Page 16 of Stubborn Puckboy (Puckboys #9)

FIFTEEN

Novi

I hope Colby is watching. It’s his job to, so he will be, but I hope he’s really watching watching . After my amazing follow-up game in Dallas, I decided I’m going on a streak. Since that game, I’ve kicked Utah’s ass, and now we’re in Colorado, and I’m planning to annihilate them. All for Colby.

I am showing off for him, and that has breathed new life into my game. Tonight is one of the funnest games I have played in a long time. My skates have wings, my hits don’t miss, and I sank one motherfucker of a goal.

Unfortunately, Colorado is also having a solid night.

We’re two for two, and while an easy win is always good for the team, I love the intensity.

The chase for the W. Having an opponent worthy of a fight is one of my favorite things about the game.

Every team has good and bad nights. Easy and hard-fought wins.

Easton Kikishkin is out to prove himself without his big brother on the ice to protect him anymore, and he’s had one hell of a preseason. There was much speculation that the Kiki brothers’ magic was over and that it would affect the middle Kiki brother this season, but Easton is as stubborn as me.

He’s put those rumors to bed.

Played hard.

It is unlucky for him that I am better.

We pull up for a face-off.

“You watch,” I tell him. “I will win the puck, and we’ll score off it.”

“Good luck.”

“I don’t need your luck.” I set up in position. “I am just going to do it.”

Easton’s eyes narrow as he leans forward and touches his stick to the ice, but he redirects his focus a millisecond too late. That’s how fast things move in this game. How easily a split-second mistake can cost you the win.

The puck is released, and I swipe it out behind me to Timbrook. He shoots it across to Turkey, who passes back to Landers, who I’m prepared for as I shoot along the side. Landers hits it into the boards behind Colorado’s goal, and it loops around to me.

Easton’s on me, and I get the puck out right before he flattens me so hard I almost lose my skates. Timbrook recovers, passes to Turkey, who passes it right back.

I’m covered in sweat, glutes burning, almost done with my shift, but I’ve caught the scent of the win. I’m not leaving this ice until we’re ahead.

Colorado gathers around their goal, and my team makes fast passes between them. Quick as I can, I duck behind the Colorado goal, and Turkey is ready for me.

As soon as Lander’s pass hits his blade, he flicks the puck off the ice and sends it my way.

The puck shoots hard and fast toward me, and before Flores can turn, I clip it in midair and redirect the shot into the top right-hand corner.

The lamp lights up, and I roar with adrenaline and then point Easton’s way. “How you like that, sweetheart?”

He mouths something angrily back, but I’m impossible to ruffle. I hit the bench, and the next line takes over, glee flooding through me that Colby would have seen that.

I think when I get back to the locker room, I will text him that the goal was dedicated to him. He will not be able to forget it with how highlight reels will cover it for at least the next few days.

My hat is pulled down over my still-damp hair as the journalists run through their questions for the post-game presser. All I can concentrate on is that this is the same hat that led to having sex with Colby Kessinger, and my lips keep tugging upward at the memory.

“Novicov.”

I glance toward the woman who’s started her question.

“You looked like you were enjoying yourself out there. What was the difference tonight?”

I dip my head toward the mic. “I enjoy myself always.” If I have one rule for these moments, it’s that I will never give people anything they can use against me.

My sound bites are bland and sometimes taunting but always at surface level.

I do not want to be memorable or to have people looking at me for anything beyond how I play.

So I play well, and then I play with them and their questions.

She pushes for more. “Yes, but you’re not known as the angry Russian for nothing. You almost broke the internet when you laughed at Easton Kikishkin.”

“I was amused.”

“What about?”

“He told joke.” It’s harder than usual tonight to disguise that I’m messing with them.

“What was the joke?” someone else asks.

“His playing.”

A chuckle goes around the room, and I know they’ll use that. The next question is for Coach, and I think I’m free from attention, but apparently, Colby is right when he says I’m hard to read because they’re not letting this curiosity drop.

“There’s speculation that you’ve started a friendship with Connor Kikishkin. How do you think he’ll react to you taunting his little brother?”

This question takes me off guard, and a shadow of the familiar panic at being found out creeps up.

I knew that crossing the line and being seen with the Queer Collective members was risky, but I am being careful about a public friendship.

The only time they could have seen me with Connor is during the Stanley Cup final in his rich boyfriend’s suite, so as much as my brain immediately wants to assume I’ve been found out, I remind myself that they know nothing.

That being seen with him one time isn’t going to out me.

“He will be pissed.” I shrug. “Hopefully.”

“Lucky he’s not playing anymore, huh? He’s got a protective streak when it comes to his brothers.”

“Connor Kikishkin is like a little bug. I am too big to worry about bugs.”

“But you’re friends?” someone else pushes.

I remind myself not to panic. This is fine. Standard stuff. Connor is not out, and no one knows Ezra Palaszczuk has claimed me as his bestie. So I resort to old tricks. “I do not understand this friends .”

“Friends, as in you talk and hang out.”

“Hang what out?”

“Hang out as in socialize.”

Someone else jumps in. “Do you hang out with his brother too? It’s no secret you don’t agree with his sexuality.”

Then another. “How did this friendship start?”

And another. “How do you feel about the news Connor Kikishkin is retiring?”

The questioning is coming faster than I’m used to, and I can’t figure out a way to twist their questions. So angry Russian, it is. “I shoot goal of the season, and you want to trade petty gossip? No surprise print media is dead.”

