Chapter 8
VASILY
Our hotel reminded me of the places I’d stayed sometimes in major juniors.
The rooms and hallways were utilitarian and plain, and the shower’s water pressure left something to be desired.
The banquet hall where we were eating breakfast was kind of dim and depressing, and the food…
well, it was okay, but definitely not what I was used to.
The hotel wasn’t bad, really, but perhaps I’d been a little spoiled by the high-end places the NAPH used. Still, it was clean and quiet, and there wasn’t much to complain about. Though I admittedly chuckled at the thought of some of my teammates in Seattle or Vegas staying in a place like this.
Then my humor died away as I imagined Drew finding every reason to bitch. Ugh. I was too tired to think about him today. And I’d definitely rather be eating a passable breakfast after a mediocre shower than indulging in amazing food beside him . Perspective, and all that.
God help him if he ever had to come down to the minors and fly commercial.
Especially coach. The thought made me laugh—I might’ve been a little spoiled with high-end hotels, but Drew had come from money and made even more money.
I’d joked about hiring a private jet while the rest of the team flew commercially—Drew would’ve actually done it.
Speaking of being spoiled, I had definitely been spoiled in a very different way since I’d come to Seattle.
Though I hadn’t played with the Rainiers long before I’d gotten hurt, I’d gelled with the men in the locker room.
The best part was that there’d been multiple Russian speakers.
Grekov and Rusanov were both Russian, and though Theo Mathis was American, his mother was Russian, so he was a native speaker as well.
There was also Yanni, who was Czech but spoke some Russian.
Back in Las Vegas, too, I’d had a few teammates over the years, plus a couple of coaches, who were fluent.
The Orcas had two Russian-speaking players, but neither of them was here. Kovlov was currently filling in for an injured defenseman in Seattle, and Savenkov was injured himself.
My English was good, but I’d absolutely been spoiled by having people around who I could talk with in my native language.
Those rare periods in my career where I hadn’t had a fellow Russian speaker on a team—they were lonelier than some people realized.
During my rookie season, I’d commiserated with another guy who was the only Finn on the team; neither of us spoke the other’s mother tongue, but we both understood the isolation that came with being the only one who spoke a language.
He was now playing in Finland. I was on a team with four Russian speakers… or, well, I would be once I finished this conditioning loan.
Right now, surrounded by my English-speaking PHL teammates, I couldn’t quite keep up with the conversation.
As fluent as I was, it could be tiring sometimes, and if I was already tired—which I was, thanks to the long night and early morning—then it was even harder to process the words flying all around me.
This morning, though, I was lying to myself if I thought my inability follow was solely because everyone was talking in my second language. The truth was that they could all have been speaking flawless Russian and I’d still have fallen woefully behind.
All because of the man sitting across from me.
He wasn’t even saying anything, just chuckling along and egging some of the guys on as the conversation predictably turned to chirping. Was I just tired and loopy, or was his smile really that cute? Was I really that enthralled by the way he laughed? Or was it just that I couldn’t forget his kiss?
Christ, Vasily. Get your head together.
I needed to. Especially since we had a game tonight, and I was running on less sleep than I needed.
Despite being exhausted, I’d struggled to sleep last night.
Part of that was the nap I’d taken on the plane; never a good idea if I was going to try to sleep for real not long after.
Part of it was the relentless ache in my knee (which was much better this morning, thank God).
Most of it, though…
I’d spent half the night lying in bed replaying that moment Taylor had scored.
There’d been that collective surge of energy as the whole crowd had shot to their feet—that was always addictive, even in a smaller venue—but it had barely registered over the absolute joy on Taylor’s face.
That triumphant smile. The victorious shout. The fist pump in the air.
Fucking hell. That man was so damn hot anyway, but seeing him like that—seeing him celebrate his game-winning goal—had genuinely stolen my breath.
I was so fucking stupid. And I’d have to take an extra-long pregame nap tonight if I didn’t want to collapse on the goddamned ice.
