Chapter 26 - Aleksey
Istared at the black ink that spelled out Zotov under the starting defensive line. Coach Corby had slapped the printed sheet against the wall right outside our assigned locker room the second we climbed off the team bus.
A few weeks ago, I was flat on my back under a rusted sedan, brake fluid dripping onto concrete. Now the cold coming off this arena’s ice rink bit in deeper than any Detroit garage floor ever could.
The concourse carried the noise of the crowd from the rink, as my other teammates from the roster bumped my shoulders, hauling their gear bags past me and pushing through the locker room doors. Out in the wide public hallway where I stood, cameras flashed behind me.
I dragged my thumb over the plastic teeth of my jacket zipper, and the tight knot at the base of my throat loosened with each click.
Black ink on a printed sheet wasn’t supposed to feel like anything.
But my name, Zotov, stared back at me from the starting defensive lineup, and for once I didn’t wait for someone to snatch it away.
Footsteps approached from my right. A guy in a tailored suit broke away from a media cluster near the VIP entrance, navigating through a flow of arena security guards to stop directly in my path.
He held out a thick paper business card.
A blue and silver Milwaukee Cranes AHC hockey logo was stamped on the card.
“Aleksey Zotov.” The man did not phrase it as a question. He pitched his voice low, almost blending into the background crowd chatter.
I took the card. The paper felt thick against my fingertips. “Who’s asking?”
“Leadsom. Milwaukee Cranes.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his heels.
“We catch a lot of the Chicago network feeds. And I happened to have heard you had a rough patch with your college’s front office recently.
But we also watched the tape from your last few games. ”
A bitter taste flooded the back of my mouth. The Chicago NHC scout had pulled my draft offer the second the Title IX investigation hit the rumor mill. That dream burned down in a single afternoon.
Another suit handing out promises looked exactly like a trap.
“Milwaukee likes guys who play with a chip on their shoulder,” Leadsom continued. He studied the scuffs on my canvas duffel bag before meeting my eyes again. “And we’re looking for an enforcer who can actually read the play and skate.”
“Milwaukee Cranes,” I repeated. I rubbed my thumb over the raised foil logo. “Not exactly a direct ticket to the big leagues.”
Leadsom let out a dry huff of laughter. “It is an AHC affiliate contract. You produce on our ice for two years, and you get the call-up. Nothing is guaranteed.”
I shoved the card into the front pocket of my jacket. “I do not need a guarantee. Just drop the puck, and I will play.”
The scout offered a short, curt nod. He pulled his hands from his pockets and checked his silver watch. “Anyway, I have to run, but I want to see how you handle the pressure this weekend. Keep your head on straight, Zotov. Let’s talk after the tournament.”
Without another word, the guy turned and merged right back into the sea of arena staff and camera crews.
Shoving the card into my pocket, I walked deeper into the concrete tunnels. The concourse noise dulled to a low rumble behind me. Cold air carried the sharp, chemical bite of the ice resurfacer, and I dragged it deep into my lungs.
A Milwaukee Cranes scout wanted to talk after the tournament. That was real. That was something. But the team waiting for me in that locker room was a goddamn landmine, and I needed my head screwed on straight.
Karter had made it down the tunnel before me.
He was stretched out on a rubber warm-up mat, legs splayed wide, fingers laced behind his head.
His hair was shoved back like he’d run a hand through it once and called it good, the blonde streaks catching the overhead lights.
I smiled despite myself. He looked locked in.
Footsteps scuffed behind me. I didn’t turn. Elliot stopped at my side, arms crossed, stone-faced as he stared at his brother.
Polite bullshit wasn’t going to work on him. And that was fine by me. For the past two weeks, Elliot had kept Clay and the rest of those assholes from ripping the roster apart. And I respected him for that.
“So,” I began, then paused, then looked over at him, trying to think of the right words.
Elliot didn’t turn. He kept his eyes on Karter down the tunnel. “Spit it out, Zotov.”
I ran a hand over my face. “Thanks for helping keep the guys mostly off my case since I got back. You didn’t have to.” The words scraped out of me like gravel. I wasn’t built for showing gratitude, especially towards Elliot.
He snorted. “Don’t thank me. I still don’t like you.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
Finally, Elliot looked at me. His eyes held nothing warm. “I respect your game. That’s it. The rest of you can go to hell.”
