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CHAPTER 25

ALEXEI

The next morning I have a practice and team meeting at the arena.

When I get there, I pass two local reporters in the hall. They give me friendly nods but don’t try to talk. That’s been the routine since I arrived.

The first time I spoke to the Hamilton press, I was shellshocked—fresh off the plane, just traded, translating every thought and emotion into a second language. I stumbled over my words, and they decided I didn’t speak English well. I’ve done nothing to correct that impression in six months.

Some assumptions are useful.

I do my turns pre- and post-game as the team asks me to, but the questions are always pretty simple and I give canned answers.

Every win I can get the team is a good one.

Is six wins in a row a good streak? Nice. Is it the season record? Not yet? Not good enough.

And if they ask me about something I don’t want to talk about, which isn’t often, I fall back on the language barrier. What do you mean? Sorry, can you say again?

This is my first time playing on a team without any other Russian players, which means that behind the scenes, I can’t rely on a buddy to translate. So my teammates know the truth. I speak English just fine. I contribute in meetings, on the bench, on the ice. But even with them, sometimes it’s easier to pretend I don’t catch every joke, every barb, every invitation to open up.

Sometimes I need the space that silence gives me.

Today, I’m grateful for it, because I didn’t get even a second alone with Emery this morning, and it’s put me on edge.

She’s very good at putting distance between us, especially after an unexpected bit of closeness.

Yeah, you dummy. She doesn’t want to get in deep with the guy who hurt her. Not breaking news.

I don’t know how to reconcile that with the way she clings to me when we kiss. But that’s a problem best solved later. After dinner with her family. After I play her brother on the ice tomorrow. After the Grangers all leave town again, and we can have some breathing space to get back to figuring out who we are to each other now, instead of rehashing what we were two years ago.

I stride into the locker room, change quickly, and head to the lounge room where we eat our team meals. Hayden “Hooner” Calhoun spots me from across the buffet. “Arty! How’s your mom?”

“Yeah, good. She came home yesterday.” I duck my head as a cheer goes up around the room.

Roan “Smash” Dodaj comes out of nowhere to wrap a big, heavy arm around my shoulders. “Buddy, that’s amazing.”

“Thanks, man.”

Hayden gets a text message on his phone that makes him put his plate down and head around the corner for privacy, leaving Smash to guide me to the food. “You ready for tomorrow night? What can we get you to fuel you? Gotta keep that winning streak alive.”

I shove him away and grab a plate.

Undeterred, he narrates what I select. “Veggie hash, turkey sausage, and oatmeal. Good choices.”

Kieran Marsh, one of the players I look up to the most on the team, joins us and grabs a plate. “Arty, good to see you. How’s your morning going?”

I can hardly tell him the truth, which is that I woke up early to jerk off thinking about Emery’s hot, wet mouth. And now I’m annoyed by my teammates.

What I say instead is, “It’s going.”

It’s one of those English phrases I picked up early, one that always sounds casual and natural, but doesn’t invite further discussion.

Dodaj looks back and forth between us, but Marsh isn’t a huge talker—one of the reasons I like him so much—and that’s the end of the conversation.

Sighing, I give the oversized puppy D-man my full attention. “Do you need something, Smash?”

“Just a win tomorrow night against your former team.”

“Yep.” As I hear myself say it, popping the p the way Emery does, I grin.

His eyebrows go up. “Is that a smile?”

“Fuck off.” I carry my plate to a table as Calhoun re-joins us.

“I smile,” I say to both of them.

They exchange a doubtful look.

“I smile,” I repeat with more of a growl. “I literally just smiled.”

“And it was noteworthy,” Dodaj says.

I roll my eyes and start eating. Then I stop and lift my chin towards Calhoun, wanting to be thoughtful. “Everything okay with you?”

He looks startled. “Yeah?”

“You got a text message and had to leave.”

He rapid blinks a few times as his cheeks turn red. “Becca sent me a private photo,” he finally stammers.

We both laugh.

“See? I’m fucking smiling,” I point out.

Then I stab a piece of hash with my fork. End of conversation.

He doesn’t mind. Just turns to Dodaj and starts debating last night’s games from around the league. I listen with half an ear, letting the rhythm of their voices wash over me.