“We’re asking what our audience wants to know.”

“All your audience wants to know is that Radimir Novicov kicked ass tonight and made show of Kiki brothers.”

A smarmy-looking man in the front row jumps in. “Do you think you unfairly targeted Easton Kikishkin on the ice?”

“I target everyone on ice.”

“You seemed to have a real aggressive streak when it came to him though.”

“First you say I am having fun, then you say I am aggressive.” I throw my hands up. “This does not make sense.”

“Maybe you were having fun being aggressive toward him.”

“I was having fun winning . I like to win. I like to play hard and prove I am the best. Which I am. Even though they are not in my league, I have much respect for Kiki brothers. I can enjoy rough play on the ice and then be friends off it.”

“So you are friends with Connor Kikishkin?” someone in the back pushes. “And you respect Easton, even though he’s openly gay?”

My throat closes over at the word. “I … uh … I …”

“Let me guess, you don’t speak English?” another voice pipes up, and the room fills with laughter.

My face burns.

Heart beats faster.

This is the point I’m supposed to deny friendships and turn us back to hockey, but I can’t make my mouth move.

And then Coach takes the chance away from me.

“Are you sports journalists or gossip columnists? If that’s the hockey talk finished, we’re done here.” He stands and nods at me to do the same. There’s a disconnected sort of lightness to my limbs as I push my chair out and trail after him, out of the press room and into the hall.

He pauses as soon as the door closes behind us and sets his hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

“Da.”

“Don’t worry about those jackals,” he says. “They only want a story.”

“Da.”

“Novi …” He studies my face. “Why’d you let them ruffle you like that?”

“I am not ruffled.” The feeling in my chest is very ruffled. “I do not like talking to stupid people.”

“You and me both, but you’re usually a lot better at it than that.”

I don’t answer.

“You let them get to you. Now, I don’t know why, but do I need to?”

Does he? After six years of playing for Whelan, I trust him completely. I could tell him. Let him know I’m gay and it can’t get out. He’d support me and make sure it happened.

Our PR team aggressively going after rumors would only open more questions though, and it’s easier to ignore my heart and who I am when absolutely no one knows about it. The last thing I want is for Coach to treat me with kiddie gloves.

“Okay,” he eventually relents. “I’ll chalk it up to a long night and exhaustion.

But if you’re ever asked that question again—about whether you respect a gay man—the answer is yes , Novi.

Easton is an incredible player and so many other things than his sexuality.

No matter what your beliefs, the answer is goddamn yes . ”

He stalks off, shaking his head, and I know he’s disappointed in me. Which might not be so bad if I wasn’t so disappointed in myself.

I get back to the visitor locker room, where most people are in their suits already, and try to avoid eye contact with anyone. Turkey is oblivious, though, and can’t read my mood because he comes over and grabs both my shoulders from behind, giving me a shake. “Ready to go celebrate?”

“Nyet.”

“Nyet? Fuck nyet . We’re going. And we won’t take nyet or no or fuck off or Russian death glares for an answer.”

“I do not death glare.”

He snorts. “You’re doing it right now.”

With a huff, I glance around the locker room to make sure no one is listening. “The press conference was not fun.”

“What?” He drops onto the bench beside me. “But we won, and you played like a beast. What the hell did they have to come at you for?”

“Easton Kikishkin.”

“But we smashed him. I don’t …” Turkey trails off, and I know he’s gotten it.

“I do not need lecture,” I say before he can start.

“No lecture.”

“You lecture me with your eyes.”

“Oh good, you’re rubbing off on me.”

Instead of getting changed into my suit, I sit down next to him. I am tired.

“All I’m saying,” Turkey says lightly, “is you’ve been here for … seventeen years? Eighteen? A hundred?”

I give him a stop talking or die look.

He does not listen. “Your time in Russia and your time here are pretty much split by this point. You have a lot of great things you’re holding on to from your days in the old country, and I get why you love it and feel that allegiance to Russia, but …

do you really have to hold on to the bad things from there too?

People are just people.” His tone takes on a begging note. “Come on, Novi, you know that.”

I do know that. It’s the part that makes me want to scream.

“What would you do if I was queer?” he pushes. “Cut things off? Hate me? After everything we’ve been through together?”

I hunch over and set my elbows on my knees, staring at my hands clasped between them. “People willfully misunderstand me.”

“Didn’t answer my question though.” His tone tightens. “So I guess that’s my answer.”

My brain is screaming at me to reassure him. It would be easy. Simple. We’ll still be friends if he’s gay —admitting that doesn’t hint at anything about me, except maybe clear my name of being a homophobic asshole. Even though I know all that, my mouth refuses to work.

Turkey stands up before I can get a word out.

“You know what, Novi? I’m definitely straight, but maybe I’m the one who should cut things off.

All this time, I thought people were wrong about you.

That there was more to the story, or maybe you needed time or someone to help you understand.

I had your back with that shit, man, but I guess I was making excuses for your terrible behavior.

” He glances back at me. “My sister’s trans, by the way, dickhead.

Her, Coach Kessinger, Easton Kikishkin, and everyone like them exist. And they deserve to do that with respect.

Go whine about being misunderstood somewhere else. ”

And as casually as he says that, he walks away. All I can do is stare after him with hollow eyes, wondering at what point any of this actually gets easier.