20. February 19, Saturday #2
Tommy gave a knowing nod “Zoey?”
“What makes you think that?” Ilya asked, reaching for his shoulder pads with more force than necessary.
Tommy’s mouth curled. “Because you only look like you’re trying to solve quantum physics when it’s about hockey or her. And we already had film session today.”
“Maybe I’m thinking about our second line and our winger situation,” Ilya said.
“Sure. Could be that.” Tommy leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You gonna text her back, or just let your noble suffering speak for itself?”
Ilya swore under his breath in Ukrainian. “I don’t want to…make it worse.”
“How does answering a text make it worse?” Tommy asked. “Unless what you’re planning to send is a picture of your junk, in which case, yes, that would be bad PR…and she would know.”
“I’m not sending her a picture of anything,” Ilya muttered.
“Then what are you doing?” Tommy’s tone stayed light, but his eyes were sharper now. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like something spooked you and now you’re punishing both of you by going radio silent.”
“That is not what I’m doing.”
“No?” Tommy cocked an eyebrow.
“I kissed her.”
Tommy gave a fluttering of blinks while he processed the information, and thankfully, didn’t say anything other than, “And she kissed you back?”
“Yes.”
“It was good?”
“Yes,” Ilya growled, scowling at his friend.
Tommy shrugged. “Explains your distraction all afternoon. I was wondering what happened.” Tommy stood up to head back to his locker, extra tall on his skates.
“So now you’re avoiding her. Just nut up, man.
She was married to your friend. She’s not now.
And he’s not here. It’s not like any of us would go running to spread that shit.
Zoey’s not fragile, man. She’s probably lonely.
There’s a difference. You swerving away from her at full speed isn’t protection. It’s fear.”
“I’m not afraid,” Ilya protested automatically, standing so he wouldn’t be looking up at Tommy.
“Then what, you just like making things emotionally confusing?” Tommy spread his hands. “You’re a big boy. Use your words. Or are you just going to pretend nothing happened and leave her confused? That’s not friendship, or leadership, that’s immature martyrdom.”
It was infuriating how often Tommy’s idiotic metaphors landed. Ilya clenched his jaw. Martyrdom. The word tasted bitter. He wanted to argue, wanted to say that pulling back was different, that it was calculated and necessary and for her own good.
He didn’t.
Jerking around, he grabbed his phone and angrily swiped the screen awake.
Zoey’s text blinked back at him.
His thumb hovered.
Tommy was right. Ilya should text her.
Ilya refused to teach her, however unintentionally, that intimacy earned silence.
He typed: Hey. Thanks again for helping with Fido earlier. I meant what I said, it was genuine, but I also want to apologize if I… overstepped. You handled the clinic this morning amazingly. The kids had a blast. I’m looking forward to your next big idea.
He read it twice. It felt like walking a wire over a gorge, enough warmth that it wasn’t a brush-off, enough distance that it didn’t invite another kiss.
Safe-ish.
He hit send before he could overthink it and locked the phone again. “Happy now?” he asked Tommy, who had been reading over his shoulder.
“Christ, that’s…respectful.” Tommy winced. “I think I’d be happier with the dick pic plan.”
“There was no dick pic plan,” Ilya said wearily.
“A pic would have been better than that.” Tommy shook his head and stalked back to his locker, muttering something about “being surrounded by idiots.”
They were getting ready to head out to the ice, when Sam, the GM, stepped into the middle of the room with Coach just behind her. Both in suits, both with the particular tightness around the mouth that said they weren’t sure how this was going to go.
Sam clapped her hands once. “Gentlemen.”
Silence fell, the hum of the vents suddenly very loud.
“We’ve got an update before you hit the ice,” Sam said. “We made a move this morning.”
Trade. The word hung unspoken, electric.
Ty’s eyes flicked to Jason automatically; Jason’s jaw worked.
Sam’s gaze swept the room once, then landed somewhere over Ilya’s left shoulder. “We’ve acquired Mitchell Collins from San Jose.”
For a split second, everything went white around the edges of Ilya’s vision.
There were reactions, he knew there were. Someone said, “Holy shit.” Someone else whistled, a stick tapped the floor, but they all came through muffled, like his head was underwater.
Mitch.
Sam kept talking. “Marsh and a conditional second go the other way. Papers are being finalized now. He’s on a flight this afternoon, should be here for practice tomorrow.
We’ll talk lines and roles once he’s on the ground, but for now, keep doing what you’re doing.
Practice, film, prep. We want a smooth transition. ”
Smooth transition.