All because my linemate was too pretty for me to sleep or function.
Our teammates finished their breakfast and started peeling away to get ready for our morning skate. I’d just refilled my coffee, so I stayed behind to finish that.
And who else had a freshly topped off coffee and didn’t leave?
Taylor. Of course.
As he mixed some sugar into it, he asked, “How’s your knee?”
“Better.” I flexed and straightened it under the table as if to make sure I was telling the truth. There was a faint twinge, but much less than last night. “I’ll be fine for practice. And tonight.”
Taylor nodded. “Good. Playing through injuries is the worst.”
“Always is.”
He studied me. “This your first bad injury? Like, one that took you out of the game for a while?”
I shook my head. “Not in the NAPH, but I got a concussion in major juniors that put me out for a month. And I’ve had a few things here and there. This is the first time I’ve missed so many games, though.” I met his gaze. “What about you?”
“A few things, yeah. Never something that required surgery, thank God, and the longest recovery I ever had was for a wrist injury.” He shrugged. “But that was during the playoffs, so I only missed like three games and then had the whole off season to recover.”
I thought about that. “I can’t decide which is worse—missing a lot of hockey, or being hurt for the off season.”
“I’d rather not do either if I can help it,” he grumbled. “One of my teammates broke his jaw during the very last game of the playoffs.” Taylor squirmed, chafing his arms. “Spent half the off season with his mouth wired shut.”
I grimaced. “Yeah, that’s one injury I’d rather not have again. This one”—I gestured at my knee—“sucked, but at least I could eat.”
“Perspective, right?”
And just like that, we were lost in conversation, comparing war wounds and battle scars.
We’d both had some ugly ones in our pre-pro days, which led us into telling stories about major juniors and our youth teams. It turned out that not only had we both started our professional careers in Las Vegas, our paths to pro hockey hadn’t been too far from each other.
Not that it was too much of a shock—hockey was a small, small world.
His U16 team had been the one to knock mine out of the playoffs in the first round four years after I’d moved on, breaking their streak of making it to the division finals.
I’d played in Kitchener for major juniors, and he’d been on my team’s biggest rival, Moose Jaw.
“Coach Gleason went to Moose Jaw, didn’t he?” I asked. “I lost track after I left, but I thought I heard he went there.”
Taylor nodded, bringing up his coffee for a sip. “He didn’t last long, though.”
I cocked a brow. “Really?”
“Mmhmm.” He sipped, then put the cup down.
“It was funny, all the parents were super excited to bring in this coach who was known for being a hardcore disciplinarian who didn’t take shit from kids.
” Taylor laughed and rolled his eyes. “Then they chased him out of town for… being a hardcore disciplinarian who didn’t take shit from kids. ”
I barked a laugh. “Really? They couldn’t handle him?”
“Nope. And like, the club was mostly ignoring the complaints for a while.” Taylor grimaced. “But then he made this one kid bag skate for like a week and bumped him down from the top line to the fourth for ten games.”
I furrowed my brow. “What’s wrong with that? He did shit like that all the time.”
“Yeah, but the kid was the son of Harvey Bronson.”
My stomach flipped. “ Ooh, shit. And Harvey got him fired.”
Taylor nodded. “Rumor has it he called the commissioner of the whole major junior league and basically said, ‘look, if my kid doesn’t get the treatment and the ice time he deserves, and if a single scout sees him playing anything but the top line, then maybe I don’t need to keep sponsoring anything. ’”
I rolled my eyes and groaned. “For fuck’s sake.”
“I know, right?” Taylor tsked. “His kid was a little punk, too. He never let any of us forget that his dad was one of the greatest hockey players of all time, and that he was going to follow in his footsteps while the rest of us faded into obscurity.”
“That sounds like a Bronson,” I muttered. “They’re all full of themselves.”
“Yeah? You played with—oh, right, wasn’t the older kid on your team?”
