Chapter thirteen
Breakaway - A lone attacker racing in on the goalie with no defenders.
Dante
I caught Kincaid in the corridor outside the locker room after the game. He was talking to one of the assistant coaches, but he looked up when I approached and something flickered across his face before he smoothed it away into professional neutrality.
“Russo,” he said. “Good game to watch?”
“Yeah. Cole’s goal was incredible.” I kept my voice level, casual, like I hadn’t tried to kiss him five days ago and gotten rejected.
Like I hadn’t spent the last week alternating between humiliation and telling myself to get over it.
“Wanted to confirm as I’m cleared—training tomorrow morning? Seven AM?”
“That’s right.” His eyes met mine briefly, then moved away. “Just you and me to start. We’ll see where you are, build from there.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be there.”
“Get some rest tonight. The ribs still bothering you?”
“Not at all.”
He nodded, already turning back to his conversation with the assistant coach, and I took the dismissal for what it was. Professional. Appropriate. Exactly what it should be between a coach and a player.
I made my way out of the arena and caught a rideshare back to my apartment, wondering if it was time I got my own car.
The last one I’d bought had been a minivan for Lucia and she’d cried when I’d given her the keys, and I’d quietly reminded Marco of all the years he’d watched out for me and done without so Mom and Dad had been able to buy me gear.
The driver didn’t try to make conversation, which I appreciated. I leaned my head against the window and watched Denver slide past, downtown giving way to Capitol Hill, the streets quieter now that it was past eleven.
The building looked the same as it always did when I got there.
Brick facade, industrial aesthetic, the keycard reader by the door that took two tries before it finally beeped and let me in.
I headed for the elevator, already thinking about a shower and my bed and maybe not thinking about Kincaid’s face when he’d said “mistake” for the thousandth time today.
The elevator doors opened on the third floor, and I stepped out into the hallway.
And stopped.
Odin Clark was standing outside the apartment across from mine—the one that had been empty when I moved in, the one that had boxes outside it on Sunday when Kincaid had walked me upstairs.
He had a key in his hand and was in the process of unlocking the door, dressed casually in jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
He looked up when he heard the elevator, and his face split into a stunned, but then an easy, friendly, smile I remembered from the game.
“Dante!” he said, like running into me was the best thing that had happened to him all day. “You live here? Small world, huh?”
I blinked at him, my brain taking a moment to catch up. “Mr. Clark. What are you—you’re moving in here?”
“Odin, please. And yes, actually.” He gestured at the door. “I mentioned I was opening a Denver branch, remember? Bought three apartments in this building for my managers. Figured it would be easier to have everyone in one place while we’re setting up operations. This one’s mine.”
Three apartments. Which meant two more of his employees would be moving into my building, into my floor possibly, into my space.
“That’s—wow. That’s a coincidence,” I managed.
“Isn’t it?” He pushed the door open, revealing an apartment that was the mirror image of mine—same layout, same industrial aesthetic, but somehow already looked more lived-in despite the moving boxes stacked everywhere.
“I’ve been going back and forth between here and Chicago for the last week getting everything set up.
Should be permanent by the end of the month. ”
“That’s great. Congratulations on the expansion.”
“Thank you.” He leaned against the doorframe, and I became aware that he was looking at me in a way that felt different from the weekend. More focused. More interested. “How are you feeling? That was quite a bruise on your face at the game.”
I touched my cheekbone reflexively. The swelling had gone down, but the bruise was still spectacular. “Better. Healing up.”
“Good. That’s good.” He was quiet for a moment, and I had the distinct impression he was deciding whether to say something.
Then: “Listen, I’m going to be in Denver for the foreseeable future, and I don’t really know anyone here outside of work.
If you ever want to grab dinner or drinks, show me around the city, I’d enjoy the company. ”
Oh.
Oh.
He was interested. Like, interested interested. The kind of interested that involved dinner and drinks and probably expectations that came after.
