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“Makes a change,” she says. “Seeing you win.”
“Shut up you.” I ruffle her hair and she tries to duck, too late.
We go eat at the same restaurant as always. Papa’s uncharacteristically quiet as he eats. Even when the owner slaps him on the back after I tell him we kicked Quinnipiac’s asses. He just nods politely, but doesn’t seem pumped like I thought hewould be. Usually he’s cracking jokes and giving me a play-by-play of the game. Is it Stef? What was it about him he hated so much from a five second conversation?
This restaurant has a lot of traditional Eastern European dishes on the menu. I order Mischa’s favorite Ukrainian dish, haluški (noodles, cabbage and onions), and pass up on the holodets (cold meat jelly) Papa orders.
“Your babulya used to make this when you were a kid.” Papa says when he sees me turn my nose up at it. “You’re too American. I don’t know how this happens, we never take you to McDonald’s, we always cook good food for you at home.”
I laugh, “Papa, don’t you think I’d buy McDonald’s with my allowance?”
Getting an allowance isn’t a common thing back in Russia, but it was one thing we managed to wear him down on, so long as we helped out at the store every now and then and kept the apartment clean.
He widens his eyes. “If I know this, you won’tgetany allowance.”
Me and Dasha share a glance and burst out laughing. Papa’s lips twitch, but he stops himself from smiling. “You’re very funny ha ha, you think I’m silly, old Russian, but at least this food they don’t spit in.”
When I glance at my babushka, she’s grinning into her food.
By the end of the meal, I’m glad I dragged my tired ass out for dinner. Spending time with them reminds me there’s more to life than hockey. But as we’re leaving each other at the entrance to the subway, I remember why hockey is so important. It’sbecauseof them. Because I want to take care of them.
Dasha puts her arms around my waist and squeezes. “Don’t leave me with them,” she whines. “All they do is talk about the old country. Like, if Siberia’s so great, why don’t you just move back then huh?”
I laugh. “They miss home, how would you feel if you left Brooklyn?”
“Like I won the lottery, obviously.”
“You’d miss it, trust me.”
“You only moved to Jersey, stop being so dramatic. There’s literally a bridge and a subway between us.”
We stop at the top of the stairs leading down into the subway. Babushka squeezes me tightly. The familiar smell of her perfume makes me want to keep hold of her and ask her to take me home with her and make me some cocoa.
Papa hugs me, slapping me on the back.
“Keep up the good work, we’re proud of you.”
I think about telling them they don’t have to come to every game, but that would be like me telling them I don’t want them there. Or at least, that’s how they’d take it.
He pulls me aside, letting Dasha and Babushka go on ahead. In Russian, he says. “Talk to me son, who is this new roommate, how do you know him?”
My heart sinks. He really is pissed about Stef. “He’s friends with one of my teammate’s sisters, why?”
He frowns, rubbing his chin. “Be careful, You don’t need friends who aren’t focused on hockey.”
I bite my tongue and nod. “We don’t have to be friends,” I say, the words like poison as they pass my lips. But it’s easier to pacify him. “I just need a roommate.”
“You need money?”
“No, Papa, I’m fine, it just makes more sense to have a roommate, I live in a two-bed apartment."
He squints at me, but eventually nods his assent. “Okay. You tell me if you need money.”
“I will.”
Babushka calls him, telling him they’re gonna miss their train.
I turn to Papa and give him a hug, smelling his familiar aftershave and the cigarettes he pretends he doesn’t smoke. “Love you Papa.”