48. DMITRI

48

DMITRI

My dad has his arm over his face. He's been slumped this way ever since I bailed him out of jail. The sink is full of crushed beer cans, everything in the fridge stinks, and muddy footprints track dirt everywhere.

"What happened to Josie?" I ask, tying up another trash bag.

Josie is the house cleaner I pay for.

"I fired her," is my dad's muffled answer.

"Why?" My voice is expressionless. It's the only way he gives me straight answers, a lesson I learned early on. "What happened?"

"She was stealing my money."

Right. He fell off the wagon, got drunk—and then became paranoid. Got it.

I wonder how much I can pay her to come back? Double? Triple?

As I move to load the dishwasher, knowing I'll have to run it twice to get all the gunk off, I ask, "When did you start drinking again?"

"It was one time, Dmitri."

My chest compresses. With the amount of cans I threw away, his one time lasted a few days.

Guilt-flavored bile rises in my gut. We talk on the phone every morning, but I didn't notice the signs. I didn't check in enough. With Kavi living with me, I was more than distracted.

This other contradictory pain grows, remembering she's gone to Seattle. Like one half of me has left with her. I'm blindly clearing counters. When the sink is empty, I stalk to the closet, grab some cleaning solution, and spray down every surface I can see. "Come live with me," I tell Dad.

"Stop it. We are not having this argument again. You know this is my house. It's where I belong."

He paid for it with his signing bonus the day after he got drafted to the league. The walls are a mausoleum to his career, pinned with faded newspaper clippings and photos. Over the years, usually when he was drinking again, I imagined tearing everything down.

My gut clenches. I haven't felt that way in a while. The day after my knee got busted, he mostly got his life sorted. Training me gave him new purpose. And after I got drafted to the league, every win under my name kept him happy. Sober.

I don't know what happened this time.

My dad moves his arm and cracks open an eye. "You're playing differently. Pushing yourself too hard."

He's right. My performance is unstable. I have a couple of incredible games where I go past my limit, and then my knee taps out, forcing me to play worse. "It's what the coach wants."

"The knee. You have to protect it."

"… if I told the team, we could adjust our strategy. Strategize around my flare-ups."

Bloodshot eyes stare at me accusingly. "You want to guarantee your contract won't renew? Because that's what will happen. And then you'll turn into me." His arms spread out, encompassing everything. "When you lose the thing you love the most, this happens, son."

I toss the sponge I was holding into the sink. "My team isn't what your old team was like. They're different."

I don't know where these words are coming from, but they ring true.

"Don't be a fool," spits out my dad. "Your teammates aren't your friends. You are one of the best defensemen playing right now. You know what that means? A target on your back. Everyone wants you to fail. They'll celebrate it. Trust me, I know."

An urge builds up. To tell my dad about Hughes, Quinn, Emmad, Matt, the rookies… But what would I say? They came over for a barbecue. We laughed and played games. We're starting to fit on and off the ice like a real team.

"You better not trust anyone," Dad warns. "You made that mistake once, remember? If I wasn't there…"

I know the speech by heart. He loves talking about how he saved my career. It makes him feel better.

I'm not saying it isn't true. Without him, I wouldn't be where I am right now.

"There's a program," I say when he goes quiet again. "A better rehab."

"I'm too old."

Irritation sizzles through me. "Then how do we make sure this doesn't happen again? That you don't get picked up for drunk and disorderly conduct? What do I have to do? You don't visit me. You don't let me visit you. All we have are phone calls."

"Exactly!" Ivans Lokhov thrusts his chest out. "I never want to distract you or make you lose focus."

This isn't the first time he's said this. As a kid, it always sounded like, I don't want you instead of I never want to be a distraction to you.

I open the fridge, deciding there's enough salvageable ingredients to make soup.

After dinner, my dad pats me on the shoulder. "I'm sorry the county jail called you. You don't need to handle my mess in the middle of your season. It won't happen again. You can go home now."

"I could stay another day?—"

"No. You won't miss anything because of me. Not when you are carrying on this family's legacy. Nothing is more important than that."

Fuck. His words make the walls squeeze in on me. I go back to cleaning despite my dad's protests. "When's the last time you went on the ice," I ask him, running the dishwasher again. "You could learn to love it differently. It could make you happy getting out there again."

