Chapter 1
Chapter One
Niko
Ayana: We need two
I pause on my way out of the locker room, raising a finger to tell Coach I need a minute as I stare down at my daughter's text message.
Me: Two what?
Benny, our first-line center, shuffles by me with a brief, "See you in Toronto, Druggy," but I do not spare him a nod or attempt to correct him about my name. These idiots persist in using the awful nickname despite all my protests that it makes me sound like a corner drug dealer.
Ayana: Dogs
Damn. I should have predicted this. Why did I not listen when Joe told me to make the new puppy a surprise? Probably because he is a sports agent and not a father.
Me: We only need one dog
A single German Shepherd will be sufficient to protect my house and my daughter. Why would we need two?
Ayana: You can't have Paul without Prue. It just doesn't work that way.
What is she talking about?
"Ayana?" Coach asks, taking my attention from my phone. When I look up and nod, his expression turns sympathetic. He cocks his head toward the stairs and starts that way. "Come to my office when you're done."
Chatting about dogs with my seven-year-old should not be my top priority while I am at work, but it is always hard setting her aside. Especially since I do not get to see her or talk to her nearly as often as I would like.
Peyton, my ex-wife, was pissed when I bought Ayana a phone, saying no child that age needs one. But Peyton is also the one keeping my daughter from me, so I use every tool I have at my disposal to stay in touch with Ayana. Even if it means she has to hide her phone from her mother.
Me: The dog's name is Strakh, not Paul. Paul is the name of an actor who never ages. Strakh means terror in Russian. It is the perfect name for a guard dog.
Ayana: Srsly?
I can read her eye roll in her text. It is one of Peyton's mannerisms, and I do not like that Ayana is picking these things up.
Ayana: Wait. What do you mean by guard dog? I thought we were getting a little puppy.
Shit. I need to stop splitting my focus here.
I picture my beautiful daughter bent over her phone, her fine blond hair falling forward onto the screen as she frowns down at it. She probably has her lip pulled between her teeth with worry due to my carelessness. I cannot stand even the thought of her being worried or fearful—something that, to my dismay, has been unavoidable as Peyton and I fight for custody.
I drop my bag to the hallway floor and fumble my thumbs over the screen's keyboard. They need to make bigger phones for people with hands the size of mine.
Me: He will be small and cute. Do not worry, zajushka. And he will love you no matter if his name is Strakh or Paul the Ant-Man. He will not be able to resist you.
Ayana: K. But who's Ant-Man? Don't you know who Paul Hollywood is? He does Bake Off with Prue!
Right. I should have guessed this had to do with baking. The child is obsessed with television shows about cakes and desserts. She even made me watch some absurd show where contestants guess if something is a real object or a cake made to look like one. Where do all these people find the time for such frivolous pursuits?
Me: I need to go now. But you can show me this program when I see you tomorrow. I cannot wait.
I silence the phone and tuck it in my bag where I will not feel it vibrate. It is time to focus on work and my meeting with Coach Bowman.
"Drugov," he greets me when I enter his office moments later. "How is Ayana?"
"A tongue without bones," I reply. "The same as always." Coach tilts his head, and I realize my answer did not translate, so I clarify, "She never runs out of things to say."
"Ah." He nods with a half-smile. Coach is excellent at keeping his finger on the pulse of the team and all its members. It is part of his coaching philosophy that hockey is 90 percent a mental game. But I am acutely aware that he has taken a special interest in me over the years, though I cannot imagine why.
I am a private person by nature, but Coach has coaxed more personal details from me than just about anyone. He knows the specifics of my custody battle just like he knows the circumstances surrounding my divorce from Peyton. The man has an uncanny knack for tracking me down when my guard is lifted, when I am most in need of a shoulder to lean on or an ear to bend. From most others, I would decline, but Coach has worked hard over time to push past my defenses without invading my privacy or being pushy.
We are cut from the same cloth, however, so it is no surprise that he generally keeps his own private life under wraps. The man has been my coach for fifteen years, but outside of hockey, I know very little about him–and I respect him too much to pry. In our conversations about Ayana and Peyton, I have learned that he too is divorced and has a daughter. Perhaps that is part of the reason we connect so well.
