me late.”
A voice called from down the room. “Jesus, Clarke, quit flirting and get your pads on.”
“Shut the hell up, Ivan.”
The slap from Clarke’s hand still stung as I bent to finish my tape job, but I fought to keep a small smile from cracking my own face.
This was far from the grudging tolerance I got at Ridge Cross, and the sidelong looks from guys waiting for me to screw up. Instead, Clarke had just said ‘good’and meant it.