My dad sinks into a recliner, settling in for a night of watching hockey replays. "Not a chance."

Not for the first time, I'm brainstorming how to fix this. My dad needs something to interest him again, instead of hyper-focusing on hockey and me all the time.

When I sit across from him, my dad tells me to leave again.

"I'll stay another day," I insist.

''Didn't you hear me, Dmitri? No."

I answer the only way that reels him in.

"You can tell me what I need to do to improve my game."

He grumbles. "Fine. Only because you need me."

The next day, my dad is completely sober. This could have been a temporary relapse, but I don't let myself hope. I'd rather keep cleaning to keep my mind off of Kavi.

The apartment will be lifeless without her. I'd rather be worn to the bone than remember she's gone. I don't want to go back to an empty penthouse.

Beside me, my dad snores on the couch. I turn off the television program he left on. More hockey highlights.

Tomorrow morning, I'll have to leave. Our next game is coming up, but nothing stirs inside me. My love of hockey has started to dull—to not feel like enough?—

My phone buzzes.

It's an audio message from Kavi.

I smile.

Fuck, I miss her. She's not even been gone for long and I can't stand it. It's killing me.

Using my headphones, I listen to her voice. Before I can finish the audio, my name is shouted.

"Dmitri."

It's my dad. He's awake, and his tone is a sharp-tongued rebuke. "Who messaged you?"

"No one."

"Don't bullshit your father. You don't smile like that. Who is it?"

It doesn't matter if I don't answer him. He knows.

"It's a woman, isn't it? That's what's gotten that happy look on your face." He points to the television screen, even though it's turned off. "Last game, you were distracted. You gave up possession in every period. And that icing call? It's sloppy. Almost as sloppy as that fight you started with the captain of the Blades. Ever since then, things have been changing. It's been about a woman this whole time, hasn't it?"

He stands up.

"She won't be there with you when it ends—which it will—if you keep this up. Women love success, but if you can't provide that for them, they leave. Don't fall for it. You can't afford to make this mistake right now. Not again."

A flush climbs my neck. I'm pulling on all the levers of control I've conditioned into me for years, but they aren't working. I'm at the edge of my control, anger rolling through me. "You can say what you want about me. Don't ever talk about her like that."

Kavi is out in Seattle to build herself up. I could not be more proud of her and more upset that she won't let me fucking help. I hate that I can't do more. I lie awake wondering how to support her in ways she'll accept.

"It doesn't matter if she's everything you think she is," argues my dad. "You don't have time to lose focus right now. Focus on your career, son. Don't you remember what it took to get you here? What happened to you?"

His lip curls.

"I thought you finally got it when you woke up in the hospital. Remember, everyone left you but me. Remember how quiet you got, realizing you had to do it on your own? That you couldn't trust anyone else but yourself? That's when I knew. My son was going to make it. He's going to be remembered as one of the greats, because he has the focus. The dedication."

My dad has shrunk over the years. When he comes over, his hands have to reach up to grip me. "This is the year you win the Cup. It has to be. I feel it in my heart, and then they'll renew your contract for millions."

He's shaking. His eyes are desperate.

"What do you like more than anything?" he asks me, pleading for the same answer I've given him for the last ten years.

The ice.

"Her."

I didn't have to think.

He staggers back. "Seriously? Your knee is going to fail. Not because of the injury—but because you aren't in the right headspace anymore. Your edge is gone, Dmitri. You'll be right here beside me when she leaves, replaying every minute of that last game in your head for the rest of your life, wishing that you had done it all differently. Ask me, I know. Don't make my mistakes, son."

I pull a deep breath in, letting anxiety drain from me. "I'm not following in your footsteps, Dad. I promise you that."

I've let my dad speak at me for most of my life, thinking he needed me listening to him. That if I grew up in the shape he wanted, it would finally fill him up again. He would stay sober and let go of his bitterness.

Understanding ripples through me. I should have figured this out years ago. Life has hollowed out my dad in ways I'll never fix. It hurts seeing him live like this, but I can't let it run my life more than it has.

For the first time, I decide I won't listen. Not when he's never going to listen to me.

"I have to go."

Ivans Lokhov's jaw drops.

I've never done that before.

Left before he wanted me to go.