“Unfortunately.” I sipped my own coffee. “He was always bragging about how he was going to be just like his dad, including having all of hockey licking his balls long after he retired.”
Taylor wrinkled his nose. “Definitely runs in the family, doesn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.” I grinned. “But one of his teammates back then—one day, he’d just had enough. Looks right at Bronny and says, ‘Buddy, everyone respects your dad as a player, but the only reason they all lick his balls as much as they do is because they want his money.’”
Taylor made a sound like he’d choked on air. “Holy shit! How did he respond to that?”
“Well, they both ended up healthy-scratched the next game because they beat the shit out of each other at practice. And Bronny’s dad definitely threw a fit about that, but Coach Gleason didn’t give a fuck.
I’m honestly not surprised it was Bronson who got him fired in the end.
” I rolled my eyes again. “Fucking dick.”
“No kidding. I’ve played with a few guys from hockey dynasties, and they can be full of themselves, but the Bronson clan?” He grimaced, shaking his head. “They are something else.”
“Yeah, they are.” I paused. “Neither of his boys are in the NAPH now, though. I think Bronny was pretty good, but not as good as his mouth claimed he was.”
“Big shock. The one who played with me got drafted in the seventh round, same year as me.” He chuckled. “Not gonna lie, it was so satisfying to get drafted ahead of him.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What round were you?”
“Fifth.” He dropped his gaze and shrugged. “Still not great, but I got picked up ahead of Skylar Bronson, so…”
“Hey.” I nudged his foot under the table. “Fifth round is still drafted. There’s no shame in it.”
He looked at me through his lashes. “Weren’t you nineteenth overall?”
I nodded. “I was, and yes, I’m proud of that. But very, very few players even get drafted. Just having your name called during the draft puts you in very elite company.”
He studied me uncertainly, but then a smile slowly formed, as did a subtle blush. “Thanks. I, uh… I never thought of it that way.”
I smiled back, though I wasn’t sure how to respond.
Right then, though, Taylor looked around. “Oh. Shit. Looks like they want to close up the room.”
“Close up the—oh.” Several hotel employees were clearing away chafing dishes and cleaning off tables, eyeing us surreptitiously as they did.
Because we were the only Orcas left in the room, and we probably had been for a while. Oops.
Taylor pushed his chair back and chuckled as a blush bloomed on his cheeks. “Guess we lost track of time.”
“Guess so, yeah.” I got up too, drained my coffee, and followed him out of the room, both of us murmuring apologies to the staff.
On the way out, Taylor threw a sheepish look back at the room. “Shit. We really lost track of time, didn’t we?”
“Yeah. We did.”
We met each other’s gazes. Only for a second, but it was almost enough to make me stumble. Thank God I didn’t, though—my knee wouldn’t have forgiven me, and my pride would never have recovered.
I really was stupid for him, wasn’t I? The attraction was strong and undeniable, but it was also just so easy to get lost in conversation with him.
Dancing and making out with him at a club had been fun.
Talking about hockey and everything that went with it—with someone who knew the sport and all the idiosyncrasies that people outside of hockey didn’t quire understand—was amazing.
It was one of the few things I missed about my relationship with Drew.
Except… no. Drew talked to me about hockey the same way he talked to me about sex and anything else he thought he knew better than I did.
Talking about it with Taylor felt more peer-to-peer. Like we were comparing notes and experiences, but he wasn’t lecturing me or explaining things to me that I already understood.
I liked Taylor. I liked the way we fell into conversations the same way we fell into playing hockey as linemates. It worked. It was easy .
It made it really, really easy to imagine our dynamic changing to more than teammates—more than friends—into something I’d sworn I’d never do again.
Was it really so bad, getting involved with a teammate? With this teammate in particular? After all, we’d only be teammates for a few more days.
Then again, Taylor could get called up, and not just for a game or two. He was good, and he was getting into his prime, so making it on to the Rainiers wasn’t out of the question at all.
So… no. Maybe not such a good idea.
No matter how much more tempting it got every time I talked or played with him.