4. Colby
FOUR
Colby
Radimir Novicov is a pain in my ass, and not in the fun way.
Somehow, he has successfully dodged me for three full days of training camp, even when I’ve tried to address him in a professional manner.
Saying “you’re putting too much pressure on your old knees when you change directions on the ice” is totally one hundred percent professional … ish.
“I don’t speak English, and I’m not fucking old” was a much more unprofessional response in my opinion.
I’m not going to let him get away with it today though. This is never going to work if we keep up this cat-and-mouse game—me chasing him, him blowing me off—and if I can’t coach my players, how am I ever going to make it as an NHL coach?
Also, it’s not going to be long before others notice, and then it’ll be a bigger deal than it needs to be.
Scandal is the last thing either Novi or I need.
His amazingly long NHL career would be overshadowed if he went out on a scandal, and I still have twenty to thirty years at this.
I can’t start my career—at this level—by making waves.
I’m proud of what I’ve achieved, how far I’ve come, and I’m not going to let Novi interfere with my future goals and everything I want to keep working toward.
Novi doesn’t have to like me. He can be a homophobe all he likes. I get it, bro. You’re straight, you were always straight, and I crossed a line. But now we have to work together.
If I can get to him and explain all that, then maybe we can both take a deep breath and relax.
It’s obvious he never learned how to do that.
He’s always been this tightly wound ball of tension.
Even when he’d give me those goofy smiles when we were friends, they were always covering something deeper behind them.
He wears his stoic expression like a mask, but I know that deep down, he’s that twenty-one-year-old kid in a foreign country, scared out of his mind.
I’ve seen him lose the tough exterior before. I know he can do it. The hard part is getting him alone, away from prying eyes. I need to somehow catch him while he’s in his comfort zone.
Which is how I come up with a brilliant—or not-so-brilliant—plan of taking his car keys from his bag in the locker room, unlocking his car, returning the keys, and then going back after my shift to slip into his back seat.
If our past won’t get me fired, this possibly might. But I’m all out of ideas, and as much as I want to shake him in public and tell him to stop being so ridiculously … Novi, I can’t.
While I wait for the players to shower and leave, I go back and forth, from telling myself this is the worst idea I’ve ever had to convincing myself it’s what needs to be done.
I’m still arguing with myself when cars begin to pull out of the lot. It’s now or never, and even though my fight-or-flight instinct is telling me to run and my heart feels like it might explode with how fast it’s racing, I’m completely frozen.
I can’t move now even if I wanted to.
And that’s when Novi gets in his driver’s seat.
I’m about to sit up, about to say something, warn him that I’m here, when he throws his head back against his headrest, looks up at the roof, and mutters something in Russian. It sounds like he’s trying to console himself while having the tone of calling himself an idiot.
It almost makes me feel bad for him.
I need to let him know of my presence sooner rather than later, but when he starts the car and pulls out of his parking space, I worry I’ll cause an accident if I do it while he’s driving.
He’s still talking to himself, and though I can’t understand what he’s saying, I distinctly hear Ezra Palaszczuk’s name.
Perhaps he’s ranting about gay people in hockey multiplying, and it’s all Ezra’s fault.
I want to be pissed off at him, but the anger isn’t there. It’s more pity than anything else.
When he stops at the boom gate and swipes his ID to get out of the lot, I finally make my appearance known.
I sit up and say, “Where are we going?”
He flips out like I knew he would, jumping a mile high and letting out a string of curses in both English and Russian. It’s impressive how he can switch between the two and have it sound like he’s speaking the one language.
“What are you doing in my car?”
Explain yourself. Don’t get fired. Save your ass.
Instead, all I can do is blink at those burning whiskey-colored eyes. I can’t remember the last time I had his full attention this close up.
One of Novi’s teammates blasts his horn for Novi to move. I’m sure he isn’t going to. I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t get out of the car, pull me out of his back seat, throw me to the ground, and run over me on his way out.
Me? Dramatic? Only when I’m under pressure.
“Drive,” I say. “We need to talk.”
“I don’t speak?—”
“If you say you don’t speak English one more time, I’m going to scream at you.”
Perhaps it’s because Novi hasn’t heard me ever scream or yell before that he listens and pulls out onto the road. Even on the ice, I was always calm and collected. I was the one throwing out chirps and riling the opposition, not even losing my cool when they’d try to fight me.
“This feels a lot like kidnapping,” Novi says, and I laugh.
“Hey, you’re driving, and I’m not holding a gun to your head. You keep running away from me, and all I want to do is clear the air.”
“You want clean air? Is this going to be you trying to get me to join fight on global warming?”
I shake my head. “Still a smart-ass, I see.”
“Yes. My ass is very smart.”
“Will you let me apologize already?”
Novi’s eyes are on the road, but in the rearview mirror, I see his brow furrow. “For what?”
“You can play like you don’t remember what happened, but I think it’s evident from your avoidance that you do.
I was young and stupid, and I thought we had a moment.
We didn’t, and you don’t want anything to do with me because I’m gay.
But can we move past it? We have to work together, and I don’t want to be walking around on eggshells with you.
I know things won’t go back to the way they were.
We’re not friends anymore, and I get it, okay?
But you are going to have to face me eventually, and I’d prefer it if we didn’t have this awkwardness when it happens.
I’m sorry I wanted to kiss you and thought you might have wanted me to.
Rule number one as a gay person: make sure the person you’re making a move on is also gay.
Or queer. Or bicurious.” I throw up my hands.
“Do you see why I had a hard time back then?”
I’m trying to lighten the mood after all that depressing talk, but Novi is his usual stoic self.
When he doesn’t respond, I deflate. I should’ve known better than to try to negotiate with a bigot.
“You’re allowed to hate me.” I hate that my tone is so defeated. “But you still need to be professional. You can let me out here. I’ll walk back to get my car.”
He doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t stop. He does, however, lock the doors.
“Now who’s kidnapping who?” I ask.
“Are you hungry?” Novi’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror again.
“Why?”
“I’m going to get food. You will come with me.”
“By choice or by force?”
Novi does that lip-twitch thing that I learned a long time ago meant he was amused. “You’re the one who got in my car.”
“I’m sure that’s what all the kidnappers say. ‘Wasn’t my fault. They voluntarily got into my car.’”
“Technically, you broke into my car.”
“So now you’re going to feed me and then take me out to the desert or the middle of nowhere and beat the crap out of me for even breathing in your direction. I’m terrible, right? How dare I find you attractive a billion years ago. You can’t catch the gay, by the way.”
“You talk so much shit.”
“Better than not talking at all,” I mumble like a scolded child.
Novi pulls into the parking lot for a steak house that I’ve heard the team talk about in passing. “You want to talk? Then have dinner with me.”
My jaw ticks, and I ignore the way it sounds like he’s asking me on a date when he’s definitely not. “All right.”
I’m still not convinced this isn’t a last-meal type of situation, but on the off chance it isn’t, I want him to say his piece. Even if it’s only to tell me to never go near him again.
As we walk in together, I put my hands in my pockets. “Are you sure you want to be seen with me? Anyone from the team might be here.”
“You are coach. I am player. Maybe we’re talking strategy.”
I am so confused, only made more confused by the fact that the minute we’re seated and alone, Novi leans forward, forearms on the table, and stares directly into my eyes as he says, “I don’t hate you. My issue with you was …” He averts his gaze. “The complete opposite of hating you.”
Wait, what?