"How's the case going? You get any visitations recently?" he asks.
I sink into the chair across from his desk and settle my elbows on the armrests. "I have her for the next three days." I cannot suppress my grin.
He lifts his bushy brown eyebrows. "I can find some All-Star tickets for her and Peyton if you want to fly them both up to Toronto later in the week. I'm sure Ayana would love seeing her dad do what he does best."
"That is kind, sir." I shake my head and shift in my chair. "But I am happy with the three days. I would not like to push it."
"Gotcha. Okay." As always, he knows when to move on. "I wanted to touch base before you take off for the bye week and Toronto. How are things going with Picard and MacDougal?"
I have been tasked with being a mentor to our backup goalies, Hugh "Cappy" Picard and Jack "Mac" MacDougal. "Good. They are joining me for extra workouts each morning now. Repetition is the mother of learning, yes? I am sure you have noticed Picard's left recovery sharpening up."
"I have." Coach nods, clearly pleased.
I am a pragmatist, so I am under no illusion that my hockey career as goalie for the Florida Storm Chasers or any other team will last more than another season. I knew my days were numbered when the doctor put me under the knife three years ago for my second hip surgery. That also happened to be the year we lost two-thirds of our games during my absence.
Cappy was not ready to be a starter at the time, but the team had picked him up as my backup after we lost our previous one. The whole thing was bad timing. Now we have Cappy lined up to take my place as starter and Mac ready to slide into his top backup spot once my contract is up at the end of next season. My job in the meantime is to continue dominating between the pipes and to help make sure these boys are ready when the time comes.
I am no longer twenty-five. Being a goalie is brutal on the body, and it takes a strong disposition—and a degree of insanity—to repeatedly put yourself in the path of a hundred-mile-per-hour piece of vulcanized rubber coming your way. But I live for it. So do Cappy and Mac.
And Cappy is champing at the bit to become starter. If he is not ready, management will bring in a trade, keep Cappy at backup, and let go of Mac altogether. Coach and I are determined for that not to happen. We believe in Cappy's abilities, especially as he has grown in the last couple years.
We discuss a few ideas for Mac and chat about my performance at last night's game—the team's last one before the bye week, in the middle of which I will be flying to Toronto for the All-Star game. It is my fifth appearance at the elite event, and likely my last. Part of me considered they gave me the spot as a token gesture for all my years dominating in front of the net. But then I remembered my stats as well as all the blood, sweat, and tears I have given this season and dismissed the notion. I deserve that spot, and I intend to be on the winning team.
But all of that comes after Ayana. I have her for the next three days before I leave for Toronto. The Storm Chasers' packed schedule does not allow me to spend much time with her during the season, so I am looking forward to this uninterrupted time with my little girl. She seems to have grown an inch each time I see her. It does not help that Peyton enjoys playing games and using our daughter as her pawn.
It made sense that Peyton got primary custody when Ayana was small and I was working and traveling all the time. Hell, I am the one who paid for Peyton to stay home with her, despite our marriage having fallen apart. I did not want strangers caring for my daughter.
But that was probably my first mistake, because now Peyton flatly refuses to allow me time with Ayana unless the court forces her. And even then, she manufactures excuses to cancel my visitations and weekends whenever she can. Which is why we have been in this nasty custody battle for the past two years. I need joint custody, and I am not resting until I get it.
When I retire from professional hockey, I want my daughter with me, and each time Peyton cancels or evades is another day for Ayana to grow apart from me. She will not want to live with her father if our relationship is allowed to fade in the meantime.
I accept Coach's good wishes for the All-Star game and head out to my Land Rover in the parking lot before retrieving my phone from my bag. Expecting to see a response from Ayana about her baking show, I am blindsided by the message that waits on my screen.
Peyton: Ayana won't be able to make it tomorrow. We're going to my parents' for a few days.
I drop my phone to my lap to keep myself from throwing it at the windshield. I am done with Peyton's games. It is time to finish this once and for all and secure my future with my daughter.