Chapter 10
Nikolai
I pull the jersey out of my locker, staring at the gleaming 16 stitched on both sides.
The home sweaters for McKee aren’t terrible. Deep purple with white accents, a crown splashed across the front. If I have
to wear it, at least I get to keep my number. I make a face at it anyway. Like everything else in this locker room, it’s entirely
too purple.
Mickey, the starting center, gives me a glance as he fiddles with the tape on his stick. “You okay there, man?”
Our lockers are next to each other, with Cooper’s on my other side. Since I was last here a few days ago, someone added my
name and number to a metal placard over my slot. It’s strange to see Abney there, instead of Volkov, but I can’t deny the
sense of satisfaction it gives me.
“Fine, thanks.” I shove the home sweater back into the locker and pull out a practice one instead. Today is the first whole-team
workout, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. “How’s it going with you?”
He rips the end of the tape carefully and curves it over the handle. “Fine. That last reading was a bitch, wasn’t it? I’m
dreading the quiz.”
Right, we’re in the same economics class. I didn’t think it was so bad, but I just make a noncommittal noise. “Full pads,
right?”
“Yeah. Today won’t be too intense, though. Ryder likes to ease into it.”
As the rest of the guys filter in, I work on sorting through my gear. Cooper nods at me shortly when he enters, continuing his conversation with one of the other guys on defense, Evan Bell. He claps Evan on the shoulder before settling next to me. He’s clearly comfortable with everyone on this team, and meanwhile, my choices are to pretend I can hold a conversation with him, complain about economics class with Mickey, or sit in silence and listen to everyone else’s laughter. I miss John and the rest of my old teammates. We’ve talked since I left UMass, but it’s been uncomfortable. I don’t know what to say to make things go back to the way they were.
Cooper nudges my side. “Hey, Abney. You want to talk to them today?”
Say what you want about Cooper Callahan, but he’s been good about remembering what I said about my last name. Calling me by
my father’s name anyway would be an easy way to get a shot in, and he hasn’t gone there.
It’s almost enough to make me feel bad about accosting his sister in the library the other day.
Almost, but not quite.
At least I kept myself in check, in the end. She looked so goddamn pretty in that white denim skirt. The moment she left,
I leaned against the door and jerked myself with my slick hand until I came into my fist, thinking of the way her voice broke
around my name.
Now that there are more guys in here, I can’t help but notice the stares. A gangly kid who must be a freshman nudges his friend,
and both of them give me a quick look before putting their heads together and whispering. I know I have a reputation that
extends throughout Hockey East and beyond—most guys with a pro player for a father get at least some attention, even when
said player didn’t have an illustrious NHL career—but it’s always weird to see it in action.
“Hey, Volkov,” someone else asks from across the room. “Is it true that you knocked both of Emerson Hull’s front teeth out with one hit?”
“What about Coopy?” Evan asks. “He wouldn’t admit if you chipped him up.”
“That’s inconclusive,” Cooper says, a hint of amusement in his tone.
I definitely made him swallow a tooth sophomore year, but he did it to me first. I went a little too far with my insult—something about
getting back to the football field, I could hear his daddy calling—and he clocked me in the jaw. I punched him right back,
and the resulting fight led to twin suspensions.
“What about that hit on the Vermont goalie, what’s his name,” another guy says. “Right into the net. I saw the tape.”
“Worth the penalty,” I say, since half the guys in the room are staring at me—and especially the scar, I’m sure. I scrub my
hand through my hair. People assume that I got it thanks to a hockey injury, a skate to the face or something, and I never
correct them.
Starting on a new team sucks under normal circumstances, but this is particularly awkward. I played against most of these
guys for at least one season, if not more, and looking around, I can recall plenty of tense moments. Every team has instigators;
it’s not like my style of play is unique, but it’s one thing to fuck around with your opponents to knock them off their game
and another to skate on their side of the ice.
“It’s so cool that your dad played pro,” the skinny freshman says in an eager voice. “Too bad the Penguins didn’t stick with
him.”
“Did he coach you?” his friend asks.
Caught off guard, I nod. “Um, yeah. When I was younger.”
“That’s sick. You’re so lucky.”
I almost snort, but keep myself in check. Lucky. That’s one way to put it. I stand, tugging off my T-shirt.
“Whoa, man,” Mickey says. “Did you fuck a werewolf?”
Cooper whistles. “You must’ve been doing something right.”
Oh, fuck me. Isabelle left marks on my back, and I forgot about them until this moment.
“Yeah, well, I’m settling in.” I force a smirk. “Have to find a way to occupy myself until the season starts.”
