Chapter 23 - Karter #2
Trenton wrenched himself out of Dominic’s hold and smoothed the front of his shirt. He let out a dry laugh and looked at the rest of the guys. “Jesus. I don’t know what his problem is. Tell your brother to take a walk, El.”
No-one needed to tell me twice. Brushing off Elliot, I pushed past Dominic and walked out of the humid bathroom, crossing the main locker room to where my duffel bag still sat abandoned on the wooden benches.
Grabbing the canvas strap, I dumped my gear bag into my locker and marched straight for the exit, just as Elliot started chewing Trenton out behind me.
His furious voice echoed off the hard tiles, but the shouting faded into background noise the second I pushed through the double doors and hit the concrete corridor.
Taking the long route through the service corridors offered the safest way to dodge the post-game crowds. Thumping bass and loud cheers bled from the open doors of the VIP suite just ahead, blocking my path to the parking lot.
Ridge Cross University hosted a massive catering event after every playoff clinch in order to secure checks from deep-pocketed alumni.
Walking into that room meant pasting on a polite smile and shaking hands with my father’s wealthy friends.
Heading straight back to my room sounded infinitely better.
But the sharp squeak of rubber soles against concrete stopped me. Bracing for round two with Trenton, I turned around.
Perez jogged around the corner instead. He bypassed a row of unplugged vending machines and slowed to a walk, breathing hard under a half-zipped team jacket. The guy had clearly sprinted straight from the locker room to catch me before I left the arena.
Stopping a few feet away, Perez dug into his pocket and pulled out a plain white envelope. He held the paper out but kept a rigid distance between us.
“Aleksey told me to hand this over,” Perez said. “But only if we won.”
Snatching the envelope, I saw my own name written dead center in Aleksey’s cramped handwriting.
I swallowed hard. After days of dead air and unread text messages, holding a physical letter from him felt entirely surreal.
I gripped the paper tight enough to crease the edges and rubbed my thumb over the rough ink.
“He left this with you?” I asked. Staring at the harsh slant of his letters, I knew exactly why Aleksey had used a middleman instead of just picking up his phone. He was still freezing me out, playing the martyr to ensure I stayed clean.
“Yeah. He gave it to me right after he packed his bags,” Perez said. Then the hostility from the past week at the Ice House settled right back over his features. “Let us get one thing straight, Karter. I am delivering this because Aleksey asked me to. I still think you messed things up for him.”
I kept my expression flat and gave a single nod. I completely agreed with him.
“But,” Perez continued. He shifted his weight from side to side and rubbed the back of his neck. “The garbage Trenton and those guys are spewing back there is way out of line.”
“They always talk,” I replied.
“Not like that,” Perez countered. He pointed his chin back toward the locker room.
“My aunt is a lesbian, and I grew up going to Pride parades with her. So, I do not play with that homophobic bullshit. You might be a legacy who got my friend kicked out, but nobody deserves that kind of locker room trash.”
I finally looked up and met his dark, serious gaze. “Thanks, Perez.”
“Just read it,” Perez said. He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, offering no comfort. “Aleksey took a massive hit for this roster. Do not let him do it for nothing.”
Turning around, Perez headed back down the hallway to rejoin the team.
My mouth went dry. After a straight week of dead dial tones and ignored text messages, holding something Aleksey had actually touched felt like a lifeline.
Ripping the envelope open, I tore the cheap paper in my rush to get inside and pulled out the folded sheet, smoothing it flat against my palm.
Aleksey’s cramped, slanted handwriting stared back at me.
Karter. Do not waste your ice time worrying about me. I did what I had to do. You do what you have to do. Play the game. Win the Quartet. – A.
Reading the short lines over and over, I traced the sharp angle of his initial with my thumb, as my teeth sank deep into my bottom lip. Even from three hundred miles away, Aleksey was treating me like fragile glass.
Folding the stiff paper in half, I shoved the note deep into my jacket pocket.
Standing there in the quiet hallway, the final puzzle piece clicked into place.
If Aleksey sacrificed his future to protect me, the only way to undo this—the only way to prove him wrong—was to put myself on the line for him.
Thumping bass from the banquet room rattled the concrete floor.
