Chapter 5 #2
I wanted to say something awful back, but I could tell he was hurting, and I might have been a dick, but I wasn’t a monster. “It’s no one’s business,” I finally answered.
His shoulders sagged. “Thanks.”
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for Peter. He’s a nice guy.”
“Well, we clearly know very different versions of him,” Jonah snapped, and without another word, he turned and let his cane slam against the wall as he guided himself back down the hall.
I watched him go, trying and failing not to stare. I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to catch up to him. To slam him against the wall and kiss him, then suck his dick so all that anger and tension would leave him.
Just for a moment.
I knew what that was like—fucking to forget. Running to avoid everything that hurt.
It never lasted long, but the journey was at least more interesting than the ending.
Taking a breath, I stared at the back of the net. There was no one in the goal, but it was easy to envision the mask there. The pads. The glove. The stick. The look in his eyes telling me that there wasn’t a fucking chance I was getting through.
I skated hard, shoulders flexing as I brought my stick back and sank the puck all the way to the back. It landed with a dull thud, hitting the fibers, then the ice before sliding out.
Rolling my neck, I skated back to the bucket of pucks and took another.
Then another.
My shoulders were burning, and Aleks was not going to thank me if I showed up with six trapped nerves along my neck, but it was hard to give a shit.
It was still early in the season, but we weren’t having a great start.
We’d lost two home games and four roadies, and so far, my shots on goal were the worst I’d had in decades.
And my points were worse.
Retirement was peeking out over the horizon at me, a heavy thing with piercing eyes that never let up. One wrong move—one wrong check—and it would be over. But that was the fate of every hockey player.
I wasn’t foolish enough to think I was alone or unique.
And plenty of players lasted past thirty-six, but every year, more and more guys from my rookie season were calling it quits.
It was like going down a list and ticking boxes, and god only knew where I was there, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet.
I had no idea what the fuck my life was meant to be off the ice.
What would I do? Help Nikos? Start my own restaurant?
Fly back to Nicosia? Or hell, head down to the coast and buy a fucking boat and rot?
My stomach twisted around itself, and it took a while for me to breathe through it.
I hadn’t lived at home—like home home—in decades.
So many I’d almost forgotten what a Cypriot sunrise looked like over the sea.
I’d been living in the UK since I was ten, and Canada for the Q.
And while I could remember distinctly the first time I saw snow fall from the sky—real, Canadian snow, not like the rare flurries we would get in Brighton, which happened a handful of times since I’d lived there—I’d forgotten what a winter without it was like.
“Zeki!”
Turning my head, I rolled my eyes when I saw Ivan skating toward me. He was kitted out in his pads, his face barely visible past his goalie mask. He lifted his stick, and I raised mine, tapping them together when he was close enough.
“What do you want, Vanya?”
“Why you so pissy today? Who take a shit in your Cheerios?”
Pretty sure that was not how the saying went, but Maximov rarely cared about that. Of course, guys like him didn’t have to give a shit about that. He was dark-haired and pretty, with a lanky figure and legs that could stretch in odd shapes.
People tended to give him a pass where they gave me double takes and frowns. Then they found out I was defense, and I was given the pity look, like I was a walking dipshit pulled out of the caveman era to hulk around on the ice.
I didn’t often let that get to me, but it wasn’t easy some days.
“Just working on my backhand,” I told him with a shrug. “It’s shit this year.”
“Everything is pretty shit this year,” he said, skating over to the net. He hunkered down and rolled his shoulders. “Come. I give you something to work with.”
I didn’t really want to do all this, but he wasn’t exactly having his best year either, and I didn’t really want to count practice goals if I didn’t have to work for it. I took a breath, then pulled another puck from the bucket and watched as he saved the shot.
I wanted to be happy for him, but I was pissed at myself.
“Mother fuck!”
“Breathe, friend. Is not that big of deal.”
I fought the urge to snap my stick. I’d done that at the last game against Tampa, and I still hadn’t lived it down online.
That game had been the biggest shit show of the year.
Six-zero and a two-game suspension because the Mavericks’ fuck-ass captain, Holtzmann, couldn’t stop running his fucking mouth, and, well…
I did what I did best, and I snapped.
“Look, it’s Highlanders tonight. Is a fucking wash,” Vanya said softly. His accent was soothing. “Take breath. We got this in the fucking bag.”
