1. DMITRI
1
DMITRI
"Lokhov. I need a word."
We're minutes away from skating into the rink and the Vancouver Wings new head coach pulls me to the side. My first thought is that he knows about my knee. My face doesn't move an inch, but my stomach bottoms. With my contract up for renewal this year, I've got everything to lose if anyone finds out how much it's been hurting.
An injured hockey player isn't worth keeping on the team, especially for the kind of money I'm being paid. I'll get traded if anyone finds out, or worse. It could end my career, and you don't have to look beyond my dad to see what happens then.
He used to be the best left winger in the league. A first-round draft pick, recruited from Latvia. Every sportscaster predicted he'd be a Hall of Famer. They said it after every game he played. Ivans Lokhov is destined for greatness…
Until his leg broke on the ice, damaged irreparably.
Now, my dad is a shining example of what happens when you lose the only thing you're good at. Bitter resentment, seesawing depression, and a dependency on alcohol.
The only thing he's properly living for now is me. I'm his last hope. It's my job to carry on the family legacy and to do that, he's made sure I can't fail. We've dedicated my whole life to my career.
Wings coach Tuck Forrester puts a hand on my arm. He's the youngest coach in the league and one who has never played professional hockey. He's got a Doctorate in Psychology and started his career working with juniors in his hometown.
Men like him have something to prove, especially since he was hired because we fumbled the playoff finals last season. We lost every game in that series. The Seattle Blades crushed us and now we're facing them again tonight.
"I heard you used to go to high school with the Blades' captain," Coach says, assessing me with a drilling stare. "Any bad blood between you two? I'm asking because this rivalry is heated enough, and I need to count on you to play clean."
He doesn't know about my knee.
My head drops, muscles loosening with relief… until his question registers in my head.
"No issue," I say, my voice a hoarse rasp.
Knowing I'm not a man who talks much, Forrester lets me go. As soon as my blades hit the ice, my mind begins blanking. Who cares about the Blades captain, Tyler Smith? His smarmy face blends into the faces of his other teammates that I also don't give a fuck about.
As long as…
I flick my eyes around, searching the stands. It's early, so there's not many people I need to scan. It's always the same section. The same approximate spot.
She's not there.
My breath exhales in a measured rush. And that last bit of punishing tension in my gut lifts. A dull roar of blood pumps through my veins as I stretch out beside my teammates. They know not to disturb me. Staying isolated is how I keep my edge razor sharp. I'm always alone. It's how it has to be.
The game starts with the other team winning the draw. Soon their cocky right winger rushes toward our net, thinking he's about to score. He doesn't see me coming behind him. My stick blurs forward, nicks the puck from him, and flicks it back into the neutral zone.
Over and over again, I do the same maneuver. That's ten times now I've stripped him.
Late in the third period, his snarl fills my vision. I give him no reaction, even as satisfaction hums through me.
The right winger's throat bobbles.
I've been told the flatness of my eyes is terrifying, especially when you pair it with my hulking six-foot-four frame and a mouth that never smiles.
Sensing a fight, fans scream louder. Referees pinch in from both sides.
The rest of my team gathers, ready to back me. On the other side, the Seattle Blade players surge together. Our rivalry is a pot waiting to boil over. It's full of heavy hits and trash talk, but no one's gotten first blood yet this season.
My knee throbs at the thought of a fight.
Seven years ago, the damage to my knee would've killed my hockey dreams if my dad hadn't forced me back together again. Even when I tried giving up, he wouldn't let me. We rehabilitated the injury and practiced drills all day, every day. Most nights I went to sleep tasting iron and pain.
Others might call his methods grueling, but my old man didn't want my career to end up like his. And for that, I owe him.
Right now, the right winger inches forward as I stand still. I won't make the first move. I can't afford to get hurt in a senseless fight, and they can't afford a power play with their score. We're winning one to zero.
Seattle's captain, Tyler Smith, skates over and whispers something to make his player back off. I don't hear them, but I see Smith shoot me a smirk as he skates beside me.
This entire game has been full of trash talk. I expect more digs about my father and how I'm going to end up like him. A washed up has-been from Latvia who never finished his first season, let alone ever won the Cup.
But Smith doesn't talk about my dad. Or me.
"Are you missing her in the stands?" he whispers. "Don't think I haven't seen you notice her when she comes to my games."
I freeze.
Smith laughs. "You wish she was watching you instead of me?"
"Stop." The word is torn from my mouth and Smith's smirk turns into a shit-eating grin.
We both know I've let nothing get visibly under my skin before, but now I've just reacted.
"Do you know the best thing about going home to her, Lokhov?"
I'm grinding my teeth so hard that my jaw locks.
I'm Vancouver's Wall of Ice. My head coach's eyes are on me, his expression indiscernible. My teammates are also watching, but keeping their distance, out of hearing range. They are not worried. In every other situation, I skip the bullshit and skate away. Every single time.
This is the last thing I need right now.
You don't care. You don't care. You don't fucking care.
Smith drops one last thing before he skates away, and it breaks a leash I didn't know existed inside me.
"The benefit is that her fat lips sure know how to suck. If you know what I mean."
For the first time in my career, I drop my gloves first.