Our captain, Jenson Hale, joins the table with a nod and a calm presence. He’s young for the captaincy, but he’s going to be a franchise stable for a decade, and he has the right personality. Our teammates call Haler “Mom” sometimes, and after the last captain got pushed out—both from the team and his marriage—some loving parenting is what the team needs.

Especially today and tomorrow, because that former captain? I was traded for him, and he’s now on Forrest’s team in Calgary. He had a broken jaw at the start of the season, so when the two teams faced off in Calgary, he wasn’t on the ice.

Tomorrow night, though, Max Tilman will be in the building where he once wore the C, and it’s going to be ugly.

The room fills slowly. Malik Zondi slides into the seat next to me, apparently unaffected by my show of jealousy over Emery. “Good news, boys. I’m out of the no contact jersey for practice today. Might be on the ice tomorrow for the dragon slaying.”

Dodaj and Calhoun drum on the table in unison, making our plates jump.

“Fuck yeah,” Haler says, pumping his fist.

Marsh stops on his way to the next table, where he’ll sit with the other veterans on the team, and gives Zondi a fist bump. Where Haler is our “Mom”, Marshie is “Dad”. Part emotional support veteran, part mentor, part myth.

“Best vengeance is a dub,” Marshie says dryly.

And that’s all the reframing our table needs.

The conversation shifts to the practice and team meeting ahead. One of the coaches comes in and writes the schedule on the whiteboard, because we need to be kept on track.

I finish eating, clear my dishes to be nice to the kitchen staff, and then head to the dressing room.

I can hear some of my other teammates down the hall, having treatments done first. According to the schedule posted, some other guys are in pre-practice meetings with the coaching staff, too.

For right now, I have the dressing room to myself, and I like it that way.

I think about how surprised Dodaj was by me smiling.

I smile, don’t I?

I laugh with Inessa all the time.

Emery sure as fuck makes me smile, even when she shouldn’t. Even when she’s mad at me.

If it wasn’t incriminating as fuck, I’d find the trainer who saw us together on the ice and drag her out to testify to how recently I’ve smiled in this building.

But I don’t need my teammates to start thinking about something being different about me. Not right now. We’re on the cusp of making the playoffs. Tomorrow is an important game in that regard, too, to get us two important points and move us even further into safety.

My teammates want a win to beat Max Tilman.

I want a win to extend my streak, because seven wins in a row…surely that will secure my starting spot in the playoffs.

And if not, then I’ll turn my attention to the next game after that. Eight. Nine would put me in the lead across the league for the season. Ten would break me away not only from Makie’s recent seasons, but most of the pack, and put me in Vezina territory.

Not the point.

The point is always the play-offs. Team first, personal accomplishments second.

But for the young man who just two years ago was eager to get a single start, and then fucking missed it because he was at the fucking hospital becoming a dad, it’s hard to pretend this run of wins doesn’t matter.

It fucking matters to me.

* * *

The house smells like apples and cinnamon when I return from practice, and it sounds…exactly like the arena I just left.

“That’s it, pass it to me, put it on my tape!”

There’s a little whacking sound, hard plastic hitting rubber. No actual tape on those mini sticks, but Emery is right into it, and from Inessa’s giggles, so is my daughter.

Beneath it all is the upbeat bounce of a pop song, and even before I take my shoes off, I can picture the scene in the kitchen. Emery’s phone propped against something, a custom playlist for Inessa on the screen. The two of them on the floor as something amazing cools on the stove. Apple pie? A cobbler?

It’s wild how quickly Emery’s presence has changed my home.

Quietly, I pad down the hall. The hockey game has stopped and they’re whispering to each other.

I stop in the doorway.

Emery’s sitting cross-legged on the floor with Inessa in front of her.

Inessa is patiently, miraculously sitting still while Emery weaves a braid down one side of my daughter’s head.

I fucking stop breathing.

It makes no sense, because it’s nice to see.

There’s no reason for my chest to feel caved in.

She picks up a tiny pink brush that usually lives beside the couch, and causes non-stop protests when I try to use it. But Inessa has no complaints as Emery smooths out the other side of her hair, then repeats the quick but neat-looking braid.

“Papa!” Inessa calls when she spots me. She scrambles to her feet and grabs a mini stick, hacking at the rubber ball, sending into a cardboard box pinned between two kitchen chairs. “Goal!”

“Nice,” I praise. “Very good goal.”