But I stuck to the dimly lit service corridors, putting solid walls between me and the wealthy alumni crowding the main lobby.
Elliot had warned me during freshman orientation that Coach Corby hated these mandatory booster parties.
He usually claimed an empty VIP room near the loading dock to run out the clock.
I grabbed the brass handle of the green room and shoved the door open. Letting it click shut behind me immediately muffled the arena noise.
Coach Corby stood beside a folding table, talking low to one of the assistant trainers. The trainer spotted me and tapped his clipboard against his thigh.
“Hell of a game-winning shot, Karter,” the trainer said. He offered a quick nod and slipped past me into the corridor.
Coach Corby squeezed a paper coffee cup in one fist and clicked a plastic pen with the other. He stared at the carpet, chewing the inside of his cheek until my shoes entered his line of sight.
The pen stopped clicking. Corby looked up. “Karter? You just won us the biggest game of the year. Why aren’t you out there celebrating?”
“Coach,” I interrupted, planting myself directly across the table from him. “How do we undo Aleksey’s resignation?”
The faint trace of pride dropped from Corby’s face. He looked at me for a long moment, taking in my rigid stance, before letting out a deep sigh.
“Kid, don’t do this tonight.” He gestured vaguely with his coffee cup, as if trying to wave the problem away. “Zotov stepped away. He is off the roster, and I already told you boys that I want distractions off my ice.”
“I know Coach,” I pressed, keeping my voice level. I gripped the edge of the table. “But I also know he was backed into a corner over a fake Title IX report. There has to be a way to reverse the paperwork.”
“My hands are tied.” Corby slammed his coffee cup down next to the pen.
He leaned over the table, bracing his weight on his hands.
“Hastings handles the administrative garbage, and a formal complaint was filed. Zotov chose to walk instead of fighting a hearing. That is the end of the play. The AD’s decision is final. ”
“So if the complaint goes away, the resignation goes away with it?”
Corby frowned. He dropped his voice, casting a quick look toward the closed door.
“That is not how the front office works. The paperwork is locked in. Unless the anonymous coward who filed the report walks into Hastings’ office and recants, or we somehow prove it was a total fabrication, the investigation stands.
And the AD will never let Zotov back on the team. ”
I clamped my teeth together. Unless we prove it was a total fabrication.
Coach had just handed me the exact playbook.
Trenton filed the complaint. If I could get him to brag about making it up just to clear out a scholarship player, the entire case against Aleksey would collapse. Hastings would not have a leg to stand on if I pushed.
Releasing the edge of the table, I turned around and walked back out the door.
My new objective was hunting down Trenton before he left for the night. Pushing through the arena doors, a blast of wind hit my face.
The VIP parking lot was still alive with post-game energy. Small clusters of fans huddled near the exits, while players hauled their gear toward waiting cars.
Two guys from the third line crossed my path.
One of them offered a tight, obligatory nod toward me, but neither slowed their pace.
They talked loudly about the party starting back at the legacy frat house, deliberately keeping their shoulders angled away to make it very clear my invitation had been permanently revoked.
That gave me a tight window. Trenton would be heading over to the frat house to celebrate any minute now.
Scanning the rows of frosted windshields, I spotted his obnoxious sports car parked near the far curb.
A pair of idling catering trucks created a narrow, unlit gap away from the streetlamps.
Slipping between the metal panels, I leaned against the freezing corrugated siding and waited, my thumb resting over the screen of my phone inside my pocket.
Fifteen minutes crawled by before Trenton strolled across the asphalt.
He spun a set of car keys around a taped finger and kept his focus glued to his phone screen.
He was likely soaking up the praise from the team’s group chat.
I pressed the screen of my phone through the fabric of my jacket and waited for a short vibration against my thigh.
The audio was rolling.
Crunching over a patch of dirty ice, I stepped out from the gap between the catering trucks. “Trenton.”
Trenton stopped. He lowered his phone and peered through the dim lighting. Recognizing me, he widened his stance and squared his shoulders. “Karter. Did you come out here to take another swing at me? Because your brother is not around to hold you back this time.”
He pocketed his phone and thumbed the fob. His sports car chirped, headlights flashing across the dark asphalt.
“We’re going to talk about Aleksey.”