Chapter 6 #2
“Are you serious?” I shook my head and pressed my fingers into my eyes until the prosthetics dug into my sockets.
Pain hit me in the temples, and I let go.
My anger was mingled with grief mingled with the heavy weight of hopelessness.
“I’m not doing this with you, okay? I’m fucking doing everything I can.
I’m interviewing in-home caregivers tomorrow, and I’ll…
I’ll fix it. But you don’t need to come in here and make me feel like the asshole when you have no idea—no idea—”
“Jonah?” Tucker’s voice was a balm, which wasn’t what I needed right then because I really was going to cry in front of this dickhead. “What the hell is going on? Do I need to knock this fucker out?”
“I was just leaving.” I heard Alexio sweep past Tucker, then the door shut.
I swallowed heavily. “Fuck.”
Warm arms came around me next, and I lost my composure a little. Luckily, Tucker had a broad chest and was wearing an athletic shirt. It smelled like armpit, but it was absorbent, so I let myself cry for just a second. Just a few tears that had been building up for a while.
“Yo, hey. Am I kicking his ass? I will call Ford and Boden right now. You know they’ll be here in a second. So will Killian. Hell, I’ll call the neighbors, and—”
“No. No, it’s…fuck.” I swiped my hands down my face, then felt backward until I hit the wall and leaned against it. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I bowed my head. “My dad’s, uh…yeah. So.” I didn’t know how to say this. How did people just talk about shit like this?
“Did he hurt you?”
I couldn’t help a small smile that the first thing Tucker was worried about was me being hurt.
God, at the very least, I’d stumbled into a really amazing family.
“No.” I gave myself twenty seconds to breathe, and then I opened my mouth.
“My mom left him. She left the country. She called me, Micah, and Caleb over and said that Dad has Alzheimer’s—it’s advancing pretty quick.
She apparently got him an apartment some months ago and just…
dropped him off when she got tired of dealing with him.
Then she packed her shit and went to the UK or something. ”
Tucker, as predicted, was dead silent for a long moment. Then he let out a long string of swears before asking, “You’re serious, right? This isn’t you and Micah trying to fuck with me again.”
“I would give anything for this to be one of his poor-taste jokes. But no. Micah and Caleb are refusing to help because, well…he was shitty to us our whole lives. But he’s not doing well at all.
He’s been wandering around, and he keeps going into this restaurant down the street from where he lives and hanging out there.
The guy who owns it is cool.” Because he was.
Nikos was cool. Alexio was not. “He’s been helping me kind of keep him occupied.
But while we were on the roadie, he fell and got hurt. ”
“Shit,” Tucker breathed out.
“Yeah. Nikos—the guy who owns the shop—he stayed with him until I got back, but I’m freaking out. I have no one to stay with him, and I can’t. He would make it hell, Tuck. Like, literal hell.”
“I know.” I heard him move closer, and then he took my hands in his. “I know, bud. That’s not going to happen. Between all of us, we can figure it out.”
I let out a breath. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. The night you, ah—you yelled at me, that was the night I found out.”
“Jesus Christ, dude! Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I was freaking out.” I pulled away from him and reached for the wall to find my cane as a touchstone, though I didn’t pick it up. “This is all so fucked-up, and I was barely dealing.”
“No, yeah. Sorry. I get it.” Tucker paused for a long beat. “How the fuck is Alexio Zeki involved?”
I grimaced. “The shop owner is his brother. And he, apparently, loves my dad and thinks I’m committing, like, elder abuse or some shit.”
Tucker growled. “Does he know what a shitstain your dad was growing up?”
“No, and he doesn’t need to,” I said quickly. “I don’t want him in my fucking business. He’s not going to convince me with his hot-as-fuck voice to give him details either.”
Tucker was quiet for another beat. “Ooookay. Well. Um.” He cleared his throat.
“Was that a weird thing to say?” I asked.
He huffed a sigh. “No. Whatever. It’s fine. Fuck Alexio. Let’s talk soon and we can come up with some kind of plan.”
I felt a sudden punch of relief. “Yeah?”
“Yes.” Tucker touched my shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s go get this fucking circus over with. Go play nice with your big Russian goalie, and then we’ll deal with real life.”
