Page 20

EIGHTEEN

CHARLIE

After practice, Laney announces the new lines and I have to roll my eyes when Nikolay turns to me with a smug look. He got every prediction right, the bastard.

I can’t fucking believe he thinks that being forced to train immature little shits is “not worse” than having to spend time with me.

I’m one provocation away from tying that fucker to a chair and demanding he tell me why he hates me so damn much. Once and for all.

I vow to do that as soon as we’re out of here, but when Laney dismisses everyone, telling them to get some rest, Nikolay turns to me and brings up a good point.

“How about we skate for thirty minutes then hit the bikes?”

As much as I want to choke answers out of him, I know it’s what we should do, so I follow him to our cubbies and put on my skates.

Since we’re not going to play tonight, we need to get a serious workout in if we have any hopes of not losing muscle while we’re benched. With that in mind, I look at him with a challenge.

“Whoever finishes five suicides first wins.”

“Wins what?” he asks with a narrow gaze.

“The right to brag,” I throw back.

He smiles at me—it’s not a nice smile—and we both glide to the goal line, each on one side of the net.

“On three,” I call out, and crouch into position.

He counts for both of us, and so we begin.

The half hour goes by faster than I ever thought possible since we make every single drill a competition. It’s a sad fact that we each win half the time. And though I think to challenge him in the bench press, I know he can lift more than me.

I sure as fuck can lift more than he thinks I can—I know he underestimates me—but I’m not going to push it today.

It would be just my luck to get injured in the fucking gym, so yeah, not risking that.

All in all, it’s a good hour and a half of exercise that leaves me feeling like I’m not wasting the day away.

Any other game day, I’d go home, make a shit-ton of pasta, nap for two hours and then get to the rink, but this time, when we get back home I slam the door behind me, then grab Nikolay’s arm and drag him to the living room .

“Hey,” he complains. I ignore him and push him down to the couch. It’s way too easy, so I know he’s letting me—and fuck, that stings—but his eyes are still full of ice when he looks up at me.

“You’re going to tell me why you hate me right fucking now. ”

He doesn’t seem affected by my commanding tone. In fact, his jaw locks down and he tilts his chin up.

“Why would I do that?” he asks, voice low.

“Because you want to play hockey again.”

I see I’ve hit my mark when he deflates, just like he did in the locker room when Laney shouted at us.

“Just fucking tell me so I can apologize and we can move the fuck on.”

“Apologize,” he says in a mocking tone. Then he laughs, coldly, unkindly. “You think I’m ever going to forgive you for calling my parents pathetic and embarrassing?”

“ What? ” I’m full-on screaming now.

“Don’t fucking pretend, Heart.” He stands and gets right in my face. “Nine years ago at the NHL Awards.” I nod, wide-eyed, to show him I’m listening. “After you won the James Norris Memorial Trophy, again , I was with my parents at the fucking tiny tables where they push you after the ceremony. My mother fucking told me to go up to you and congratulate you on winning.”

My mouth goes completely dry, because though I can’t fucking remember exactly when I said those awful things about his parents, the way he’s looking at me, I can’t see any way that I didn’t.

“So I went to the bathroom, and when I was walking back I was going to do as my mother told me, only to come up to your table and hear you saying, ‘Why did he bring them? It’s pathetic and fucking embarrassing,’ while you were staring at my parents. My father was in a fucking wheelchair because his dementia was so bad already and my mother had her oxygen tank with her.” He spits word after word at me. “It was the last time they went to the awards with me because I wanted them to see me win one fucking time. Which of course they didn’t because you wouldn’t stop winning and then you fucking insulted them. A man and woman who were months away from dying and you mocked them .”

My mouth is hanging open by that point, and even though I remember now, and even though there’s an explanation, I recognize the look in Nikolay’s eyes. He wants to hit me, right in my pretty face. He wants to punch the living shit out of me. For a moment, thinking about what he thinks I did, I consider letting him. But then I decide it’s not worth it and scurry back three steps.

“I did say those things,” I start out my explanation slowly, and lift a palm up to keep his anger at bay. “But not about your parents, Nikolay.”