Ilya’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Coach stepped forward. “You’ve all seen what Collins can do on the ice. Serge made a compelling case to bring him on and we agreed. We’re excited to have him. Let’s show him what kind of room he’s walking into.”
There was a ragged chorus of, “Yep,” “yeah,” and a few stick taps. The show of acceptance they were all trained to perform.
Sam and Coach disappeared back through the coaches’ door, and the spell broke. All noises ceased as everyone turned to Ilya.
A couple of guys swore quietly, Teemu let out a low whistle from the far corner, and Jason muttered something dark under his breath that made Ty elbow him.
Ilya stared at his hands. Calloused, taped, steady.
Mitchell Collins. Here. In this room. On this team. Skating on this ice, using this gym, sitting in some stall they’d clear for him by morning.
Tomorrow, Mitch would walk through that door and see him.
And Zoey.
His stomach twisted so hard he almost doubled over.
Across the room, someone tried for levity. “Serge and Collins on the same roster again? They’re gonna make us do, like, a bro-love documentary.”
“Don’t give Nina ideas,” Ian said, rubbing the back of his neck.
Ilya could feel the weight of their stares on him.
He felt like he was going to explode.
“Do you think they’ll tell Zoey before she comes in tomorrow or will they blindside her?” Christian’s question was quiet and concerned.
Half a dozen glances slid toward Ilya. Quick, then away, like they hadn’t just acknowledged that the Venn diagram of Zoey, Mitch, and him was about to become a very messy circle.
Ty, stick in hand, cleared his throat. “Media will have it in ten minutes, if they don’t already,” he said neutrally. “She’s probably got a Google alert for his name whether she wants it or not.”
That landed like a stone.
Of course, she did. Years of being Mrs. Collins meant you didn’t fully unplug from that world overnight. Headlines. Stats. Gossip. Trades.
If the news hadn’t already hit her phone, it would any minute.
And he was standing here, having sent her a bland, responsible text about Fido and the clinic like a coward.
His fingers curled into fists so tight his knuckles went white.
He bent over his skate again because he needed something to do, any small task that wasn’t smashing his stick against the wall.
The lace slipped. He yanked harder than he meant to. The thin cord bit into his fingers.
“Hey,” came quietly from his right. Bobby, dressed and ready to go. “You good?”
“Always,” Ilya claimed.
Bobby’s gaze held his for a beat, somber and knowing. “No one will say anything. You know that, right?”
When Ilya nodded once, Bobby patted him on the back and started the migration out to the ice.
Ilya’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt.
He’d kissed Zoey. Mitch was coming tomorrow. Those two truths could not coexist comfortably.
Options unfurled in front of him like a bad film.
Keep flirting? Keep…this? With Mitch in the room, seeing every look, every stray touch? The idea made bile rise in his throat. Mitch had never been subtle about his jealousy, even when there was nothing to see.
Pull away hard? Pretend the kiss hadn’t happened, reduce Zoey back down to coworker with an asterisk? That would confuse her at best and confirm every insecurity she had—that she was easy to leave, easy to forget.
Tell the truth?
He couldn’t even script that conversation in his head without everything going up in flames.
Hey, Mitch. So, about your ex…
He imagined Zoey’s face if she found out he’d unilaterally decided to sacrifice whatever this was “for her own good” without asking. She wasn’t the woman she’d been at twenty-two, bending herself around someone else’s needs. She’d earned the right to have a say in decisions that affected her life.
Choosing for her might be the crueler option.
He used to feel solid here. On the ice, in this room. He was the constant. The one who didn’t make waves but absorbed them.
Now, for the first time in a long time, it felt like he was the one creating ripples he couldn’t control.
Sam’s voice echoed in his head: We’re excited to have him.
Bobby’s, softer: You’re not the villain in this story.
Tommy’s: She’s not fragile. She’s lonely.
He finished the knot and sat for a second, elbows on his knees, helmet hanging loosely from his fingers.
There was no version of this where someone didn’t get hurt.
Mitch, blindsided by his best friend and his ex.
Zoey, if he pulled away so hard she thought she’d imagined everything between them.
The team, walking on eggshells between old loyalties and new realities.
He’d fall on the sword himself before being the reason his loved ones were hurt.
He also knew Zoey might be done with letting other people make choices for her.
Guys rose, helmets clicked on, sticks grabbed. The tide of bodies moved toward the hall to the ice.
Later. He’d figure this out later.
He pulled his helmet on and followed his team out, the cold of the rink spilling up to meet them as the doors swung open.
For the first time in his career, he stepped onto the ice unsure which way to skate.