Chapter 8
August
The Christmas break changed everything.
Spending time with a group of people who smiled, laughed and spoke so freely helped drag August out of the mental fog he often found himself trapped in. How could he have time to brood when his phone kept buzzing with hilarious messages for him to read?
Jett was the one who texted him most often, even outside of the group chat. The guy had no filter and would tell him about the weirdest things that made no sense, or switch the topic three times before August could respond.
Being this social should have exhausted him, but August found that it had the opposite effect. He was sleeping better, performing better, and the constant tightness in his chest that had always felt so heavy was slowly lifting.
When he and Niko started showing up to practice together, no one questioned it at first. But by the third day, after a few too many curious looks, Niko had shyly admitted that he’d moved in with August.
For some reason, that small confession seemed to shift the rest of the tension between him and his teammates. After that, the guys started talking to August casually, like it wasn’t strange anymore.
August had been apprehensive about having a roommate for all of five seconds before Niko began wooing him with healthy but flavour-packed meals, playing video games with him, and working out with him.
Yeah, Niko was awesome. It was like having a little brother, which was something August hadn’t thought would be fun, but he was enjoying their time together.
That morning when August woke up, Niko had already left for their mandatory morning skate before the game that night. Meanwhile, he was running late.
Living with someone as disciplined and career-driven as Niko had done wonders for him, but there were still mornings when he slipped back into old habits. Niko never waited or pressured him to leave the house, which August appreciated.
Now, if he could only find a way to deal with his super fan, who seemed to find him wherever he went, then life would be perfect.
Not that August went many places besides his house; the practice arena, the game arena, and the Tim Hortons drive-through on occasion. But when it came to doing anything with hockey, August couldn’t seem to shake the guy.
The other thing that he couldn’t understand was that the man always appeared startled every time August caught his gaze. He chalked it up to the guy being a terrible stalker, who was surprised about getting spotted.
That wide-eyed, blushing expression would almost be endearing if August were into guys.
Or into stalkers.
August tore into the parkade and swung himself out of the car, almost forgetting to lock it in his rush to get inside and get geared up and on the ice. He barely spared the media team a glance when they clocked his arrival time—just like they had with everyone else.
Being the last one in, they trailed after him, cameras and chatter close enough to make his skin prickle.
He tried to shake off the feeling that he was a zoo exhibit animal with people tapping on the glass while he pretended not to notice.
He had to remind himself that it was just a fun behind-the-scenes video; nothing to get pissy about.
Did he get the fascination with fans wanting to see them off the ice? Not really. But he could grow up, slap on a grin, and deal with it.
“Gusty?” a timid voice called his nickname, and he half-turned to see that it was…
Penny? No, maybe it was Polly. He remembered flirting with her a lot last year, leading up to the playoffs, until Callahan told him off and reminded him that it could cost the nice girl her job.
A single member of the media team wouldn’t be picked to stay over a first-line d-man if their relationship went south.
“Uh, yeah?” he said, hoisting his bag higher up his shoulder and slowing his gait, but not slowing down.
“Can we interview with you after practice? Just a fun get-to-know-you thing? The fans have been asking for more content with you.”
Annoyance tugged at him. Couldn’t they bother someone else?
He didn’t want to be fodder for the online trolls with how he’d been playing lately.
He could hear it now, ‘who cares if he prefers coffee to tea, the man skates like it’s his first day!
14 mil a year—what a fucking waste. Trade his ass already.
’ Or his favourite ‘is this what the NHL has come to? Affirmative action with queers? Ottawa got Strawberry Shortcake, Toronto got Fraser the Fruit, and now Vancouver can’t get rid of Snowflake? !!’”
Before he could answer her, he crashed into someone. Again.
August managed to catch himself before he fell—he had good hockey reflexes to thank for that, but the other person wasn’t so lucky.
August’s heavy body hit him like a freight train, slamming him into the wall. The stranger’s bag burst open, scattering pens, papers, and a tablet that clattered loudly to the cement floor.
“Oh my god!” Paige exclaimed, rushing forward to grab August’s bag from the floor and handing it to him, her other hand resting on his forearm. “Are you okay?”
A snort sounded from the floor as the stranger got to his feet. “Same fucking shit…”
“Wait, it’s you!” August said, pointing a finger at the man, side-stepping Phoebe to get a better look at him.
It was the first time the man had stood still long enough for August to study him up close. He was shorter by a whole foot; slight and lean, his warm brown hair a sharp contrast to the angles of his cheekbones and the striking symmetry of his face.
Apple-green eyes, rimmed in black liner, were narrowed at him, making them seem almost too large for his face. His cupid-bow lips twisted into a scowl. He didn’t answer August; he just raised a hand to his soft-looking hair, and when he drew it back, his fingers were streaked with blood.
“Oh my god!” Piper echoed, glancing at the stranger and then back at August. “Are you okay?”
The stranger had knelt to collect his belongings, not responding to either of them.
“Hey!” August grabbed the paper closest to him, noting that it seemed to be a folder with loose drawings that had exploded everywhere.
An artist’s portfolio, maybe?
He shoved the paper in the man’s face. “I was right! You’ve been stalking me! How did you even get down here? Everywhere I’ve been lately, you’ve been there too! And now you’re what—using me as your muse?”
The man made to grab his papers, cussing under his breath before saying, “The fuck are you even talking about?”
“This!” August thrust another hand-drawn portrait under the man’s nose. “Naked photos? I’m calling security.”
With surprising strength, the man ripped the picture from August’s grip, those green eyes narrowing at him. “You’re still a fucking prick. This is a model from my class, but I understand where you might be confused. Something isn’t about you, and that doesn’t compute in your fat head.”