I cross to Emery and offer her a hand up. She takes it, a flicker of guarded carefulness on her face when the predictable warm current of energy flows between us.

I pull her to her feet, letting her bump into me a little. A good excuse to wrap my arm around her hips and see that she’s standing just fine before letting go.

“You’ve turned her into a proper hockey girl,” I murmur. “Didn’t take long.”

“She’s a natural.” Emery’s voice is steady, but her eyes keep moving—like she doesn’t quite trust herself to look at me too long, but she can’t help but glance back every few seconds.

Fuck, I like that way too much.

“Her braids look good,” I say, moving closer again, my hand finding its way to the small of Emery’s back, just barely touching her—but it’s enough to feel her warmth radiating against my palm. “She sat still for you.”

“I told her if she won our game, I would braid her hair in victory.” She twists to the side, showing me that her own hair is braided the same way, matching French braids on either side of her head. She taps the end of the braid. “It’s the glitter clips. They’re only for champions.”

“Champion,” Inessa parrots, sailing into my leg with a proud and victorious hug.

I crouch down, resting my elbows on my knees. “You want to play with me next?”

“No goalie,” Inessa says solemnly.

And fair point—I could block the little cardboard box too easily. “No goalie,” I agree. “Just one-on-one.”

She finds Emery’s stick and shoves it at me. “Papa stick.”

Emery drops the ball for us at the face off point, and we have a fierce battle. Inessa gets the first goal, I get the second, and as soon as she scores again, she declares victory, tackling me to the ground.

“Papa juggle,” she says, waving the ball above my face.

I hold my hands up. “Okay, go.”

She drops it and I snatch it out of the air.

Giggle, she goes to find another one as I start to toss that one in a loop.

While she hunts for another ball, I look over at Emery and find her watching me out of the corner of her eye as she tidies around the stove.

I grin, and she blushes.

Remember when we first met , I want to ask her. Remember how we knew before we’d even said something that it would always be like this?

But then it wasn’t always like this.

This has only ever been a temporary gift the universe then takes away from me.

I’m going to appreciate the fuck out of it while she’s here, though.

“Papa, catch…”

I snap my attention back just in time to catch a second ball sailing through the air.

“Good reflexes,” Emery says.

I wink.

Inessa finds me a third ball, and then returns to sitting on me as I juggle for her.

“What did you make for dessert, by the way?” I ask Emery.

“Apple crisp. Two versions, one classic and one high protein, low sugar for hockey players two weeks away from playoffs.”

I snort. “Your brother isn’t making the playoffs.”

She laughs out loud. “Okay, fair. Then you have an entire tray of healthy crisp all to yourself. Don’t worry, it will freeze. Although your mom might like it. I need to see how it fits into her recommended nutrition plan.”

“Have you seen them yet today?”

“Briefly. Your dad came up to get Inessa for a Baba visit, and I got a shopping list from them for the fridge downstairs. I thought I’d run errands during nap time.”

Inessa gives me a horrified look and slides away, grabbing her mini stick and beelining it to the living room.

No longer her personal jester, I catch the balls in one hand and set them aside.

Emery laughs and comes over to offer me a hand up.

I take it, letting her pull me to my feet with surprising strength.

“And here I was hoping for braiding lessons during nap time,” I murmur once I’m towering above her.

The basement door is closed.

My daughter is out of sight, playing in her toy nook in the TV room.

We’re all alone.

It might be my only chance all day to steal a kiss.

“You made me laugh today,” I tell her as I tuck an errant strand of sunshine behind her ear. “In front of my teammates. They accused me of smiling.”

“I’ve heard you have a grumpy reputation on the team,” she whispers back.

“You’re a threat to that.”

“How so?”

I can’t tell her that she’s always on my mind. That the littlest things make me think of her, and every time I do, another crack forms in the protective shell I’ve built around myself for the last two years.

“Because you’re distracting,” I growl before reaching for one of the sparkly clips holding the end of her braids.

Her gaze doesn’t leave my face as I pause.

“I like your hair in braids.” My voice is husky. “But I like it wild and free even better.”

Her lips part, her eyes darken, and she lets out a shuddering little exhale that I feel all the way to the base of my spine.

I pinch the clip free and toss it to the counter.

Do the same on the other side.

And then I loosen her blonde waves from their braids, spilling the silky strands over my fingers before I cup her head in my hands and tip her face up so I can kiss her.