Chapter 23
The Tower
Aleks
“You really moving into the Fairfax penthouse?” Marshall asks.
“I’d move into a dumpster if that’s where she wanted to be.”
Sofie needed time to tell the girls and have a sleepover before I officially moved in.
I had zero problems with that; it’s who she is.
She needs everyone she loves to feel like they matter, and I get that, adore it, actually.
And that happened last night while we were playing the first of five out-of-town games in a row, all but one in western Canada.
The girls are busy getting everything ready for the Christmas Eve wedding. Jokes are made to Dash and me about wedding fever being a thing, and that we’d be the next sorry saps to head down the aisle. They don’t land as intended.
Kozlov was the first to say it to me when the news broke that Sofie and I were together. Her post on social media was personal. One caught after the Philly game, where she kissed my bloodied lip. She captioned it, Team AK.
That night, apparently in my sleep, ‘I’ shared it in my stories, and I found out when my brother called me the next day.
Sofie spoke to him and gave him an open invitation to come here. He reminded her how difficult that was at this time. And then they made plans to meet in Zurich when the season ended. I was sitting right there and was in no way part of the planning.
When the call ended, she quirked a brow, “You’re mad?”
“No, not mad. Just not going—”
“You what!”
“Unless you agree to something.”
“What?’ She crosses her arms.
“That you get your IUD removed before we go.”
“I’m sorry, what?” she gasps.
“You’re not hard of hearing, Tsarina, you heard me perfectly well.”
“What if I’m not ready? What if I don’t want a baby in me?”
“You don’t want children?” I asked, confused.
She places her hand on her belly, “I always wanted to adopt.”
“Okay, see,” I point to her and back to me. “Now we are discussing a future plan. Not just making one. Negotiating our future.”
She was flustered when she said, “We haven’t even said those three words yet and—”
“Not true, I have several times.” She tries to interrupt, and I place a finger over her lips. “You may not have heard me over your orgasms, but…”
She bats my finger away and laughs. “I would have heard that.”
I lean in and press my forehead to hers, “Tsaritsa moya,” I whisper, “Ya tebya lyublyu.” I brushed my lips across hers, “My queen, I love you.”
“When?’ she breathed against my lips.
“The first time I sank into you.”
“That tracks.” She sighs. “I was waiting until you said it. I’m sorry if—”
“I already knew.”
“Aleks? What if I get sick like him, or worse, what if I have a child who does and they don’t have me to take care of them?”
It struck me then why a woman like her, who loved holding Savannah, would worry. “Get tested.”
“Would you, like,” she tucks her hair behind her ear. “Not want to be with me?”
“Love doesn’t work that way, and I know this because of you.”
“What if I don’t want to know? What if your child were affected by my genetics? Would you resent me?”
I repeat, “Love doesn’t work that way.”
She hugs me and whispers, “Ya tebya lyublyu.”
Or a very cute version of it anyway.
Seattle went sideways fast.
Not the game. The game was already ugly, penalties stacking, pace turning mean. It was the third period when it broke open, when one of their guys went hunting after the whistle and stayed there a beat too long. A cheap shot at Evans, disguised as frustration.
I stepped in like I always do, a body between them, a stick down, words first. That should’ve been it.
But he leaned in close, mouth running, saying something meant to land deeper than a hit. Something personal. Something calculated. Something about ‘my people’. The kind of thing you say when you want a reaction you can later pretend you didn’t ask for.
I felt the snap before I decided anything.
My gloves hit the ice clean. Too clean. Muscle memory. The ref was already moving, but not fast enough. Two punches, controlled but unmistakable. Enough to end it. Enough to make the point.
The crowd loved it. The benches exploded. The broadcast zoomed in.
And the context didn’t make the cut.
By morning, it wasn’t about the late hit or the chirp or the fact that I’d been protecting a teammate. It was about a “pattern”, my temper, me being undisciplined and cold. About a Russian enforcer stereotype, people like to dust off when it suits them.
I didn’t read the comments; I didn’t need to. I know how it looks when everything that matters gets stripped away.
Sofie called me on video, and we fell asleep like that. I woke up to a dead phone, and that pissed me off because I wanted to tell her I had a dream about that stupid song she kept singing, ‘Let It Go’.
Yet, I couldn’t.
Saturday night in Vancouver feels colder than it should.
Third of five on this trip, and my shoulders fine, my head though, it’s not quite settled. Seattle still rides on my ass, the weight of it humming under my skin every time a stick lingers too long, or a guy leans in after the whistle like he’s testing how fragile I am tonight.
They watched the tape. I can feel it.
First shift, someone finishes a hit late. Second shift, a chirp slips through the cage, lazy and pointed. I keep my mouth shut, breathe through my nose, remind myself I don’t need to prove anything to this building.
Midway through the second, there’s a scramble in front of our net.
Bodies pile, gloves grabbing jerseys, that familiar tightening in my chest, saying this is where it usually goes wrong.
My hands curl before I stop them, but Faulker gets there first, blocking me, knowing they’re trying to trip me up.
Refs wedge themselves in. I back off. Skate away.
At line change, I circle wide, coasting just long enough to lift my head toward the stands. Not looking for anything in particular. Just habit.
As I jump the boards to the bench, I see her right there where the seats were empty before, and she’s not alone.
All of them, together, exactly where they don’t have to be.
Bears gear. Savannah is bouncing in her lap.
Nalani leans forward, locked into the play.
Noelle is making heart eyes at Sterling, and Claudia is still, steady, eyes tracking everything.
Savannah is bouncing on Sofie’s lap, one arm wrapped tight and protective around her, and with the other, she blows me a kiss.
And that kiss hits.
The noise dulls. The edge softens. The weight I carried out of Seattle shifts, settles, and stops pressing so hard against my ribs.
They came. After the fight, after the noise, after all of it.
I tap my heart and point to her without thinking, small and instinctive. Not for the cameras. Not for the crowd. For her. Hell for all of them.
When we jump in, the ice feels different. Wider, clearer. I win a board battle I probably shouldn’t. Take a hit and stay upright. Make the smart play instead of the loud one.
Another chirp comes. I glance toward her, and she just smiles at me. Fucking sunshine.
By the third period, when they try to bait me again, I don’t bite.
We win 3-1.
The game ends, and we skate in. She’s standing there in the tunnel, and she holds out a room key. “See you back at the hotel?”
I grab her up and hug her, “You didn’t have to do this, but I’m so glad you came.”
“It’s the longest away stretch of the season, and you have the next two days off, so we voted and decided that Canada was the best place for a girls’ getaway weekend before the big wedding.”
“Canada?” I laugh.
“Way better than Vegas.”
“Your Dad covered? Paul?”
She laughs, “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
And she was right, I couldn’t believe it. Sofie had gotten the two of them together so the wedding wouldn’t be uncomfortable for either of them, and to surprise Claudia.
At our first home game against Buffalo, they surprised Claudia by being in the Fairfax Media box together.