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ALEXEI

I check my emails on my way to the arena. No response yet from the internships I applied for at a couple of banks and that one jewelry company.

There’s no one in the locker room when I get there, so I start changing into my pads and my practice jersey and check to see if horror boy has left me a message on Bookgeeks since we talked last night but… Nope. Nothing.

Is he waiting for me to send the first message? Or should I wait for him?

Ever since he told me he was seeing someone, I’ve tried to let him lead the conversation.

Not trusting myself to keep things platonic if I let myself run loose.

When you spend your whole life repressing something and then finally find someone you can be yourself with, it’s hard to put that shit back in the bottle.

But I respect his relationship. Even if I don’t like it.

I’m lucky he still wants to talk to me after what I did.

Pawlowski comes in when I’m taping my stick and slaps me on the back.

“Hey Cap, how does it feel to wear the C on your chest?”

I know he was in the run-in for captain when Wilde left last month, and I wonder if he’s secretly resenting me a little bit right now.

“Good.” Scary. “We’re gonna have our best season this year before we graduate.”

“A-fucking-men to that. It’s been too long since we found ourselves in the play-offs, this is our year.”

“I like that attitude.” Coach scares the shit out of us, lurking like that. “Simakov, come have a chat to me after practice, nothing serious, just wanna go over some plans for the season.”

“Yes Coach.”

As soon as we get out on the ice, there’s that voice, guiding me, telling me I need to be the best I’ve ever been. It sounds a lot like my dad.

There’s another voice, one that sounds more like me, a less certain voice, reminding me this is my last season, and that if I fuck this up, it’s all over.

We go through the same drills over and over again. Passing. Endurance. Shooting at our goalie Ryan with everything we’ve got.

By the end of practice, my muscles are burning and sweat’s dripping into my eyes, but Coach has to blow his whistle a few times to get me to stop.

“Showers then my office.” He says. “Good job Captain.”

It’s like a glow emanates from the center of my chest at that. Good job.

But I can be better.

Coach’s office is always a mess. I wish I could just come in here and tidy it all up. Organize all that shit he can’t possibly be able to find anything in and start from scratch.

“Take a seat Alexei.” He only calls me by my first name when we’re in here. Out on the ice its Simakov. Or Captain now I guess.

“That was a good practice, how you feeling about taking up the reins from Wilde?”

I take a deep breath and call forth the line I memorized when I knew he was gonna ask me this question.

“I’m excited Coach, grateful for the opportunity. I think we have a good chance of making the play-offs this year.”

“Me too. If it’s gonna happen, it’s gonna be now.

But listen, Alexei…” he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk and my stomach clenches at the thought of him telling me he made a mistake.

He doesn’t want me to be captain after all.

A wave of relief surfaces and I push it down, call it lazy and chicken-shit for good measure.

“I see you out there. You’re laser-focused, dedicated, hard-working, all the workings of a great player and an even better captain, but you’re also hard on yourself sometimes, and I want you to learn when to go easy, when to let it go, and when you need to push.”

What does that even mean? When do you ‘go easy’ in hockey? Isn’t that a contradiction?

“This is my last season Coach, I know I won’t be playing in the majors next year, and I just wanna make the school proud before I leave. I wanna earn my place here.”

“Son, you’ve more than earned your place here.

” He leans back, though he isn’t exactly relaxing.

“When you came to us, I wasn’t sure you had more than one season in you after that injury.

Surgery like that? I thought they’d made a mistake offering you a full-ride…

don’t take this the wrong way, I’m coming to the good part, don’t worry…

But you proved me wrong Alexei. You worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen come through those doors.

People don’t come here as a prelude to their NHL career.

They come here to play hockey while they get their fancy degrees and go to work in the city.

But every time you step through those doors, you come here and play hockey like your life depends on it. ”

That’s because it does.

He stops talking, his gaze still focused on me, so I guess he’s waiting for me to say something.

“I know I’d never be able to pay for a school like this if it wasn’t for hockey. I don’t take this opportunity for granted.”

Coach holds his hand up. “I know you don’t. I’m paying you a compliment Alexei. Take it and shut up.”

“Yes Coach.”

There’s a couple of missed calls from my dad when I check my phone. I wait until I’m safely away from the arena before I call him back.

“Are you busy?” I ask in Russian when he answers, knowing he’ll be at work right now at the store. I’ve told him so many times that he shouldn’t answer the phone when he’s with customers, but he never listens to a word I say.

“No, there’s no customers, the place is dead.”

A cloud of dread surfaces before I push it back down again. The store’s been struggling for a while now, but he’d never tell me the full extent of it, even if I asked.