I should have felt something about that.
Flattered, maybe. Intrigued. He was good-looking in that understated way, clearly successful, easy to talk to.
A month ago, before everything with Kincaid, I might have said yes.
Might have convinced myself that going out with an older, stable guy who actually wanted to spend time with me was exactly what I needed.
But all I felt was tired.
Because I didn’t want Odin Clark. I wanted my coach, who’d rejected me five days ago and was never going to see me as anything other than a player to train. I wanted the impossible thing instead of the available thing, which seemed to be a pattern I was determined to repeat until it killed me.
“That’s really nice of you to offer,” I said carefully. “But I’m pretty focused on hockey right now. Playoffs, recovery, getting back on the ice. I don’t have a lot of bandwidth for social stuff.”
Something flickered across his face—disappointment, maybe. It was gone too fast for me to read. “Of course. I understand. The offer stands, though, if you change your mind.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
“And if you ever need anything, I’m right across the hall. Tools, advice, whatever you need—I’m happy to help.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He smiled again, that easy warmth that probably worked on most people, and stepped back into his apartment. “Have a good night, Dante. See you around.”
“Yeah. You too.”
I made it into my apartment and closed the door before letting out the breath I’d been holding. Leaned against it for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.
Odin Clark was living across the hall from me. Odin Clark had just asked me out. Odin Clark was going to be a permanent fixture in my building, in my space, probably running into me in the hallway on a regular basis.
And I’d turned him down because I was still hung up on a man who’d made it crystal clear that nothing was going to happen between us.
I pushed off the door and headed for the bathroom, stripping off my clothes as I went. The shower was hot enough to hurt, and I stood under it longer than necessary, letting the water beat against my shoulders and trying not to think about tomorrow morning.
Seven AM. One-on-one training with Kincaid.
Just the two of us on the ice, working on my shot, my confidence, all the things that had gotten broken over the last year.
It was professional. It was what I needed to get back to playing at the level I was capable of.
It was absolutely not going to be complicated by the fact that I’d tried to kiss him and he’d rejected me.
I was going to be normal about this. Professional. I was going to show up, work hard, take his coaching, and not make it weird. That was the plan.
I turned off the water and grabbed a towel, catching sight of myself in the mirror. The bruise on my face wasn’t fading fast enough. The one on my ribs was still dark purple, sprawling across my left side like someone had taken a paintbrush to my skin. I looked like I’d been in a fight.
I had been in a fight. Multiple fights, actually. And I’d survived all of them.
I’d been twelve, maybe thirteen. Still in middle school, before hockey had become the thing that defined me. There was this kid, Braxton something, who’d decided I was an easy target because I was Italian and from Bridgeport and my last name was Russo.
He’d started with the usual shit. Calling me Tony Soprano in the hallways. Making jokes about the mafia. I’d ignored it, mostly, because my ma had taught me that people who needed to put others down weren’t worth my time.
But then he’d said something about my mom. Something crude, something that implied she spread her legs for a mafia boss. And I’d stopped ignoring it.
I remembered the way my vision had gone red. The way my hands had curled into fists before I’d consciously decided to do anything. Rage that came from someone insulting the person who mattered most in the world to you.
I’d hit him. Right there in the hallway between third and fourth period, in front of everyone. Caught him across the jaw with enough force that he’d stumbled backward into a locker.
He’d been bigger than me. Older by a year, heavier by thirty pounds. But I’d been faster, and I’d been angrier, and I hadn’t stopped until two teachers had pulled me off him.
I’d gotten suspended for three days. My ma had picked me up from school with that expression on her face that meant she was disappointed but also secretly proud. We’d sat in the car for ten minutes while she’d tried to figure out what to say.
I’d sat there in the passenger seat, my knuckles raw and swelling, feeling a mixture of righteousness and shame that came from knowing you’d done something your mother disapproved of but couldn’t quite regret.