Chapter 14 - Aleksey
My shoulder slammed into the opposing center’s ribs with a loud, satisfying crack that echoed over the roaring crowd.
It was the third period against Michigan.
The arena was loud enough to rattle my teeth; the noise vibrating right up through my skates. It was exactly what I needed to drown out the stress in my head.
On the ice, all that background noise stopped. Things got simple: read the play and make them regret stepping into our zone.
Perez scooped up the puck on a fast transition up the ice. “Keep the lane clear!” he yelled as he crossed the blue line.
I drove my shoulder into the trailing defenseman, pinning him against the boards to give Perez space. To the fans in the stands, every aggressive check from me looked like standard hockey violence, but every impact was calculated.
I wasn’t just hitting to hit; I was clearing space and proving my discipline to the NHC scouts sitting up in the dark.
Perez took the shot, but it bounced hard off the goalie’s pads. Karter found the rebound in the slot and buried it in the net for his second goal of the night.
As the red light flashed above the glass, our guys rushed him. He skated a tight circle, his arms raised while the student section went insane. Hanging back near the blue line, I stayed out of the pileup, letting my lungs burn and catching my breath.
Then Karter broke away from the group hug. Sweat dripped down his face under the rim of his helmet. His eyes locked onto mine through his visor from across the rink.
He didn’t look away. He held it.
It stretched out a fraction too long, sending a stupid thrill shooting straight through my veins. This was dangerous, but looking away felt impossible. It was a massive risk to stare at each other like that in the middle of the ice. But for a split second, I just didn’t give a shit who saw.
Elliot skated over into Karter’s line of sight. Grabbing his younger brother by the back of the jersey, the captain gave a sharp yank that pulled the freshman back toward the team huddle. The move snapped my attention violently back to reality.
“Keep your head in the game, Karter!” Elliot barked.
The roaring fans drowned out the rest of his words, but when Elliot turned and shot me a glare, it was the kind of look that promised consequences.
I knew what that look meant. To him, it looked like I was just trying to rattle his precious younger brother.
Grinding my teeth together, I swallowed down irritation. Being treated like a thug always pissed me off, but it was the role that fit.
Shrugging, I returned Elliot’s evil eye, finished out my shift, and skated to the bench for a line change, dropping heavily onto the wooden seat.
Perez sat down next to me. He watched me for a long beat and then shook his head. But he didn’t say another word, returning his attention to the rink, bouncing his leg as he sat.
The final buzzer blared ten minutes later to seal our win.
The locker room was a zoo after that. The legacy guys blasted music and took up all the oxygen in the center of the room.
I kept my head down in the corner with a couple of scholarship guys, focusing on getting my skates off.
The adrenaline of the game was already fading, leaving behind the ache of every hit I gave out on the ice.
I took a quick, scalding shower, threw on my hoodie and thin jeans, and grabbed my bag.
The concrete hallway outside the locker room reeked of old gear. And the cheap overhead lights glared hard against the walls, making my post-game headache worse. I hoisted my duffel bag higher on my shoulder and headed for the exit.
A man stepped into my path who looked out of place in the grimy arena basement. He wore a tailored dark topcoat, expensive shoes, and a sharp haircut.
“Zotov. Got a minute?” he asked.
Tension instantly locked up my shoulders. “Yeah. What’s up?”
“Derek Turner.” He held out a hand. “Chicago, NHC.”
The National Hockey Circuit. The actual big leagues.
I met his palm for a firm shake, my other hand clamping down hard on my duffel strap.
An NHC contract meant real money and a massive signing bonus.
It meant I could really pull my mom out of Detroit and tell her she never had to work a double shift at the nursing home again.
This was the exact lifeline we had spent our entire lives bleeding for.
“I liked your game tonight,” Turner said, his eyes scanning me with a cold, corporate assessment. “Chicago is looking for a physical, stay-at-home defenseman to add to its development roster. Someone who clears space and plays smart.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
“Plus, you don’t take stupid penalties. That kind of discipline is rare.” Turner crossed his arms, looking satisfied. “So, we want to sit down and discuss a potential entry-level contract with our organization. Coffee tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” the blunt answer slipped out. “Name the time.”
