Page 40 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

Mikhail

Fifteen years ago.

“Mikhail,” Dad barks.

My head snaps up and I realize I’ve zoned out. I’m so tired. I really just want to go home and have my mom make me some hot chocolate.

“Where is your head, boy?” He stares at me, waiting for a response.

“I was thinking about hot chocolate. Dad, I think I’ve got this. Can we go home now?”

Asking to go home pretty much guarantees that I’ll now be here until midnight. I cringe, mad that I let the words escape like that. I’ve already figured out the fewer words I say—the fewer opportunities I give him to react—the better it is for me.

“Get it right three times in a row and we can go home.”

My shoulders slump in defeat. I haven’t gotten it right one time in a row. Still, I square off, replaying the drill quickly in my head, giving my dad a nod that I’m ready to focus again.

We run the drill.

It does not go well.

Again.

And again.

And then, finally, something changes, and I get it.

I manage to nail it once, twice, and then a third time. My fist pumps in the air triumphantly as soon as it happens.

I did it. I look across at my dad, hoping for his excitement. All I see is a crease of his eyes.

“Clean up and meet me at the car.”

This is how practices always go with him.

I don’t know why I was expecting anything different.

A minute later, I’m alone on the ice, gathering loose pucks and cones.

I drag everything to the supply closet and then sit, catching my breath as I loosen my skates and pull on my shoes.

I throw all my gear in my bag and shoulder it, along with my hockey stick and pads, and shuffle out to the front door, waving to the tired front desk clerk, Mr. Stan, on my way out into the snowy, Detroit evening.

My dad has the car warmed up, which is nice, but he’s totally cold and silent as we ride home. No “good job, son” for me. Which shouldn’t be a surprise, but still, I’m disappointed.

So I slump in my seat and cross my arms, pouting on the lonely ride home.

My father, Jozem Zelenka.

Otherwise known as “The Great Zelenka.”

He’s a superstar in pro hockey. One of the leading scorers in NHL history.

A future Hall of Famer without question.

He retired about a year ago, on his thirty-ninth birthday.

People made a big deal about how long he lasted in pro sports and how much of a legacy he left for hockey.

People ask me every time I play if I’ll be the next “Great Zelenka,” if I will try to live up to my dad’s records on the ice.

“Sit up straight, Mikhail,” he scolds.

I scoot up in the seat, looking out the window. “Dad, can we stop and get McDonald’s?”

“No. There is no nutritional value to that food. What a waste of money.”

“We have plenty of money,” I mutter.

“You have no money,” he corrects. “I have money. Because I worked hard on the ice for a long time. Someday you will have your own money, and you can make your own decisions about how you spend it then.”

“But I’m hungry,” I whine. “Please, Dad. Just this one time?”

“No.” His decision is final, and I have learned not to argue with my father. I never, ever win.

When we get home, my mother asks how practice went.

My father makes a comment about how bad my passing was and how we stayed late to work on it.

He grabs the newspaper and walks out of the room, leaving me standing, slump-shouldered and defeated.

She winks and says I can have some dessert before bed if I want.

This perks me up. I practically skip to the table, where my mom serves me a piece of chocolate cake. Just as I’m about to take the first bite, my father says from the living room, “You’ll get fat if you eat that, Mikhail.”

My mom gives me a conspiratorial look. I grin at her and then shovel that delicious chocolate cake into my mouth as fast as I can.

She shakes her head when she takes the plate to the sink. “Your sisters at least chewed theirs. Go take a bath.”

I do as I’m told, but afterward, when I open the bathroom door, towel around my skinny waist, I hear my parents arguing downstairs.

It’s loud enough that I’m surprised my two sisters don’t wake up.

My mom is telling my dad that he’s too hard on me.

He says he’s just giving me the best possible future as a pro hockey player.

She says he should let me just be a kid, and he says that’s not an option in sports anymore.

Pro athletes start when they’re practically babies.

As I get ready for bed, their argument moves on to other things, things I don’t understand. It gets bigger and bigger until they’re really yelling at each other and sound so angry.

My sister Iliana, two years younger than me, comes into my room and crawls into my bed, pulling one of my pillows over her head. “I don’t like it when they yell so loud, Mikky,” she says.

“I know. Neither do I, Illy.” I hate it.

Normally, I’d kick her out of my room, but I won’t. Not tonight.

I lie with my back to her, my own pillow drowning out the ugly sounds, wishing I was somehow capable of making it stop.

Sadly, I’d need some major superhero powers for that miracle to ever happen.