Page 54 of Twisted Play

In town for a meeting. Join us at Fleming’s? 8pm. Want your thoughts on Tristan’s progress.

It was Tristan’s brother, who’d worked for the team as an equipment manager when he was here. I hadn’t known hewas funding his younger brother’s dream at the time. Now I did, but it was too late to go back and get Cedric on the ice.

I exhaled slowly, remembering how Tristan had stayed late after practice today, running the same drill over and over until his form started to slip from exhaustion, a familiar emptiness in his eyes as he pushed himself past his limits. I’d seen that same look in Cole’s eyes a year ago, right before he’d tried to drown his demons in vodka and cocaine. That was before Tristan called me panicked after finding him half-dead in his dorm room and I’d given him a choice—rehab or ruin.

When I arrived at Fleming’s, the hostess led me through the dimly lit restaurant, past couples speaking in hushed voices over wine—business meetings disguised as dinner.

“Alek!” Cedric stood, all easy confidence in his expensive suit. “Join us!”

Tristan sat rigid in his chair, jacket straining across his shoulders, obviously uncomfortable in it. His tie hung slightly askew, and my fingers itched to straighten it.

“Cedric.” I accepted his firm handshake before turning to Tristan. “Tristan.”

“Coach,” Tristan answered automatically.

Cedric smiled at his younger brother. “It’s good to see you, Tris. First line this year—that’s what you’ve always dreamed about, right?”

“That’s right,” I answered. “He’s one of the most dedicated players I’ve seen in my years of coaching. He’s got raw talent, but more importantly, he works hard.”

The pride in Tristan’s eyes made my chest tighten.

“The team’s lucky to have him,” I continued, and the tension eased from Tristan’s frame.

“Speaking of the team,” Cedric started, “I’ve got scouts coming to the?—”

“I’d love to hear about the ranch,” I interrupted smoothly. “Tristan mentioned your father’s expanding the operation?”

Relief flooded Tristan’s face as Cedric launched into stories about their childhood, about the sacrifices their parents had made so they could play hockey, and the ranch Cedric had bought them. I watched Tristan’s shoulders slowly unknot as the conversation drifted away from hockey, from expectations, from the future bearing down on him.

When Cedric excused himself to take a call, Tristan’s shoulders dropped, the mask of perfect compliance slipping.

“Your brother means well,” I said, my voice low and pitched not to carry.

“Yes, sir.” The words came out bitter.

“Stop trying to be what he wants,” I said. “Be what I need instead.”

His eyes snapped to mine, hunger replacing the misery.Good.“Yes, sir.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket. When I glanced at it, Tristan’s eyes followed the movement.

“Cole checking in?” he asked casually—too casually.

I nodded. Once, Cole’s texts had been desperate cries for help. Now, they were proof of his discipline. “He survived another dinner with his father.”

“Good,” Tristan said. He’d been the one to call me when he’d found Cole face down in a pile of his own vomit fifteen months ago. He’d held Cole up on one side while I took the other, dragging him to my car so we could get him to the hospital and then rehab before anyone else found out.

Watching Cedric with Tristan squeezed my chest. Once, Dmitri had looked at me that way—protective, proud, certain he knew what was best for me. We’d survived thejourney from Russia together, lived on nothing but stolen bread and shared dreams, sworn blood oaths in the dark that we’d always choose each other first.

But that was before I’d walked away from everything we’d built together, before he made coming back into the fold the price of my revenge.

Now, my cousin’s name was whispered in dark corners of Yorkfield while I molded champions on the ice. We’d both found our own kinds of power.

I didn’t regret leaving, but some nights, I missed having someone at my back who understood exactly who, and what, I was. Someone who knew my polished confidence was just another mask.

Dmitri would understand what I saw in Tristan and Cole, their darkness, their hunger—the same edge we’d had at their age.

I could almost hear my cousin’s laugh.Still playing games, Sasha?