I didn’t know that for sure, but it wasn’t dealing with Salem that was the problem. It was the next day, which was supposed to be my damn day off, but instead, I’d be at the arena filming bullshit media reels with the Legends.
“You gonna show up to that thing on Thursday?” I asked as I got another puck ready.
He snorted. “Yes, okay. Sound like a blast and a half!”
God, where the fuck did he learn that phrase? Digging my blades into the ice, I rushed forward and took my shot. It flew in just past the glove and hit the back of the net.
If I’d been a better man, I might have cried with joy. Instead, I let him knock his helmet into me and say, “Fuck yeah, you fuckin’ beautician. You got this.”
I didn’t believe him, but I did feel a little better.
“Good game. Good game. Good game.”
Knocking my head against Vanya’s helmet as he passed me, I felt a surge of triumph. He was right—Salem was a wash. They were rebuilding this year, so it would be a while before they were any kind of threat. They had old veterans and fresh-faced rookies with attitude problems.
They spent too much time in the sin bin and not enough time focusing on strategy. And their captain was two years—maybe—from retiring back in Montreal, where he’d crawled out of with a hockey stick shoved so far up his ass it choked him when he tried to speak.
This didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like a given.
Press was easy—the questions were focused on our upcoming game with San Diego, which was going to fuck us up pretty good if we didn’t get our shit together.
But the one thing I was good at—the one thing that probably tipped the scales in my favor when I was named captain—was that I was good with the press.
They didn’t shake me. Not on the outside.
By the time I was done, the locker room was nearly empty, so I was able to take my time in the shower. In front of my stall, I grabbed my phone and saw that Nikos had left me several messages.
Nikos: I know you’re probably still on the ice, but is there any chance Jonah’s at the arena today? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him all day. Peter had a fall. If you see him, tell him to give me a ring, yeah? I’m with him now.
Fucking fuck.
There was something about Peter and Jonah’s relationship that was…
I didn’t know how to explain it. Maybe similar to the relationship Nikos and I had with our father.
A stoic man who never really understood that it was okay to love your sons.
A man who wanted to see us do better—to be better—and died before he got the chance.
But it seemed deeper than that.
I hadn’t known Peter long. Nikos had been dealing with him a lot longer than I had. But the times we did talk, it was obvious he loved his sons. A lot.
I didn’t understand why Jonah was so angry with him.
It only took a few minutes to get dressed, then I did a once-around jog through the halls to see if I could spot Jonah, but there wasn’t a trace of the Legends in the building.
They didn’t usually stop by when we had games though.
Every now and again, our practices intersected, but the NHL had gone out of its way to accommodate game time for the PPHL.
And I was pretty sure the Legends were on a roadie.
Hopping in my car, I took off in the opposite direction of my house, instead heading to the little apartment where I knew Nikos was sitting with Peter. I parked down the street, then jogged toward the front door, ignoring the ache in my thighs as I knocked and waited.
Nikos seemed unsurprised to see me. “Did you find him?” he asked in Greek, which meant he’d been speaking to our mother recently. He always swapped languages in his head when he did that.
“No. I don’t think they’re in town.”
“Fuck,” he whispered. He backed up to let me in.
“How bad is it?”
“He didn’t need paramedics, but I’m getting worried.” Nikos passed a hand down his face. “I came over here yesterday to check in on him, and Jonah was here, but he didn’t say much to me. Just that he was working on it. I don’t know what that means. It’s so different here, you know?”
And it was. People in the US didn’t take care of their parents the way we did. Not all of them, anyway. And not always.
I was only eighteen when my father died—barely in my rookie year and no real money to show for it yet. But as much as my relationship with him was complicated, I wouldn’t have hesitated to help him. There would never be two strangers in his apartment.
“Maybe we need to call someone,” I suggested, walking into the living room. Peter was asleep, sitting up in his recliner. He had a bruise under his eye and a cut on his lip.
Nikos groaned, but he nodded. “I think we might have to. I want to speak with Jonah first though. I don’t…I don’t want to make this worse for him.”
“Do you know why they’re like this? His sons?”
Nikos shook his head. “No. But it has to be bad, right? What they went through.”
I couldn’t deny that. It had to be something none of them wanted to relive.
But I also had to admit that whatever they’d gone through, Peter was suffering. He wasn’t himself. He’d never be himself again. And if no one was going to step in and help him, then I would.
Jonah could suck my dick.
And not in the good way.
At least, not that I was willing to admit.