“What?” he whispers through clenched teeth.

“Okay.” I take a deep breath. I’m going to have to tell a five minute story in about thirty seconds, so it’s necessary. “ Do you remember Demochev?” By the blank look I surmise the answer is no, so I just keep going. “He was this old-ass player who spent most of his career on Atlanta’s farm team. He was an asshole and he wasn’t very good, but he got called up and he had a decent season so they invited him to the awards.

“The night before the awards, he told me how he’d hired two hookers for the weekend, and I thought well that’s fine I guess, why the fuck should I care, right?” Nikolay’s face still hasn’t moved at all. “But the idiot brought them to the awards. When I saw him there I told him this wouldn’t look good for him and he just blew me off. So I was talking to Richards about it after all the awards had been given. Demochev was at the bar, and these two girls were with him, and one of them was trying to get Paul fucking Wayne to do a body shot with her.”

If I sound unhinged, it’s probably because I feel like I’m coming fucking undone.

“It was embarrassing, and it was pathetic. I swear I didn’t say those things about your parents, Nikolay.”

“Are you saying the truth?” he asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion as his accent peeks out just a little.

“I would never disrespect anyone who was in a wheelchair or had an oxygen tank. I would never disrespect anyone’s parents,” I say like a vow. “Never.”

There’s an endless moment of silence where I think about what that must’ve been like for him. What all these years seeing me win these awards while believing I was that kind of scum...

“How the fuck did you not kill me on the spot?” I ask, my disbelief clear. If anyone says shit about my mom—or any member of my family—I will put that fucker on the ground every time. Yeah, I’ve always had a hair trigger when it comes to people disrespecting them.

Nikolay looks away and shrugs. “I’m not an aggressive person by nature,” he says absentmindedly, clearly thinking about something else.

I open and close my mouth several times, trying to think of something to say.

Could’ve fooled me , isn’t the right thing to say even if it is my immediate thought.

I entertain the thought of telling him how protective I am of my family too, but in the end there’s nothing I can say. It’s all on him now.

“I believe you,” he says after a minute.

“You do?” I can’t disguise the relief in my question.

“Yes.” He nods sharply, once.

“So you don’t hate me anymore,” I say, the sigh followed by a smile.

He winces and tilts his head from side to side.

“Seriously?” I demand. He won’t meet my gaze, and when I think about it, I have to scoff. “Oh, come on. It’s because of the James Norris Memorial wins?” He stays quiet, but this time his icy gaze does land on me. There’s less frost there now, though, so I guess the real hate might be gone.

“It’s bullshit,” he says, jutting out his chin.

“Yes, of course it’s bullshit!” I shout now. “The contrast is why I won most of those times, Nikolay.” Do I sound as exasperated as I feel? I hope so.

“What contrast?” he asks, his face screwed up.

“The contrast between how I play and how the rest of the team played. And the contrast in your case is nonexistent because you’ve always been on par with your team.” He stands taller and crosses his arms, looks down at me with an unimpressed stare. “Your team has won three Stanley Cups since you were brought up, Nikolay. It’s a fucking compliment.”

Jesus, I can’t with this man.

“Oh,” he says, and drops his arms. “All right, then.”

I just roll my eyes at him.

“So maybe I don’t hate you anymore,” he says slowly.

I tilt my head. I can literally see him thinking as he bites his bottom lip and his brow furrows. The lip-bite thing reminds me of our kiss but I shake that off.

We don’t have time for that right now—and probably never will, which is convenient.

Now that we’ve reached the point where all the cards are on the table—and none of them represent hate, yay—we might actually have a shot at convincing all our bosses to let us get on the ice again. No matter how much the curious part of my brain wants to push the issue, another kiss will not be happening.

Just as resolution settles, he’s there, his body a hair’s breadth away from mine, his big-ass hands covering the sides of my face, fingers sliding up into my hairline and behind my ears. His icy blue eyes are burning hot and that heat envelops me, traps me on the spot.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” he whispers in a growl. “Stop me if you don’t want that.” I suck in air.

But I don’t move.