Chapter Three
SCOTTIE
Game day feels different.
Maybe it's because it's the season opener—first real game after months of training and preseason bullshit. Or maybe it's because I woke up this morning with a weird knot of anticipation in my gut that I can't shake.
Either way, I'm buzzing by the time I get to the arena.
The locker room is already chaotic when I walk in—music blasting, guys chirping at each other, the familiar pre-game energy swirling through the air.
I dump my bag on the bench and start the ritual: tape, skates, pads, jersey.
Same order, every time. And I break off a piece of a Kit Kat bar, and stuff a piece in my mouth.
Superstition? Maybe. But I’ve always broken off one piece of the four-piece Kit Kat bar before the start of the game, and then one of the rest of the three pieces between periods, washing it down with white cherry Gatorade.
I’ve done it since peewee days, and I’m not stopping now. Plus, the sugar rush gets me amped up.
"East. You ready to show these guys what we've got?" Aleksi M?kelin says, the Hawkeye's other right-wing, already half-dressed, bouncing on his toes like a hyperactive golden retriever.
"Born ready, buddy."
"You say that before every game,” Hunter says.
"And I mean it every time."
Luka's across the room, lacing his skates with the same focused intensity he always has before a game. He's quiet—more than usual, actually—but I figure he's just in the zone.
Coach comes in for the pre-game speech, all fired up about showing the league what Seattle's made of, and then we're heading out to the tunnel.
The roar of the crowd hits me the second we step onto the ice, and everything else falls away.
This is it.
This is what I live for.
The game's a grinder.
We're matched up against Vancouver, and they're playing physical—lots of board work, lots of chippy little slashes when the refs aren't looking. But we hold our own.
Midway through the second period, Luka threads a perfect pass through two defenders, and I'm there to bury it top shelf. The lamp lights up, the crowd goes insane, and I can't help the grin that splits my face as my teammates pile on me.
"Fucking beauty, East!" Wolf yells, smacking my helmet.
Luka just nods, with that tiny smirk on his face that means he knew exactly where I'd be.
We hold the lead through the third, kill off a late penalty, and when the buzzer sounds, we've got our first win of the season.
The locker room afterward is pure chaos—guys howling, music cranked up, everyone riding the high of a solid win.
"Oakley's?" Olsen Bozmen, one of our two goalies, shouts over the noise. "First win of the season—we’ve got to celebrate!"
A chorus of agreement goes up, and twenty minutes later, half the team’s walking down the two blocks to the sports bar that we spend all of our after-game beers at. The fans come, the usual suspects, to celebrate with us, or to drown our sorrows when we lose.
But tonight?... Tonight’s going to be a good night.
Walking into Oakley’s, the dim lighting, scratched-up pool tables, a jukebox that's been playing the same rotation of classic rock since the nineties. It's perfect.
By the time we get there, the place is already packed with fans who somehow always know where we're going to be. I sign a couple of jerseys, take a few photos, and then make my way to the back where the guys have claimed the pool tables.
"East. You're up." Trey says, holding a cue, nodding toward the table where Luka's racking the balls.
I grab a beer from the bar and wander over. "You playing, Luka?"
He glances up, and there's something in his expression I can't quite read. "Yeah. You in?"
"Always."
We play a couple of games—nothing serious, just messing around, talking shit. Luka's good, but I'm on a streak tonight. I sink three in a row, then call the eight ball in the corner pocket and nail it.
"Damn, East. Save some luck for the rest of the season," JP says, laughing, his arm around his girlfriend Cammy, who’s Penelope Matthew’s, our GM’s, administrative assistant.
They’ve been together since last season. He’s already told most of us that he has a ring stashed and a plan to propose soon.
Luka's leaning against the wall, watching me with that same unreadable expression. "You're feeling confident tonight."
"I'm always after a win." I chalk my cue, grinning. "Why, you want another shot at me?"
"Sure."
Luka’s normally a pool shark—deadly aim, no mercy, the kind of guy who breaks and sinks three balls before I even chalk my cue.
But tonight? He’s playing like hot garbage. And I’m on fire.
I’ve had a few beers, so everything feels smooth and easy, every shot lining up like the table’s doing half the work. Luka scratches twice, mutters something in Russian, and the whole team heckles him.
He racks the next set, straightens, and says way too casually, “Let’s make it interesting.”
I lean on my cue, feeling cocky as hell. “Interesting how?”
“A bet.”
The chirping around us dies instantly. Nothing gets hockey players’ attention like the word bet.
“What kind of bet?” I ask.
