15. DMITRI

15

DMITRI

The whistle blows, ending the second period.

In the dressing room for intermission, the team is refueling and listening to Forrester talk strategy. Beside me, Matt has taken off his jersey and shoulder pads to cool down. Quinn is re-taping his stick. Hughes is scarfing down a sandwich.

The walls feel thin, fan excitement reaching through to us. It forces Coach to speak louder, not that his words register.

I can't stop thinking about how confused she was by the front row spot. Enough that it made me wonder whether she'd have preferred being invisible further up in the stands, like I've seen her sit for his games.

I'd asked as much.

Her answer was too breezy. "No, you're right. I should act like we're together-together because that's the whole point. And I bet all your real girlfriends have loved front row seats, so this makes complete sense."

With the game starting, I couldn't ask her what was wrong. And I still don't know what made her text me in the first place. What is she running from?

Questions circle my head. On repeat.

"You're playing differently," says Hughes. "With her watching."

Five minutes to go before we're back on the ice. This is when the team likes to goof off and shake off nerves. Normally I don't participate, but this time I have no choice. They've circled me.

"I haven't noticed her out there," I say, as if the weight of those dark eyes can't influence me. As if I've blocked her out, focusing only on my game, knowing I need to perform so Forrester knows never to bench me again. To make it so the renewal of my contract is a no-brainer, regardless of whether I've connected with the team enough or not.

"Bring her to all the games," says Hughes, polishing off a sports drink.

Quinn helps Matt put his shoulder pads on. "Lokhov's been blocking so many shots, I barely have to do anything."

"Where did you two meet?" Matt asks.

"She's Tyler Smith's ex-fiancée," I admit, hoping it shuts them up.

Everyone goes quiet.

"Are you using her to get back at him?" Hughes finally asks, uncharacteristic seriousness dimming our captain's usual cockiness.

Tell him yes, just like you told Kavi. Say that's the only reason you're helping her.

"No."

Where did that fucking come from?

He pats my shoulder. "In that case, you have my blessing."

"Don't need it. Nothing is going on. She's here for one game, then we're done."

When we hit the ice, I notice Kavi isn't sitting alone anymore.

Matt sees, too. "Quinn's goth step-sister is here."

"No disrespect to anyone's sister," says Emmad, our forward moving to get into formation. "But don't stare at her too directly or she'll curse us."

Hughes pulls up, a strange tightness crossing his face. "Sonya is here?"

When the whistle blows, the physicality is immediate. Down a goal, the other team is hungry to tie up the score. They are aggressive, but don't stand a chance against Hughes's puck handling.

He accused me of playing differently. Suddenly, he's running through the other team's defense, single-handedly.

Thirty-seconds into the third period, he scores.

I watch him skate a victory lap that finishes right in front of Kavi and Quinn's sister, who isn't giving him the time of day. She's absorbed in a book. Kavi, on the other hand, can't help but smile.

Hughes says something to Kavi.

I'm not breathing as I stare at them. My lungs burn as I remind myself to stay focused.

My role is to clear the puck, and to protect Quinn from having to defend the net. I shut down the other team's approach, and make that strategic pass out of our zone so our offense can get a quick break. Defend. Rinse. Repeat.

The Wings are winning today two-zero because we've kept everything locked tight on our end.

I should be relieved.

Scratch that. I should feel nothing. The sports psychologist I work with idolizes the compartmentalization skills I have. I can block out everything.

It's what my dad has forced into my head for years. Don't change. Execute the same, no matter what. Have zero distractions.

At age six, I'd gotten bullied by older kids. When I came home with my lip split, the first thing he'd asked me was whether I threw any punches.

"I made them run away, Pop."

For that, I got assigned drills on the ice.

Next time, you don't engage. Be a block of ice, Dmitri. You can't get careless.

See the puck, win the puck, and knock the puck out of the zone.

It's not complicated, but for some reason, I can't do all that right now.

My blood pumps enough to make my ears howl. Everything inside me seizes with sharp, tangy anticipation. I'm tense as a brick.

The whistle blows so we can play again.

And that's when I know for certain.

I'm so fucked.

Because what I do next jeopardizes my knee, but I can't make myself stop.

My game changes.