“Amen to that,” Mickey says. “We should go out sometime. Callahan’s gotten boring since he fell for Ryder’s daughter.”
Cooper just shakes his head. “I feel sorry for you.”
“Yeah, totally,” I say, even though the thought of intimacy with anyone other than Isabelle sounds about as appealing as drinking
paint thinner.
“I’ve definitely heard more about you off the ice than on, man,” another guy says, to everyone’s laughter. “You’re a legend.”
You get caught hooking up with a chick in the locker room before a playoff game one time, and suddenly everyone in the conference thinks you’ve got game. I mean, I know I do, I’ve never had trouble finding
hookups, but the chatter about it is ridiculous. It’s just sex, and as long as everyone involved has a good time, it’s no
one’s business but theirs.
One of the other defensemen, Jean, leans over. “Dude. Did you really sleep with an entire women’s figure skating team?”
“I heard at the same time,” someone else adds.
“Hey,” Cooper says mildly. “Keep it respectful.”
“I think my dick would have fallen off if that was true.” The guys hoot at that, and one of the freshmen flushes beet-red.
“Anyway, I don’t kiss and tell, gentlemen.”
“I hope you’re getting ready in there,” Ryder drawls from the hallway.
I get into my gear, and I’m grabbing my stick when someone’s voice cuts through the rest of the chatter.
“Why are you here?”
I look over my shoulder. Aaron Rembeau, the goaltender, stands with his pads half-on, glancing around at the rest of the guys.
The side conversations fade out. “No offense, but it’s a little late for a transfer. Coop, do you know?”
I know what he’s really asking. He doesn’t have to say it aloud. He wants to know if he can trust me. If they—the team that
already existed long before I showed up—can put their faith in me as a teammate. My stomach tightens. I glance at Cooper,
who just raises an eyebrow. Letting me have the floor, like he promised.
“I know you know me as the captain of the Minutemen,” I say, looking around at the guys. My new teammates. “And I thought
that’s what I’d be doing this season, too. But I fucked up, and I was lucky enough to get a second chance here. I’m excited
to be a Royal.”
“Fucked up how?” Evan asks.
I relay the story quickly, and hopefully for the last time. It gets uncomfortable for a moment; drugs are the one thing you
never want to fuck with during the season, but gradually, everyone relaxes. Mickey even claps me on the back when I finish
talking. I miss my former teammates like hell, and I think everyone can hear that in my voice.
What matters is getting to the Frozen Four. Holding up the Stanley Cup isn’t in my future, but at least there’s a chance of
ending my college career on a high note. Looking around the room, I can see why Coach is confident. Aside from the strength
of the upperclassmen, there’s a hunger in the air, anticipating the start of the season, and that’s a language I will always
understand.
I stride to the door. “Let’s go. We’re not going to win it all if we don’t get started.”
“Yeah,” Cooper says, a hard note in his voice. “What Nikolai said.”
Fuck. I didn’t mean to play captain in front of everyone; it just slipped out. A few of the guys titter, looking between us.
I wait for a rebuff, but after a stifling pause, Cooper grabs his stick, too.
“Come on,” he says, shoulder knocking into mine as he passes. At the command, the team jolts into action.
During warm-ups, I stick to myself, so I don’t risk saying anything even more inane. I can’t stop putting my foot in my mouth
when it comes to this guy. I was serious when I agreed with him that the team is his; I’m not trying to steal the position
out from underneath him. He has the support of everyone in the locker room, and that didn’t happen accidentally.
Which is why I’m not at all surprised when, during our scrimmage, Cooper slams into me so hard, my stick goes flying.
I spin out, the world flashing purple and white as I collide with the boards. I stare at the ceiling for a moment, stars swimming
in my eyes. My body protests, but not terribly. It was a good check. If it had happened during a game, he wouldn’t have ended
up in the box.
I spit out my mouth guard, trying to catch my breath.
He stands over me, holding out his hand.
I’m sure everyone is waiting to see my reaction. If I’m going to take his hand and get up, or if I’m going to challenge him.
I’m not an idiot; I know the guys won’t embrace me without proof I’m one of them. Hell, Cooper is waiting too, his bare hand
still outstretched, glove tucked underneath his arm.
“Take it. That’s the last time I’ll ever hit you.”
I think of Isabelle and nearly laugh.
But I grip his hand, and he helps me to my feet. Our eyes meet. A beat passes in absolute silence.
I don’t sense trust yet, but I do sense respect. That’s going to have to be enough for now.
“Grab your stick,” he says, skating backward with a gracefulness that’s hard to match, even for me. “Your turn.”