Bets are our team’s love language. We bet on everything—faceoff wins, locker room sprints, who can chug a Gatorade fastest. Last week, JP lost and had to show up to practice in pink heart boxers.
So yeah. I’m always up for a bet. Especially when I’m winning.
Luka’s face stays unreadable. “If I lose this game, I’ll go to your cousin’s wedding with you and marry the girl your mom is trying to set you up with.”
Luka’s one of the biggest players on the team: on and off the ice. I’d never actually hold him to marrying Anika, but watching him attempt to sweep her off her feet would be the kind of entertainment you can’t pay for.
I snort. “And if you win?”
His smirk is tiny, but it has me second-guessing if he knows something I don’t, only the brown liquid I’ve been gulping down is giving me a little more confidence than needed.
“If I win…” he says, “you marry my sister.”
The room erupts.
“Your sister?” Aleksi howls. “You don’t have a sister!”
“Bro, you were built in a petri dish in some Siberian hockey lab,” JP says. “You probably don’t even have a belly button.”
We all laugh, but we also all share a locker room, and we can all confirm that Luka “Popeye” Popovich has a belly button.
I’m laughing too, riding the wave of beer and ego. Luka has never talked about his family in Russia, let alone a sister. We’d know by now. “This is so stupid,” I say…because it is, “but fine. You’re on.”
I point my cue at him. “If I win, you’re coming with me to this wedding, and you’re sweeping Anika off her feet. And if you win…I’ll marry your sister.” I make exaggerated air quotes around the word sister.
Luka holds out his hand. “Shake on it.” He says.
So I do, reaching out my hand to take his.
He pulls me in closer, his eyes pinned on me. Those deep Russian eyes that make our opponents shake a little.
“She likes white tulips… don’t ever buy her roses.”
Wait… what the fuck? Is he serious right now?
Still completely unaware, he just hustled the hell out of me.
Those Kit Kats must be hitting harder than I thought tonight.
The second the game starts, I know I've been had.
Luka doesn't miss. Not once.
He moves around the table like a goddamn surgeon, sinking ball after ball with a precision that makes it very clear he's been holding back this entire time.
"Oh shit," JP mutters.
"East, I think you've been hustled," Wolf says, his voice somewhere between impressed and horrified.
Trey just sits in the corner nursing his beer with Vivi sitting on his lap, but I can see the smirk on his face as if he already knew I made a mistake ever making a bet with Luka at a pool table.
Thanks for not speaking up, Hart. Damn you.
I just stand there, beer halfway to my mouth, watching Luka clear the table in what feels like thirty seconds.
He lines up the eight ball, calls it in the side pocket, and sinks it clean.
The bar explodes—half the guys are laughing, the other half are losing their minds, and I'm just staring at Luka like he's sprouted a second head.
He straightens up, sets his cue on the table, and walks over to me with that cool, calm Russian demeanor… no way to read what he’s thinking.
Then he claps me on the shoulder.
"Good game," he says. "Brother-in-law."
I blink. "Hold on a second—"
"My sister. You're marrying her."
"You don't have a sister,” I argue.
"I do, actually."
The noise around us fades into white static as I try to process what the hell is happening.
"You—what?"
"Her name's Katerina," Luka continues, like he's discussing the weather. "She's a ballerina. Very talented. Doesn’t put up with any shit, so don’t fuck this up."
"Luka—" I try.
"She'll be here tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"Noon. I'll pick you up,” he says casually, as if we’re going to lunch, not picking up a sister I just agreed to marry.
He's already walking away, and I'm rooted to the spot, my brain completely short-circuiting.
Olsen leans over, his eyes wide. "Dude. Did you just agree to marry a girl you've never met?"
"I—" I look down at my beer, then back at Luka's retreating form. "I think so?"
Hunter's cackling so hard he's crying. "Oh my god. This is the best thing that's ever happened."
"This isn't funny,” I say.
"It's a little funny,” Aleksi adds.
"I thought he was joking!"
"Why the hell would you think that?" Trey asks, as if he had already seen the ending before it all started. "He literally said the words, 'You marry my sister.'"
"I thought he was being hypothetical."
"Hypothetical?" JP's wheezing now. "East, you shook on it. In a room full of witnesses. You're screwed. You can’t forfeit a bet. You’re stuck with it now."
I drain the rest of my beer in one long gulp, my mind racing.
Trey walks over and slaps my shoulder. “I’d like to be the first to congratulate you on your upcoming nuptials.” The room of players starts laughing.
This is fine.
It's a joke. It has to be a joke.