Page 66 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

i think you’re it

Mikhail

We’re running offensive drills at practice, each of us analyzing each other’s movements and instincts, trying to get a sense of which players will work well with each other. It’s been going okay, and we’ve been at it long enough that we start chattering on the ice as we run the drills.

One of the younger players, Ethan Smith, asks what it was like to grow up hockey royalty.

I just grunt in response. My least favorite subject.

“Yeah,” Smith says. “The Great Zelenka. What was it like growing up with that guy? I mean, obviously, it worked out for you, since you played starter from the beginning.”

I’m sure I look thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, he made training my number one priority.”

“But was it cool?” he prods. “You know, being the son of a hockey Great?”

“It depended on the day, I suppose.”

Thankfully, Evan jumps in, aware of my ambivalence when it comes to talking about my dad.

He says, “Most guys have some kind of pedigree in hockey when they get here. Their dads played or coached. Or they’ve been on skates since they were three.

Or they played in the Olympics. Pro players don’t usually come from nowhere. ”

This moves the conversation away from The Great Zelenka and toward everyone’s individual accomplishments.

Actually, a smart strategy by our team captain.

It helps level the playing field, so to speak, and gives some of the players who get less playing time the chance to see that there is no one on this team who doesn’t deserve to be here.

After practice, Evan asks if I want to get a bite to eat. I look at my phone to see if Reagan has checked in. I was hoping we could hit the gym or something, but she never texted me last night, and today, she’s been MIA, as well. With no word from her, I agree to grab a bite with the captain.

Down in the pub, we order our food, and Evan asks if I’m okay lately. “You haven’t been the cocky rookie I’m used to these days.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Well, I haven’t been a rookie in, what, five years now. Six maybe?”

Evan nods but looks surprised. “Damn,” he says, kind of shocked. Then, “Damn. Time sure as hell flies, doesn’t it? I mean, I’m going to have a kid in kindergarten next year. How’s that for crazy?”

“Crazy, yeah,” I say, wondering why the hell I’m sitting here.

Evan and I are cool, but we’re not best buds or anything.

We ran into each other a few times at a cooking class taught by the team nutritionist back in the summer.

But classes have been paused since Devon went on maternity leave.

So, I don’t see Evan outside of a hockey arena.

We don’t grab drinks and eat burgers at the pub together.

We don’t share our feelings with each other. I like the guy, but we don’t do this.

“I’m thinking of retiring,” Evan says without missing a beat.

This sure as hell gets my attention. My eyes snap up to his face to see if he’s joking, but his expression is serious. “Why?”

He lifts a shoulder and stirs his glass of lemonade with a straw.

“There’s been speculation for the past year or so—which isn’t at all why I’m thinking about it, to be clear.

But I’m rolling further along into my thirties.

I’ve got a wife and three kids. My contract is up for renegotiation after next season. ”

“None of those seem like reasons to me,” I argue. “You’re still playing like fire. And next season is next season. You’re in top shape. Play it through.”

“I’m not the only one.”

“Vik?” I ask.

Evan nods. “Viktor and Scarlett have been talking about going to Russia. His mom is there, her dad is there, and they want a big family of their own. Vik said he’s not going to be the dad who’s never home for his kids.

He wants to coach their sports and enjoy the life he’s earned for himself over a long and remarkable career.

I get that because I want the same for my family, too. ”

I sit back in the booth, whistling. “Well, the focus on bench strength makes so much more sense now.”

“Kind of,” Evan says. “Neither Vik nor I have given them a timeline, so they’ve just asked us to be up front about how we’re feeling.

And we have. Both of us still want to play, but if hockey becomes second or third on the priority list, then it’ll probably be a pretty good sign it’s time to go to the front office or go coach or whatever. ”

“Yeah, I guess I get that.”

“And honestly, they’re not wrong, even if we weren’t thinking about what’s next.

There are seven of us out there, with Cal, who makes shit happen.

Game after game and, yes, it’s magic when it works the way it’s supposed to, but as Coach and Grant have asked, what if one of us goes down with a catastrophic injury?

What happens then if no one else is conditioned enough to jump in full-time?

They get paid good money; they need to do good work. ”

Our food comes and we take a few bites before I ask, “Why are you telling me this, man?”

“Because I need you out there as a leader.”

“I’m no cheerleader, Evan.”

“I need you to be.” He nails me with a hard look. “I do the best I can, but someone will need to take my place when I decide I’m done. And I think you’re it. You’re serious about the game. You’re not out at the bars partying it up.”

“I’m also the son of The Great Zelenka.” I can’t help rolling my eyes at him.

“No,” Evan says sharply. “No, Mikhail. You’re your own man. Your style of play is your own. Your countenance is your own. You do not have to live, or lead, in your father’s shadow. You can grow into whatever kind of player you want to be—whatever kind of man you aim to be.”

“You’re too weak to lead a team. Too soft when a captain needs to be tough. Indestructible. That’s not you.”

I can’t help but hear my father’s words and attempt to weigh them against what Evan is saying.

“You do not have to live, or lead, in your father’s shadow. You can grow into whatever kind of player you want to be—whatever kind of man you aim to be.”

Whose words do I listen to? My captain’s? My father’s? Evan doesn’t shoot the shit aimlessly. He also speaks his truth. This proposition seems so surreal.

Me? Captain of the Vegas Crush?

Evan’s message is not lost on me. He wants me to be more than just a steady scorer, a quiet force on the left wing.

He wants me to step up and be more. I’m speechless, my throat tight at his encouragement, at his belief in what I can be.

My father has never talked to me this way, has never given me any sense that he believes in my ability to lead or grow.

His comments are always negative, always focused on what he would’ve done that would’ve been better.

As we finish our lunch, he asks what I’ve got going on outside of the team. I’m not going to go into any detail on Reagan’s situation, but I do mention that I’m seeing someone.

“Oh yeah? Is it serious?”

“Um, I’m not sure, actually?” I laugh. “She had some stuff going on and really needed a friend. But it’s, you know, more than that now. We haven’t put a label on it even though I’m ready.”

“Well, I chased my wife around like a panting dog, so I knew just exactly what I wanted there.” He grins. “I guess you’ll know when you know.”

He insists on buying my lunch, and as we head out, he says, “Have a think on what I’ve said.”

I do. All the way home, I think about what he’s said, what he’s shared.

It’s more than a little insane to think about the Vegas Crush without Evan Kazmeirowicz.

The guy is an institution here, and—as hard as it is for me to admit—he’s grown into a damn good leader for the team.

I sure gave him grief when I first started here as an untested rookie.

We’ve come a looong way since that first season of butting heads at every opportunity.

If and when he decides to retire, I’m sure the Crush Foundation will grab him, or the coaching staff.

Or broadcasting will lure him over. Or he’ll go on to train future NHL players.

Who knows? The point is—he’s a machine, and if he moves on from playing, it will most definitely leave a void on our team.

I need to step up my game if he thinks I’m the one to fill it.