“How’s practice? What did Coach Allan say?”

“It was good, everything’s looking good, he thinks we have a chance of making the play-offs this year.”

“Of course you have a chance of making the play-offs.” The certainty in his voice is unwavering.

I instinctively square my shoulders and puff my chest out, readying myself for the challenge.

“This is your last chance to catch the attention of NHL scouts Aloyshka. You don’t want to graduate as a free agent. ”

And just like that, I deflate. I’ve tried to tell him so many times that my injury effectively ended my professional career.

I’ve never been the same since. It’s why I lost my place at Boston C and my agent.

Why I grabbed at the chance to study at an Ivy League school with a lesser hockey team.

Because I need a Plan B. This, what I’m doing, is Plan B.

Hockey is just keeping me in school. Keeping me from being broke for the rest of my life.

Pursuing hockey when I’m above average at best? That’s a surefire way to stay broke. But getting an Ivy League finance degree – that’s the golden ticket out of our shitty apartment and my dad working every hour God sends.

“Listen Papa, I have to go, I’ve got class now. I’ll speak to you soon. Love you.”

“Okay, work hard, I’ll see you at the game on Friday.”

He hangs up and for a few seconds, it’s hard to catch my breath.

I sit through a boring class on derivative securities and when I’m coming out of the science building, my phone pings with a notification from my bank, telling me I’m in my overdraft again. Why can’t this finance degree hurry up and start working for me already?

One thing I’ve learned in all these years of classes on what to do with your money, is that if you don’t have any money to start with, then you’re fresh outta luck.

Some of the guys I sit next to in class wear vintage Rolex’s and drive Bentley’s and Beemers.

They’re members of exclusive country clubs and fraternities.

I used to be jealous of them, but then I realized that I’m sitting there right next to them.

Passing the same classes. Getting the same degree.

So they probably know I’m here on a hockey scholarship, so what?

And they see my name doesn’t have old-England origins.

I’m not from old money. I’m a second-gen Russian immigrant from Brooklyn, and my dad speaks English always in the present tense.

But I’ll be fucked if I let that stop me.

No , sitting next to those rich assholes who got here with Daddy’s money only stokes the fire.

The only thing stopping me from getting the same degree they’re getting now is me.

We might have had different starts, but we’re at the same place now, and I’m a hell of a lot hungrier for it than they’ll ever be.

I send a message out to the team, asking if there’s any news on a replacement roommate for Wilde, but I’m met with a blanket of silence. A couple of sorry man nothing’s.

Fucking great.

If I can’t find anyone I know, I’ll have to post an ad on the student boards and sift through a multitude of assholes and weirdoes before I find someone I can tolerate living with.

It’s dark by the time I get back home. I heat up a pot of my babushka’s chicken soup she gave me last time I went home, turn on the computer and check to see if horror boy’s sent me a message.

I know his name’s actually RedRum237 after the Stephen King ‘character’ in The Shining , but horror boy’s cuter. Suits his personally more.

No new messages.

Pushing the disappointment down, I draft something to him. I’ll keep it casual, platonic, like we promised.

When I can’t sleep at night, I regret deleting the pictures horror boy sent me before he got a boyfriend. Before I stood him up. I would have deleted the chats too, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, even though I can’t bring myself to read them either.

They were just your average sexting conversations.

Starting with books we were reading in the MM romance forum where we met, and describing scenes to each other, before describing what we’d like to do in real life.

I’ve never seen his face, but I honestly couldn’t care less what it looks like.

I know I’m a big fan of his body. He’s got that natural, slim thing going on.

Sometimes tan, sometimes pale, with fairish hair in his armpits and that little path leading into his pants.

We never sent dick pics, so I don’t know what that looks like either.

Just the shape of it in sweatpants or underwear.

But like his face, it doesn’t matter. I like him. Not just his appearance.

I might have deleted those pictures, but I have them burned onto my retinas forever.

I remember the little gold crucifix sitting in the center of his pronounced collarbone, and how this little detail made me feel like he might understand where I’m coming from.

I remember the little freckle just under his left nipple, and how I’d imagined licking it about a million times.

How I wanted to fucking be those grey sweats, hugging his ass and cock.

Getting all up close and personal in his smell and getting to know how soft his skin is.

But I fucked it up. He asked to meet, I panicked, said yes, and then bailed.

And he still talks to me. Because he’s that good of a person.

He still has a bullshit friendship with me, even though it probably means ten million times more to me than it does to him.

He has a real life boyfriend, and I’m over here, pining after someone I’ve never even met.

I settle on,

Kelsier38: Hey. You read anything good lately?

And log off.