Chapter 50
Nikolai
I narrow my eyes as I stare at Tangerine. She stares right back, her eyes unnervingly bright, tail swishing on the notebook
I need. When I try to slide it out from underneath her, she stomps her paw down. She must have decided she liked me on Valentine’s
Day, because now whenever I’m at Isabelle’s, she refuses to leave me alone. Cooper had a bunch of the guys over earlier this
week to watch the Devils-Rangers game, and she plopped herself in my lap the instant I sat down.
“Really? What are you going to do with that?”
She meows at me.
“Are you going to write my paper? What are your thoughts on China in the global economy?”
She licks her paw, blinking slowly. While she doesn’t move, she welcomes a scratch behind the ears. I reach for the notebook
again, hoping to snag it while she’s distracted.
“She has a rich inner life,” Cooper says from the doorway. He takes off his Yankees cap and tosses it onto the kitchen island.
“I wouldn’t put it past her. Is Izzy still here?”
Tangerine cranes her neck around to look at him. He picks her up—I grab the notebook while I can—and kisses the top of her
head before setting her on the floor. She leaps onto the windowsill, lounging on it like it’s a throne. He gives her a faint
smile as he sits across from me.
“No,” I reply. “She left a few hours ago.”
“Her car’s in the driveway.”
“I arranged a car for her.” I flip to the right page in my notebook. My notes are a disaster, but I need all the help I can get for this seminar, the last of my major requirements. “She seemed anxious about driving that far.”
“Yeah, I was surprised to hear she was going all the way to Philly again. Thanks.”
I pull up my half-finished essay. I make a face at it, then push the laptop away. Even if the end of college means committing
to an office job, it has to be more interesting than finding a way to make bullshit arguments for the sake of grades. “There’s
a specific store Bex wanted to shop at for the dress. I think the owner is connected to the Eagles somehow. Is it okay that
I’m here? I offered to go, but she said you wouldn’t mind.”
“Yeah, of course.” He eyes the spread of papers around me. “I don’t envy whatever this is. Although I’m reading Crime and Punishment again. I thought I escaped that when I took a class on Russian literature sophomore year.”
“I’ve never read it.”
“No?”
“What, do you think they hand it out in kindergarten? Here, have some pencils, Prestupléniye i nakazániye , and the complete works of Chekov?”
“Of course not. It’s Marx, isn’t it?”
My lips twitch at the smirk on his face. “And what, you’ve read all of Maya Angelou and Mark Twain?”
He snorts with laughter. “A good chunk of both, actually.”
“This is rough,” I say, holding up an article I annotated a few days ago, when Dad called yet again and I couldn’t fall back
asleep afterward. “It’s about China’s bureaucratic structure.”
“Sounds riveting.” He tips the chair, balancing on the two back legs with a practiced air. “God, I can’t wait until this is
over. Next year is going to be so much better.”
“Don’t wish away the rest of the season.”
“No, definitely not.” He lets the chair fall back into place. “And thank fuck it’s been going well, Remmy’s been a beast in
the net since the second half started. But don’t you wish you were already playing for real?”
My chest tightens. He’s looking at me earnestly, clearly thinking about skating onto the ice at MSG or TD Garden. Imagining
both of us, probably; we’ve spoken a lot recently about the Sharks, never mind the fact that it’s not in the cards for me.
The uncomplicated way he talks about it, eager yet level-headed, makes me so jealous, I have to keep the conversations short.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “It’ll happen soon enough.”
“Want to get a beer? The Rangers are playing your future team in a bit.”
The paper is due in a few days, but a beer sounds fantastic, actually. Even though I’m sure he’s just missing his brother,
I’ll take it.
I stand, shrugging on my leather jacket. “Fine, but you’re buying, Callahan.”
Cooper sets down his beer with a thud, raising his arms in a half cheer. “Come on, come on—shit.”
“Didn’t set it up,” I say, watching as Panarin skates in a loop around the Sharks goal, shaking his head. “That was sloppy.”
“He’s been scoring a ton of goals recently.” Cooper takes a sip of beer. “And they’ve had opportunities this game. Sharks
could use another weapon on defense.”
At that, he elbows my side. I just roll my eyes, pushing my empty beer across the counter and gesturing to the bartender for
another. It’s ironic, considering how much Dad drinks, but I’m sure if he saw me have two beers in a row, he’d tell me it’ll
give me a gut.
“And that’s me?”
“I don’t know what they’re waiting for.”
“You should be happy they’re waiting. We’re dominating Hockey East right now.”
“On the hockey team?” the guy sitting next to Cooper asks. He’s middle-aged and gray-haired, wearing a Rangers-era Gretzky
jersey. “I’ve been to a couple of your games this season.”
Cooper raises his glass in a salute. “Thanks, man.”
“Hey, you’re Richard Callahan’s kid,” the guy says, snapping his fingers.
I watch Cooper to see if the immediate connection to his father bothers him, but he just flashes the guy a smile.
“Guilty.” He claps me on the shoulder. “And this is my teammate, Nikolai Abney. Listen for his name on the Sharks, like, next
week.”
“He’s exaggerating,” I say, even though technically speaking, they could call me up. Especially as the season goes on and
they keep staying in the mix for the playoffs.
“The Sharks are good, but if they want to make a run, they need more defense.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Cooper says.
