Chapter 9 Rockefeller Center
Rockefeller Center
Aleks
She’s acting like I’m not even here, which is a lie.
She knows, she just pretends not to, passing close enough that I can feel the displacement, like air making room for her.
I keep my head down anyway, focus on my skates, pretend just like she is which is not easy.
The space shifts when she’s near. Not warm, not pleasant.
Electric in the way storms are electric, pressure building with nowhere good to go.
My shoulders tighten, jaw locks, every instinct I have goes on alert for reasons I don’t like examining.
Faulker is talking. Williams is laughing. I nod at the right times even though I haven’t heard a word they’re saying because I’m locked in on her.
Hug her tight and kiss her sweet little cheeks. ‘I.’” Kiss. “‘Can.’” Kiss. “‘Not.’” Kiss. “‘Wait.’” Kiss.
Savannah giggles. High. Unfiltered. Cuts straight through the rink noise like it has priority access to my nervous system.
“Until you are off the t-i-t-t-y,” she finishes, laughing, “and we can have sleepovers.”
I look up before I can stop myself.
The city fades, the rink blurs out, and there’s just her, the baby, and the way she takes up space without asking permission.
A thought hits me, fast and uninvited. Not sex, not fantasy.
The kind of thing I decided a long time ago was not for me.
I have never wanted kids. Never planned for them.
Never made room in my life for anything that could hit harder than my old man did, hurt more than losing my first friend, or cause me to worry more than I do about my brother’s safety. Kids would do that.
And yet the idea lodges anyway, sharp and dangerous, like my body just decided without clearing it with my brain. Like some instinct I don’t recognize, just woke up and chose to fucking violate me. I look away immediately.
Hands clench. Laces pulled tight, like discipline, can fix this; focus can erase a thought once it exists.
This is why I don’t look at her. This is why I pretend she’s not there. This is why the air feels wrong when she is. This is why I cannot wait until we head out on the road.
I stand, jaw tight, ready to get on the ice and bleed the noise out of my head.
I do not look back, I do not smile, and I absolutely do not let myself want something I swore I’d never choose.
And all that lasts two full rotations around Rockefeller Center.
Faulker skates past me, muttering under his breath. “Ninety-nine-point nine percent sure I fucked the redhead.”
I don’t even look at him. “You didn’t.”
He shrugs. “Icehouse. I’m telling you, Ninety-nine-point nine percent probability.”
“Fairfax adjacent,” I remind him, “So tell yourself you’re wrong.”
He turns and skates backward, smiling, “I’m never wrong.”
I catch the women dispersing and see them disappear up the steps. They take opposite sides, lenses low, angles clean. Nothing will look staged; it will all be edited perfectly because Tsarina wouldn’t have it any other way.
She stays off the ice watching them, not a concern in the world, arms crossed, phone in hand, eyes up. Watching it all like it’s a production.
It’s not. I head toward her before I finish thinking. Long strides. Sharp cut. I don’t slow until I’m right in front of her, skates biting hard into the ice.
She looks up, not the least bit startled and not at all pleased.
“Do you ever knock?” she asks like she’s bored.
“No,” I say.
Her eyebrow lifts, and it has my teeth on edge. That look, like she’s deciding how much patience I get, how much time and space I can take up.
“You don’t know them,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Excuse me?”
“The girls,” I continue. “Your crew. You don’t know them. You could be putting Deacon and Claudia in the middle of something they didn’t ask for.”
Her eyes sharpen. “They did ask.”
“You’re opening doors you can’t close,” I say. “They get fucked up at Icehouse and let something slip, that’s something that will go viral, and you won’t be so pleased about. You screw this up; it doesn’t just land on you. It lands on Savannah.
Her whole demeanor changes as she steps closer, close enough that I can smell her perfume, and I hate it.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she says quietly.
“I do,” I shoot back. “Because I see what happens when trust is misplaced. Because I’ve watched people get hurt by someone who thought they had control because they had money, spoiler alert, money doesn’t mean shit.”
She crosses her arms, “So you’ve decided you know better.”
I scoff. “I know how to read a play, see an attack before it happens, and I know when someone thinks they’re untouchable, they are the most dangerous to those around them.”
Her laugh is short. Sharp. “You think I’m careless?”
“I think you’re used to getting your own way,” I say. “And you’re forgetting that some people can’t be bought and paid for because they don’t belong to you.”
She doesn’t raise her voice. Doesn’t flinch.
“Not that it is any of your business, but I met these two employees at your friend Dash’s girlfriend’s bookstore.
PhD students who wanted to earn extra money.
You’d know that if you’d ever gone and bought a book,” she says.
“And even with that, I did background checks. NDAs were signed. They don’t touch anything I don’t approve.
They don’t post anything I don’t see first. And they don’t come near Claudia or Savannah without requests or permission. ”
I open my mouth, and she steps closer, “And Deacon trusts me. Which means I don’t need your approval.”
Faulker skates by again, clearly clocking the tension, wisely keeping his mouth shut for once.
I lean in just enough to make the point. “If one of them crosses a line,” I say, low, “I will end it. Quietly.”
Her smile is thin. “Noted.”
Then she looks me up and down, slow, deliberate. “But here’s the thing, AK, off the ice, you don’t get to protect everyone by being an asshole. But it is telling.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Skate off.” She says it like one would say fuck off as she steps back, “You’re blocking the shot.”
And like that, I’m dismissed. I push off hard, cutting back into the rink, anger burning clean and sharp in my chest.
One time around the rink, then two, and then three, and I am not feeling any less angry, so I slide to a stop in front of her. “Don’t pretend you know a damn thing about me.”
“Back at you,” she steps away, saying, “Asshole,” and her foot catches the ice, and both go out from under her.