“I’ll text you the details.” Turner nodded, but his expression suddenly shifted. A serious, corporate mask slid over his face. “A heads-up, Zotov. Chicago protects its investments. We do thorough background checks on all our prospects.”
“Background checks?” I asked.
Turner waved a hand as if it were just boring paperwork. “Standard league procedure. Criminal records, social media, general character stuff. The franchise doesn’t like PR nightmares. We just want to make sure there is no drama hiding in your closet before we put money on the table.”
It was probably a routine speech for him, but my gut went cold. The math of the situation changed in a split second.
If Chicago sent someone to dig into my life, they might eventually find out about Karter.
My jaw locked tight. It took serious effort to keep my face totally blank, but years of practice kicked in.
You take the hit and you don’t let them see it hurt.
“Understood, sir,” I said, my voice flat.
“Good. See you tomorrow.”
Turner pivoted away and walked down the hall. Rooted to the concrete floor, I watched him go until my phone vibrated in my pocket. Pulling it out, the screen lit up with a message.
My phone buzzed in my hand. Then it buzzed again. And a third time.
My mom had this habit of treating text messages like a series of formal letters, hitting send after every single thought. A small smile cracked my usual deadpan expression as I unlocked the screen to read them.
Mom: Lekha, thank you for the money transfer yesterday.
Mom: But the heating bill was higher than I thought. The landlord won’t take a partial payment.
Mom: I am going to pawn the old silver tea set. Please keep your paycheck for food this week. You need your strength for hockey. Love you.
The smile dropped right off my face. She was about to sell the only nice thing she owned just to keep her apartment above freezing, and the guilt hit me.
I leaned back against the cold wall behind me and stared at the screen. I could picture that silver tea set sitting on our scratched kitchen table back in Detroit. It was the only thing of value she hadn’t sold.
The hallway suddenly felt way too small.
Turner had just offered me a real ticket out of this life, provided my secret with Karter didn’t blow up in my face. Now my mom was selling her last piece of family history to keep the heat on.
I checked the time at the top of my phone screen. It was almost six o’clock. The pawn shops on our street rolled their steel grates down at six sharp. So, my mom wouldn’t make it before they locked the doors tonight. That gave me until they opened tomorrow morning to figure something out.
Swiping out of my messages, my thumb tapped my banking app. I watched the loading wheel spin and braced myself for the bad news.
Available balance: $57.00
The landlord wanted two hundred flat for the winter heat, and he refused partial payments. Fifty-seven bucks was all but useless.
I stared at the bright numbers glaring back at me and ran the grim math in my head. Finding the rest of that cash before tomorrow morning was the only option. But letting my mom sell her family silver was a hard no.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket, pushed through the arena doors, and walked out into the night. And the icy wind bit my face the whole way back to the Ice House.
The solid front door locked behind me with a loud metallic clank.
I climbed the dark, creaking stairs to the converted attic and pushed into my room.
I didn’t bother to hit the light switch.
Having a rare night off from the Food Mart was supposed to be a break, but the dead quiet just left me trapped with the math spinning in my head.
Of course. Of course, everything was falling apart right now.
I dropped my duffel bag by the bed and started pacing.
The drafty window leaked cold winter air straight through my thin hoodie.
The narrow floorboards bowed and groaned under my feet with every short step I took.
I rubbed the stiff muscles in the back of my neck, trying to physically walk off the frantic energy, but the walls just felt like they were closing in on me.
The brass doorknob rattled, and Karter slipped inside. A stack of color-coded study notes hit the baseboard to keep up the cover of another tutoring session.
I crossed my arms. My weight shifted back. The order was already forming on my tongue: Not tonight. Get out.
Then I looked at him. His Ridge Cross hoodie hung loose on his frame.
He’d been wearing it all week, I realized, the way someone clings to a thing that still feels safe.
The memory surfaced before I could stop it: his shoulder solid under my head, the radiator ticking, his thumb brushing once across my cheek before I sank under and fell asleep.
My arms dropped. And the order died in my throat.
“Perez told everyone he saw an NHC scout pull you aside in the hall.” Karter shut the door behind him, a grin breaking through. “Did you get an offer?”
“Don’t celebrate yet.”
The grin held. “Why not? It’s a huge deal. The NHC is exactly what you want.”