Things still felt like shit, but his order was definitely something I could follow.
“Am good like this?”
I reached out and felt over his front. “Yeah, that should be fine.”
“Then I just what? Listening for puck? Will hear over the skating and other players?”
“It takes concentration,” I told him, because it did. The puck was loud, but the players were louder. And unlike other blind sports, hockey didn’t limit screaming from the crowd, which made hockey what it was as a sport.
So yeah, the rattling sometimes didn’t hit me until a puck was flying at my face. But I loved it.
I skated next to the net and gripped the pole, hunkering down, prepared to help if I needed.
Alexio had been so fucking convinced this event was meant to humiliate the sighted players, which was ridiculous.
I mean, yeah, okay, I was kind of hoping he’d fall on his ass several times and would have difficulty sitting over the next few days, but I didn’t want it to be that bad.
These “experience blindness for ten minutes” social media clown shows always pissed me the fuck off. All they did was make the pity worse. And the fear. People would laugh on camera and joke, but inwardly, it would solidify the absolute, abject terror they felt about living a life without sight.
It was why half the guys we met who were losing their vision were shitting their pants. And why it took some of our players years to adjust and adapt.
But Vanya wasn’t one of those people. He seemed overly eager, like an excited kitten with the zoomies. Tucker had given him one set of the blackout goggles other goalies with light perception used during the game.
“All goalies are on even footing,” he’d explained as Vanya was changing into his pads. “So they all play without any sight.”
“You wearing these?” Vanya had asked me.
I laughed. “Dude, no. I don’t have eyes.”
He sucked in a breath. “But you have eyes. I see them right now.”
I flicked one with my nail and felt him recoil before he leaned in. I could smell mint on his breath. “Prosthetic,” I said.
“They look so real. Great party trick! You should scare kids on Halloween.”
“Uh…”
Then he’d grabbed the goggles and shoved them on his face. “How I’m looking? Sexy guy, huh? Like in sci-fi show?”
I wanted to hate him because I wanted to hate this whole thing, but I couldn’t. I showed him how I was guided onto the ice—usually by holding Tiago’s stick, which he thought was a hilarious euphemism—and then I got him to the crease with only a few falls.
“Is okay,” he insisted with a grunt right before he was settled in the crease. “I get it. You give me time. I’ll be best blind goalie in league.”
“Fuck you.”
He burst into laughter. “Okay, okay, second best next to cute goalie with cool eyeball party trick.”
No one in my life had ever called my eyes a party trick, and while I thought maybe I should have been offended, it was impossible to be annoyed with Vanya. He was sunny and bright and hilarious, and god help me, but I liked him.
He was someone I would have been friends with. Could have been friends with. And he helped me stop thinking about Alexio for five minutes.
“Okay, so how you know which players which?” Vanya asked, shuffling back and forth. I could hear his pads scraping on the ice.
“I don’t,” I told him. “The other players have some usable vision, so they use cues they can see, and they’ll call out names when they’re making passes. We also developed code words for plays so the other team won’t understand them.”
“Like baseball,” he said happily.
I laughed. “Yeah, like baseball. Anyway, what you want to do is stay low, keep your head tilted to the side so you can hear the puck, then follow the sound. Someone come take a shot on Vanny!” I called out.
“Heard!” That was Matty. His blades scraped across the ice, and then came the rattle of the puck.
“Okay. That’s Matty. He’s got a really strong wrist shot, and he always goes for the top right, so get your glove ready. Our puck is bigger and heavier, so it doesn’t hit as high up as a standard size.”
“Okay. Am ready. Will stop this goal!”
He didn’t stop the puck. It sailed past him, and I heard it hit the net, then the ice. He let out a long string of curses in Russian as he slid it back toward Matty. “Yes. Very good slapshot. But I’m better goalie. Try again!”
“Um…you sure?” Matty asked quietly.
“Yes, little winger. Am ready.”
I heard Matt laugh a bit, then clear his throat before lining up the shot. I could tell what he was doing.
“Backhand,” I murmured. “It’ll hit left.”
“Is cheating?” Vanya whispered back.
