4. Mason #2
My team had won, but winning wasn’t enough.
Destroying opponents was required, as was never squandering the opportunity to put one more nail in their coffin.
There was no such thing as mercy to Lukyan Petrov.
The text meant he was paying attention. That was better than stoic, disappointed silence, which could stretch on for weeks while he stayed in the penthouse he’d bought in Rhode Island for Bair’s first season.
The Snow Leopards’ pro practice facility was Dad’s favorite training spot. The community rink Hawthorne used had too many rules, and different groups crowded the schedule. But here, we never had to wait for ice time.
The entrance was built to impress—next to the reception desk was a stuffed human-sized leopard mascot welcoming visitors, and behind the desk was a triple-height door with the team’s name in shiny silver lettering.
No signing in for me. I got a nod from the security team, who were more than familiar with my face.
I walked past the public locker rooms and into the players’ lounge.
There was no dank sweat stench here. Every dark TV screen still had the plastic protective screen over it, and the smell of fresh leather furniture and newly laid carpets overpowered any others.
Golden and crystal trophies glinted behind display case glass.
This was a glimpse of my future. Coursing through my veins was the determination to have my jersey encased behind glass and hung from the rafters of the Paterson Arena just like my father.
In the carpeted locker room with cherry wood partitions, where the players’ equipment and jerseys were laid out before practice, I put on my skates, gloves and pants, but left on my thermal and grabbed a stick.
My father wasn’t alone on the ice.
Bair stood near the goal with his stick held in both hands, stretching with it behind his head.
I raised my chin and kept my face blank, not showing my surprise.
My father hadn’t said anything about bringing Bair down from Rhode Island.
I’d sign with the powerhouse school, just like my older half brother.
Although I was still waiting on my commitment letter.
There, I’d prove and sharpen my skills, clinch a national championship and drive up my draft stock and contract payout when I went pro.
After a few Cup wins and a cemented legacy alongside our father’s, I’d join him on the business side of things. My life was laid out ahead of me with crystal clarity. And if I didn’t measure up or failed…well, I’d never find out, because I never failed.
I owed him my best. My dedication. My obedience.
But Bair was on the same path and he had a one-year head start.
He had attended an elite boarding school in Vancouver while I lived with our father and Alena.
But our father had flown to every one of Bair’s games.
Almost eight hours each way and he didn’t miss one, sometimes staying there for a week or more to be in the stands to dissect every play.
Our father had never shown that level of interest in my games, not when Bair was competing for his time. Bair had made varsity as a freshman and his team won their province championship every year. He never seemed to make a mistake. Our dad never gave him extra drills or notes on how to improve.
I skated to our father. He always looked more natural on skates than he did off the ice.
Tonight, he was in his standard coaching uniform of black tracksuit bottoms and a black long-sleeved shirt.
The deep-set lines of his face were even starker than normal, gray hairs at each temple the only sign he’d aged at all over the past ten years.
He stared at me intently, eyes assessing. “Bair will be assisting us with today’s exercise.”
I gripped the stick tighter and met his eyes, not willing to show a flicker of any emotion other than determination.
Bair might’ve come out on top over the years, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t as good as him. That didn’t mean I couldn’t carry on my father’s legacy and raise it to greater heights than Bair.
I flicked my gaze toward my half brother in the net as he picked up his glove. He stared over my shoulder at the other empty net like I didn’t even register on his radar. Sparks of fury flared in my chest.
“There is also a lesson your brother must learn.”
A split second of surprise, then I cut my eyes toward Bair. So he wasn’t perfect after all.
From the first nod of approval at my peewee hockey tournament win, my mission had been clear. Make my father proud and never let him down.
“What do you need me to do?”
His lips thinned, eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. “What was your mistake?”
I held back a flinch. Three missed shots with my summer travel team.
“I see you know what you must do now. Three against your brother. You have ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.” I glanced sideways at Bair, positioned in the mouth of the net.
Not usually a goalie, Bair only had a blocker on one arm, catcher on the other and the pads on his legs. He was in a long sleeve thermal like me without chest pads or arm guards, probably not even a cup.
“Is he going to suit up?”
“He will be fine.”