The bartender passes over another beer. I take a long sip. Cooper and the guy are talking about stat lines, and I chime in
with a few comments, but for the most part, I keep my eyes on the game.
It’s a weird thought, what it would be like to play a game that’s televised. It’s happened a few times over the years, and
I just flat-out ignored the cameras, but something tells me the atmosphere of an NHL arena—and all the media personnel—would
make it a much different experience.
I know I’d be able to handle it. No offense to the other teams we play, but there’s no competition. I carve up the ice whenever I step onto it; I have every bit of my father’s instincts and more raw athletic ability. It would be a weird transition, yeah, but a completely doable one. Let me beat Panarin in man coverage, I could fucking do it. I could surprise him with some Russian trash talk, too.
I finish my second beer. I shouldn’t think about it. And I should stop drinking, especially in the middle of the afternoon.
The next time the bartender swings around, I ask for a seltzer. The guy shakes our hands and moves along.
I sigh, tilting my head back. The ceiling in Lark’s is made of hammered metal. Never noticed it before now, despite coming
here regularly with the team.
“You okay?” Cooper asks. “You’ve been quieter than usual.”
“Fine.”
“Come on, man.” His voice sounds light enough, but I catch the worry. Damn Callahans. “Want to go home?”
I keep my eyes on the television. “It’s not happening.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not going to the NHL.”
“Wait. Not the Russian league, right?”
“I’m going to work for my grandfather when I graduate.”
He’s quiet for so long I squirm on the barstool, wondering if I miscalculated confiding in him. Shit. Maybe the moment we
shared outside his family’s house on Christmas Eve was a one-off.
“Does Izzy know?” he asks eventually.
“No,” I admit, teeth scraping the inside of my cheek. Part of me has regretted that I didn’t just bite the bullet and tell
her about it on New Year’s. I don’t know why I didn’t do it. I think part of me knew how disappointed she would be and didn’t
want to have to face that. Of course she’s going to hate it. I don’t like it either. But I made a promise, and I need to be
the kind of man who keeps his promises.
“You have to tell her.”
“She’ll be happy, I’ll bet.” I fiddle with the tab on my seltzer can. “I’ll be in New York permanently.”
“I fucking hope that’s sarcastic. You can work for his business when you retire, if you want. You can’t put off a shot at
the NHL.”
“That’s the deal I made with him. He got me into McKee, but I agreed not to play hockey professionally.”
“Jesus Christ.” He sits back, mouth open in disbelief. “What, does he hate hockey or something?”
“Something like that.”
“Can’t you just tell him to fuck off?”
“I’m fine with it.”
“Like hell you are.” He leans in, lowering his voice, his expression open and earnest. “I don’t know what moment it was for
you, but the instant I understood what hockey was—what it felt like to play it—I knew I wasn’t doing anything else.”
I wish I had something stronger to knock back. “I was three. First real memory.”
The curve of my father’s smile, his taped fingers lacing up my tiny skates. When he taught me to skate, he pushed me onto
the ice and let me figure it out. Then he put a hockey stick in my hand, dumped a bunch of pucks around, and let me figure
that out, too.
“Your dad, yeah?”
I shrug. “He wanted his son to play hockey.”
“Is he okay with you giving it up?”
“He doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice clipped enough that Cooper puts his hands up.
“Okay,” he says. “I’m just saying, I know you love it as much as me.”
I glance around the bar. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so it’s not too crowded. Other than a few solo drinkers, we’re
alone.
I assumed that when I told Isabelle everything, that would be the end of it. It took everything I had to force the words out. But with Cooper... I don’t know. I want him to understand the whole story. Maybe talking to Isabelle loosened whatever lock and key I’ve kept the past under even more than I realized.
“Look,” I say. “Isabelle already knows this. And I’ll tell her about the hockey, I will, just... give me some time to do
it.”
“Okay,” he says warily. “What is it?”
Fuck it. I signal the bartender again. Even if alcohol sometimes makes me nauseated—a holdover, no doubt, from seeing Dad
abuse it—I could use a stiff drink for this. I pick up my shot of vodka, clinking it gently against Cooper’s as I toast to
us in Russian.
I make a face as the sharp liquid hits my tongue. It should be chilled, not room temperature. I might not drink it very often,
but I abide by that rule.
All the same, the liquid warms my chest. In Russia, drinking isn’t a problem unless you’re doing it alone. That, my father
did plenty. I wonder if he still does, or if he actually grew up once we left. It’s probably too much to hope for, because
he’s never said so, but I can’t be sure.
“What did you say?” Cooper asks.
“To our friendship.”
“Aw, Abney,” he says, putting his hand over his heart. “I’m flattered.”
“Technically, he should have left the bottle.”
“Well, we’re being good athletes.”
“As long as you know that I could drink you under the table,” I say, knocking my boot against his.
“We’ll have to test that sometime. I come from Irish stock, you know.”
I look away, clearing my throat. Time to jump, if I’m going to do it at all. “My dad is a piece of shit, Coop.”
The amusement slips off his face. “Oh.”
“This scar isn’t because of a skate to the face.” I shiver, remembering the moment Dad threw the glass. “It was him.”
I brace myself for disgust or discomfort, but it doesn’t come. Without missing a beat, he waves to the bartender.
“Fuck being a good athlete. We need the bottle for this.”