“Nah. Not in this game.”
“Yes, I like you. New goalie best friend.”
The sincerity of his words was like a punch to the sternum, and I missed the shot. But Vanya saved it, and suddenly, he tackled me over onto the ice with his celly.
“Oh my god, you fucking giant!”
He laughed and knocked his bucket into mine. “We make good team. Best team! You can be honorary Russian and come play for Glaciers sometime.”
That was not going to happen, but I was smiling anyway.
At least, I was smiling until a familiar voice called out, “I want a shot against Adams.”
Alexio.
My spine stiffened, and everything in me went cold. I sat up and squared my shoulders as I felt around for my stick. One of the other guys—or maybe one of the media dudes I’d all but forgotten about—kicked it toward me, and it hit my glove.
“You sure about that?”
I heard him skate forward—heard the way he was using his stick to guide himself. He seemed…unsteady. “Three shots on goal. If I make them all—”
I burst into laughter. “Bud, if you make one, I’ll call it a win.”
The tension between us was damn near tangible. “Fuck you.”
“It’s your first time, bud,” I told him with a sarcastic, sweet smile, though I didn’t know how much of it he could see with his Tiago goggles on. “One goal.”
“One goal,” he repeated. He skated backward, and I headed into the crease.
Rolling my neck, I stretched my shoulders, then dropped into a split. A lot of the goalies liked to defend the goal sideways, but that was never my thing. I lowered my shoulders and turned my head to the right, listening for the sound of blades on ice.
The rink was oddly quiet. Not enough to hear a pin drop, but enough that I recognized Tucker’s soft murmur from a few hundred feet away. They were all watching. Fuck, what was I thinking.
It took me too long to get back in my head, and I nearly missed the first shot, but I caught it with my stick and froze the puck. I heard Tiago say something, and then Alexio swore.
“Nice try,” I called, shooting the puck back.
“Warm-up shot, dickhead.”
I laughed and got back into position. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
I heard him suck in a breath, and then silence descended again. The puck came faster this time, leaving the ice for a second. I could hear the ball bearings rattling around inside, and I managed to stop it with my glove, but just barely.
Fuck, he was good.
And I hated that he was good. And yet, it also made me a little warm inside.
I shot the puck back, and this time, he was silent as it hit his stick. I listened to a pair of skates, and again Tiago’s soft murmur—probably giving the fucker tips, which wasn’t going to help. Tiago rarely scored a goal on me.
Taking a deep breath, I turned my head to the left. I knew what was coming. Tiago’s snapshot, though I had no idea if Alexio’s was any good. But I was ready. Seconds ticked by—too fucking many. He was trying to psych me out, but that wasn’t going to work.
I bowed my head, following the sounds of his skates and the puck.
And then it flew toward me—and went between my legs. It took all of my power to drop down in time, and there was a collective inhale before I lifted up to show I’d stopped the puck.
“Fuck!”
I grinned as I shot the puck forward, and then suddenly, there was a body beside me and that goddamn cologne. Something in me shifted, and I had no idea what the feeling was.
“If I found out you and Tiago cheated—”
“How the fuck would we have done that, you sore-ass loser?” I demanded.
Alexio let out a heavy breath. “Fuck you. I concede.”
I grinned and tapped my stick against his helmet. “Good boy.”
He let out a sharp exhale, and then suddenly, his glove was in the front of my sweater, tugging me forward. “Your prize?”
“You wanna give me money? Your car?”
“You can’t fucking drive,” he snarled.
I laughed. “Technically, I do know how, but I’d donate it to charity.”
“You’re…” He trailed off, then swallowed so thickly I could hear it catch in his throat. “I’ll find you after this.”
“For your car?”
“Not a goddamn chance.” He threw me back, and I hit the goal frame, still laughing as he skated off.
“He really love his car,” Vanya said mournfully. I startled, forgetting he was there. “Is custom-built Land Rover.”
“I don’t even know what the fuck that is.”
Vanya burst into giggles and slung his arm around my neck. “Is stupid SUV. Come, best friend. Let’s go talk to little media girl. She have a lot of questions, and I’m not understanding most.”