August opened his mouth to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. A strange jolt of déjà vu washed over him, though he couldn’t place why. Before he could gather his thoughts, Paisley and the rest of the media team came rushing back—this time with security in tow.
“How did this guy get back here?” August turned on the security guards. “He’s been following me. I had him kicked out a few weeks ago. Maybe you should call the cops.”
Instead of looking scared, the stranger laughed. He shoved his ruined drawings into his bag, which now had a broken strap, and pulled a visitor ID from his pocket, thrusting it at the security guy when he reached for him.
“Uh, Mr. Snow, this is—”
“Quinn!”
August looked up at his captain’s voice. The man was rushing down the chute in full practice gear, helmet off, and his blond hair wild as his eyes. He stopped in front of the stranger, using his body to block the smaller man from August, the media team and the security guard.
“Are you okay?” Callahan asked. “What happened?”
“It’s fine,” the stranger said. “I wasn’t watching where I was going, and I was texting while walking. The worst damage is my sketchbook.”
Callahan nodded and then went motionless when he finally spotted the blood. Throwing his gloves down, he took the man’s head in his hands to hold him steady.
“Parker, go grab Yusef, please.”
Oh, yeah. That was the media girl’s name.
The woman in question took off towards the medical team’s office, distracting August from the angry approach of his captain, giving him no time to react before he was shoved and pinned against the opposite wall by the front of his shirt.
“What did you do to him?”
August scowled, pushing Callahan away. “Dude, frig off. I thought he was following me. He’s been here constantly.”
“So, you attacked him?”
“I crashed into him!” August insisted, still feeling utterly confused by the situation. “What’s your boyfriend even doing back here? Is he too good to sit in the stands with the WAGs?”
Callahan’s jaw twitched, and he opened his mouth to retort, but the stranger, Quinn, threw his hands up.
“As much as I’m sure the people on the internet would love this toxic display of masculinity, I’m not one of them.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and then pulled it out, handing Callahan a pill bottle.
“There you go. I have to get to class.”
Quinn made to turn away but hesitated, looking up at August with green eyes as bright as poison. “And you, get a fucking grip. You may be the size of a house, but you’re nowhere on my radar. Not then, and not now.”
Quinn let the security guard lead him away, not escorting him out, but trying to bring him to where the team medic was hurrying toward them.
“Get your head checked out!” Callahan called after him.
“Kiss my ass, Callahan!” Quinn called back.
When they disappeared, Callahan turned and walked to the locker room without sparing August another word.
August groaned and followed with a strange, untethered feeling settling in his chest.
Another brutal practice, but August managed to get a top-shelf goal past their rookie backup goaltender, Haas. He took that as a win, and he left the ice feeling better than he had in ages. That was until Coach popped his head into the locker room before August had time to undress.
“Snow, my office.”
August quickly removed the rest of his gear while glancing at Niko, pulling on his sweats for his cooldown and hurried after Coach. He stood in the doorway to the man’s office, hesitating.
“You afraid, Snow? Shut door, sit down.”
August did as he was told, slumping into one of the uncomfortable chairs facing the man’s desk.
He figured that when Fedorov had become the coach three years ago, they had let him redo the office, and he’d chosen the most uncomfortable chairs on purpose.
He wanted them sitting up straight when they faced him.
God knows, the previous Bigfoot’s Coach had had a warmer office, but that man hadn’t gotten them to the playoffs, especially not the last three years in a row.
August was as impressed with the man as he was intimidated by him.
“So,” Coach started, staring at August through thick, bushy eyebrows. “You came to play today.”
Biting back a false response about how he always came to play, August nodded.
“Good, everyone have bad day. Too many bad days, no longer bad days, but just days. You understand?”
August nodded again, trying not to let his mind wander back to the altercation before practice. He was sure that Callahan was going to start something on the ice, but other than shoving him into the boards a few times, he’d mostly ignored August.
“You are big, strong man, yes, but if you were my son, I would leave you in snow to die.” A pause, then, “I assume you have no Russian blood? That is not how you got name?”
August bit back a laugh and shook his head. “No, Coach.”
“Good. Embarrassment to Russians.” He levelled a look at him. “You keep up good days, yes?”
Coach continued to talk to him, going over plays he wanted to try with Gomez, the other d-man on his line. While August listened at first, he found his mind drifting, and the sense of dread surrounded him as he sat in the coach’s office.
The room was too warm, the air stale, the faint scent of rink ice and old hockey gear lingering even in the expensively furnished office. It wasn’t the cramped room from high school, where his knees had brushed the underside of the desk, too big for the space.
It wasn’t dimly lit like that one, either, with the single swinging bulb overhead casting a weak glow, and the red blink from the bookshelf the only other light source in the room—
Coach Fedorov slapped his hands on the desk, causing August to jump, both physically and mentally. His brain suddenly returned to the West Coast in the fancy office in the Bigfoot’s arena.
“Cool off, keep mind sharp for game tonight, yes?”
Coach hadn’t appeared to notice August’s attention slip. He waved him out and picked up his desk phone, talking to someone almost immediately.
Numbly, August went to the gym, past the equipment where several teammates lingered, and into the next room, where Gomez and a fourth-liner named Ayres were taking ice baths. Gomez shrieked as he sank in, Ayres laughing at his misery.
August moved to the far side, where an assistant was filling the hot baths.
He waved in greeting and began to strip, hissing as he lowered himself into the water.
His muscles would thank him later, but right now, he only wanted to feel clean—to peel a layer of skin away and, with it, everything clinging beneath.