I want to let her bust her little ass, but right before she hits the ice, I catch her. “For someone who thinks they know everything, you clearly can’t see right in front of your too-perfect face.”
“Everything good?” Dash asks as he skates up with Noelle, who is squealing, eyes closed, right in front of him.
“I told you I don’t know how to skate!” She answers, thinking he’s asking her the question.
He pulls her closer as they come to a stop, chuckling, “You and your girl Sofie both need lessons.”
I get an elbow to the stomach, and only then do I realize I’m still holding her up.
I let go and watch as she steps off the ice.
She turns and squares her shoulders, “I broke my ankle the last time I skated. I’ll stick to boots.”
“Well, let’s hope one day you can stay upright on those,” I say before taking off.
The Puck Pad is dark except for the glow of the TV and the rink lights bleeding through the glass.
Montreal is on. We play them tomorrow.
Paul’s got the volume set just right, loud enough to catch edges on ice, the snap of a pass, the sound of a bad decision before it happens. It’s the volume men use when they’re watching, not just filling space. He’s planted in the corner chair like it’s assigned seating, feet up.
I come in soaked. Sweat still cooling on my skin, hoodie half unzipped, hair damp, breath not fully settled yet. The smell of ice and effort follows me in like it always does.
Paul doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Montreal,” he says, like a warning.
“They look slower,” I reply automatically.
“They’re not,” he says. “They just want you to think they are.”
I drop my bag by the entry bench, toe off my boots, step on the floor, and lean against the wall, eyes on the screen now. Montreal cycles clean, patient. Too patient.
Paul points with his chin. “Watch the weak-side winger. He drifts high when the puck drops low. Leaves a lane you’ll want to take.”
“I see it.”
“You’ll want to take it too early,” Paul adds. “Don’t.”
I nod once.
“They’re baiting hits,” he continues. “Defense steps up, wants you to chase contact instead of position. Let them miss you.”
A player gets clipped awkwardly along the boards. Paul winces.
“And don’t take the first shove,” he says. “They’re chirpy when they’re tired. You hit back, they get what they want, you in the box.”
I watch the replay. Memorize the number.
“They’re good at dragging you into their pace,” Paul goes on. “Which is slower than yours. You let them do that; they control the game.”
I push off the wall, head over, and sit on the couch, elbows on my knees. “So don’t get bored.”
Paul finally looks over at me. “Exactly.”
Montreal scores on a rebound. Ugly. Effective.
“Goaltender leaves his blocker low when he drops,” Paul adds. “Second chances are there if you don’t overthink it.”
I grunt and file it away.
Silence settles again, broken only by the broadcast. This is the part Paul’s best at. Not talking. Watching. Seeing patterns before they hurt you.
He lets a complete shift play out before speaking again.
“And one more thing,” he says.
I glance over.
“They’ll try to get in your head early. Not just physically. Talking. Smiling. Acting like they know you.”
I snort. “They don’t.”
Paul’s mouth twitches. “Doesn’t matter. Don’t give them a reaction they can use.”
I nod. Again.
Montreal clears the zone. Paul relaxes back into his chair, satisfied for now. He finally glances at me, slow and deliberate.
“Now,” he says, “tell me why you came in here looking like you were trying to outrun something.”
And just like that, hockey is no longer the most dangerous thing in the room. He doesn’t look away from the screen.
“Jesus, AK,” he says like Tsarina does, which means he clocked something at the rink earlier. “Tell me you didn’t go hunting for a hookup looking like that.”
I snort, “You think this is a hunting outfit?”
Paul finally glances over, eyes sharp despite the hour. “I think it’s a disaster waiting to happen.”
I peel the hoodie off and set it next to me, and my shirt sticks for a second before letting go. “I went skating.”
“You left here at seven, it’s ten,” he replies.
“I needed real ice, not the show pony variety.”
“Uh-huh.” He gestures at the screen with his chin. “So, you decided to go beat yourself instead of relaxing when you have a game tomorrow.”
I grab a towel and wipe my face. “I don’t work that way.”
“Either does the sassy one,” he states.
I don’t even have to ask who the sassy one is.
Montreal misses a shot. Paul curses softly, like it’s a reflex.
“You eat?” he asks.
“No.”
He sighs. “There’s chili.”
“I don’t want chili.”
“There’s always chili,” he offers again. “You don’t want it until you do.” Paul glances at me again, this time longer. “You look pissed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Lie better.”
I scrub a hand over my face. “She pisses me off.”
Paul smiles without looking. “She’s got a knack for that.”
I stiffen. “You don’t know who I’m talking about, it could be…”
He chuckles. “Kid, I’m old. Just because my eyes aren’t as good as they once were doesn’t mean I don’t see clearer than ever. Age does that to you.”
I lean back, stare at the ceiling, and my pulse finally slows.
“She doesn’t get it,” I say.
“Most people don’t,” Paul replies. “Question is, what do you think she doesn’t get?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
Paul nods, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Montreal scores. Paul grumbles a few curses.
“Go shower,” he adds. “Before you stink up the place.”
I stand up and head down the hall. Paul calls after me, eyes still on the screen.
“And AK?”
“Yeah?” I turn and look at him.
“Next time you’re that wound up, try sleeping, or running or maybe call the one causing you to need the ice and work that out.
” He finally looks over and smirks. “Just do it before ten at night and after a shower. And tread lightly, because at your age, you see a hell of a lot less than I do, and you’re not getting the big picture with that one. ”
“You wanna clue me in?”
“Absolutely not, that’s for you to figure out.”
“Not sure I want to.” I huff.
“Shit or get off the pot, kid. This family doesn’t need any more headaches because two bullheaded people can’t get along.” He looks at me. “They need you both, and admit it or not, you need them too.”