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“How about that nurse huh?” He says in Russian. “She was a nice lady. Pretty too. I think she liked you. That’s what you need Aloyshka. A pretty woman to take care of you. You worry too much.”

I make a noncommittal noise to let him know I’m not ignoring him and close my eyes so he thinks I’m tired.

He drops the car off with his friend who owns the Polish supermarket and I have to let him carry my bag the few blocks home, even though I remind him I still have one good arm.

The apartment feels weird when he lets us in.

I realize I haven’t been in here for months.

Maybe more. Russian Christmas is different to Western Christmas, and he doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, so I spent those holidays on campus with people who live too far away to go home and get back in time for holiday hockey games.

I feel like a different person to the one who was here last time.

He puts my bag down by the door and takes his jacket off, hanging it over the back of his armchair.

My gaze is drawn immediately to the altar in the corner of the room where I used to see my babushka praying all the time. The framed pictures of the saints. Babushka’s prayer books and old, weathered bible.

Papa follows my gaze and says, “your babulya’s been praying for you.”

“She’s always praying for us.”

He nods and laughs, running his hand over his face like he’s tired. I wonder if he’s been up all night. Despite what he says about me worrying too much, I know he worries too.

“Papa, I need to talk to you.”

“You need to rest.” He says. “Go and lie down, your bed is all ready for you, you can go back to school when you feel better. You still need to finish your classes to stay on the hockey team.”

It’s not anger that bubbles up, it’s panic. I feel like I’m screaming and no one is listening. I feel like I’ve been screaming for years and my voice is hoarse. “Didn’t you hear what they said? I can’t play.”

“I know you can’t play, I’m not stupid.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “You need to technically stay on the team. You’ll be on the injury reserve list and show up to the games, get your degree and then graduate, as planned.”

“As planned,” I repeat.

He nods like he didn’t hear the tone in my voice.

I speak to him in Russian, so there’s no doubt that he’ll understand me, linguistically at least. “Papa, I’m not going to be playing hockey next year.”

“The doctor said four to six months. I’ve seen people online who went back to full training in five.”

“I don’t want to play minor league hockey.”

He waves his hand, like what I want is just a minor inconvenience. “It won’t be for long, once they see your talent-”

“Papa please!”

I never interrupt him. He looks like he’s just been slapped.

“I love that you believe in me. And I know you’ve invested a lot in my career. But it’s not my fault I got injured. And I’m sick of being in pain, and not being good enough.”

His face softens. “Aloyshka, you are good enough.”

“No Papa, I think you’re blinded by how badly you want me to succeed.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Talk to Coach Allan. Talk to any NHL scout. They’ll tell you the same thing. I’ve got no chance. I’ve come to terms with that, now you have to.”

“You’re quitting. You only lose if you quit.”

“You’re right, I could play hockey. I could go play in the ECHL and hope they’ll sub my accommodation.

I could play there until my shoulder gives out again, or something else.

And then I could come back home with nothing and you’d still be living in this apartment with Babulya and Dasha.

And you’d still be struggling at the store-”

“Who said I’m struggling? I’m not struggling. And what’s wrong with this apartment? You grew up in this apartment.” He lets out a disbelieving laugh, gesturing vaguely around the tiny room. “This is your home. It’s bigger than where me and your mother lived in Siberia.”

“I know Papa. There’s nothing wrong with it, and I’m grateful. You sacrificed everything for us and you gave us everything we need. Now let me give you something.”

He crosses the room and puts his hand on my good shoulder, looking into my eyes. I note the pleading look and have to drop my eyes.

“All I want is for you to do what you love. To play hockey, like we planned.”

I lick my lips. The pain meds make my mouth dry and I’m starting to get a headache. But I’ll be damned if I walk away from this conversation. I’ve been waiting too long to have it and he’s too good at brushing things under the rug.

“You know what I want?”

“What?”

“I applied for internships in Vancouver and Nashville, in the NHL.”

He frowns. “What do you mean? Internships?”

“In finance.”

He lets out a sigh. “Finance? You’re a player, not a banker.”

“No Papa, I’m not a player. Not anymore. And this is something I’m good at. And a way for me to make money and take care of you guys-”

“You don’t take care of me, I take care of you.”

“And you have, but now it’s time to let me help. I’m a man now, don’t you always remind me of that? Don’t men take care of their family?” I try to speak in his language. Use concepts he’ll understand, but I can see it isn’t getting through.

I run a hand over my face.

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t up for discussion anymore. I’m going to do everything I can to stay in school. If that means sitting in the arena in a suit during every game and watching my team play without me, then that’s what I’ll do. But then I’m going to do a finance internship. No more hockey.”

He sinks into his armchair, sighing and running his hand over his stubble.

“And by the way, I won’t let you ever be rude to Stef again.”

He frowns and looks up at me. “Stef? Who?”

“The guy I live with.” Boyfriend. The word’s on the tip of my tongue, but I decide not to give him a full-blown heart attack. Let the hockey thing sink in first. Then I’ll tell him about Stef.

I leave him sitting in his chair, shaking his head and mumbling to himself.

When I close the door to my old bedroom, it feels like I’ve stepped back in time.

All my hockey posters on the walls and the junior trophies still lined up on the shelves next to my fantasy books.

Papa never understood the reading thing, but he let me do it so long as it didn’t interfere with hockey.

He’ll be lost when he finally realizes that hockey isn’t gonna be a part of my life the way he thought it was. But I don’t think I will. Not anymore.

I think about Stef’s voice on the phone. How guilty he still feels for lying to me. And I need to make that right.

I login to Bookgeeks, telling myself this is the last time I’ll ever message him as Kelsier38.