I shrugged off the sting of his words, not rising to the bait. “So why bother running interference all the time? You’re putting your own neck on the line.”
Elliot shifted his weight. He said nothing for a long moment, instead focusing on tugging one glove off, then the other, the leather rasping against his palms. “My father’s running for Senate. You think he wants a locker-room cover-up splashed across the news cycle?”
“Right. The campaign.”
“So, he can’t cut Karter off right now. And he can’t cut me off for backing Karter.” Elliot slapped his gloves against his thigh. “Disowning both Johnston sons four months before an election isn’t exactly a winning strategy. So congratulations. You’re untouchable... for now.”
I gave him a short nod, staring right back, as I tried to process the information. Their dad was boxed in. “You’re gambling a lot on that theory.”
Elliot laughed, but there was no warmth in it. “I’m not gambling anything. I simply need you playing at one hundred percent. Coach trusts you on the ice, so fair enough. Besides, I wanna win this, so I’d rather you play with your mind fully on each game, not on waiting for my father to bury you.”
“Right. The game.”
“The game,” he repeated. “That’s the only reason I’m putting up with you being with...” Elliot paused, then shifted again, “well, being with Karter.”
I studied his face and the way he kept glancing over at Karter. “So you’re doing all this for the win.”
Elliot didn’t even pause. “I’m doing it because I love my brother more than I hate you.”
I held his stare, jaw locked, and let the silence stretch. A Johnston had drawn a line in the sand and put himself on the wrong side of it. All for Karter. Which meant Karter at least had one person in his family fully backing him.
Elliot pulled his gloves back on, flexing his fingers. “Are we done here?”
I gave him a single nod. Nothing else needed saying.
Elliot nodded back and walked off towards the team locker room without waiting for an answer.
And I followed after him.
Pushing through the solid double doors of the locker room, every conversation seemed to die mid-word. Even the scrape of skate blades against the rubber flooring stopped.
This had been happening time and time again, ever since I’d been back. There were snide remarks, constant glares, but at least there was none of the outright fighting I had to put up with a couple of weeks ago.
Clay and Dominic had the premium position stalls on one side of the room locked down as if they owned the place. They too had stopped messing with their gear the second I walked in, their heads swiveling to track me down the center aisle.
Dominic let his skates drop, the blades cracking against the rubber flooring, and slouched back with his arms draped wide over the top of the bench. “Look who decided to show up. Thought maybe you’d hitchhiked back to Detroit by now.”
I didn’t break stride. “And miss your sparkling conversation? Not a chance.”
“You think you’re actually playing today, Zotov?” He tilted his head, a grin stretching slowly.
I dropped my bag next to my stall. “Roster says I am. Can you read, or do you need me to sound it out for you?” The zipper on my bag snarled as I yanked it open and pulled out my skates.
Dominic’s grin stretched slowly, but his eyes stayed flat. He stayed slumped against the bench, arms draped wide, waiting. Beside him, Clay stood rigid with his fists clenched at his sides.
Clay didn’t say a word. That was a tell. That guy liked to fill every silence as if it were a personal mission. But now he’d gone completely mute, and that silence was louder than anything Dominic could spit at me.
They wanted me to start swinging.
One punch was all it would take to hand the coach the excuse to kick me off the roster, and then these assholes could coast through the tournament without ever having to prove they deserved their ice time.
I almost laughed, but the sound caught in my throat. They’d been dodging their own mediocrity all season, and now they were hoping I’d do the heavy lifting and take myself off the team for them.
I dumped my skates and bag on a bench far away from Clay and Dominic. Across the aisle near me, Perez slapped his stall bench twice and jerked his chin at the empty seat beside him.
“Get over here before you do something stupid.”
I didn’t move. Dominic was still watching, waiting for a reason. Meanwhile, I was thinking that the concrete wall near his head would’ve made a satisfying crack.
Perez snapped his fingers. “Hey. Sit. Now.”
With a grunt, I snatched up my skates and bag and dropped onto the bench next to him. I then took a moment to brace my elbows on my knees and stared down at the floor tiles.
“You looked about two seconds from putting Dominic through a locker,” Perez said. He didn’t look at me. His focus stayed glued to his stick, wrapping black tape around the blade.
“He’s got a face made for putting through drywall.”