Chapter 64
Nikolai
I put on a goddamn show.
Every shift, every cut across the ice, every pass and block and check, comes together like choreography. Hockey demands every
brutal second of focus, and I don’t blink. My shifts pass in blurs, as natural as breathing, and when I’m on the bench, I
just chug water and stare at my skates. Isabelle’s here, but I don’t look at her. I especially don’t look at my father. I’m
aware of him—he’s sitting in the front row, middle ice, his eyes narrowed as he tracks each play—but I don’t give him the
satisfaction of even a shared glance.
It’s the third period. The guys realized early on that I’m not feeling chatty and leave me at the end of the bench whenever
I’m on it. We’re up by a goal, but Vermont keeps pressing. Unless we stay sharp on defense, we’re not going to get out of
this with a win.
There’s an opening for me and Evan to get off the ice. We haul ass for the bench. Cooper’s gloved hand squeezes my shoulder
as we trade places. I switch out my stick for a fresh one, fiddling with the tape. My shoulder, newly sore thanks to a check
early in the game, throbs, but I welcome it.
I think I secretly hoped for a moment like this, all along. I had enough pride not to ask for it outright, but I wanted my father to see the player I’ve become. At eighteen, the last time he saw me in person before tonight, my skills weren’t as sharp. There’s no doubt now that I’m ready to play professionally. This game is a team effort, of course it is, but I’ve set the tone tonight. I’ve carved up Vermont’s offense with the precision of a surgeon, and got the assist on the lone goal earlier. It’s been a clean, efficient game. Dad will have something to critique, because he always does, but deep down, I know I’m at the top of my abilities right now.
My next shift comes. We’ve been stalwart tonight, protecting our side of the ice like an army around a fortress. Cooper falls
back while I press forward, tracking as Mickey and the others circle Vermont’s net. Cooper takes the shot, but it goes wide;
he slams into one of the defenders as they chase it behind the net. A Vermont winger comes up with it, picking up speed as
he skates to the other end of the ice.
I check him into the boards, fighting for the puck. I don’t mean to, but with my face pressed against the glass, I catch sight
of Dad.
He’s cheering. Shouting, in fact, pounding his hand against the glass. Most of what he’s saying gets lost in the noise of
the crowd, but my name—Kolya—rises above everything else.
I nearly lose concentration, unable to process what I’m seeing, but the Vermont player’s elbow catches me in the stomach.
I grunt through the burst of pain, managing to take possession of the puck. I smack it to Cooper, who gets it out of our zone.
The moment the horn sounds a few minutes later, ending the game, the entire arena erupts into frenzied cheers. Cooper shakes
my shoulders, shouting with excitement; he pulls me into the middle of the celebration forming on center ice. I try to focus
on my teammates—my Hockey East champion teammates, I realize as my heart leaps—but I can’t help risking another look at the
seats.
He’s already gone. From cheering and shouting to gone . Evan pulls me into a hug, and Jean starts a McFucking McKee chant as he pounds on my back, yet I’m utterly frozen, unable to stop staring at that empty seat.
“We fucking did it!” Cooper says, hugging me tightly. “Holy shit, Nik, we did it!”
I twist away from him, skating for the bench. We did it. I should be fucking elated. I was elated three seconds ago, watching
Dad cheer me on, but now the tight, panicked feeling I had in the locker room comes rushing back. I spin in a circle, looking
for Isabelle, but I can’t find her in the crowd of cheering fans. I rub my chest. I need to get out of this gear.
An empty seat. I know who he is, I know I shouldn’t care, but part of me thought that maybe...
“Son?” Ryder asks me as I pass. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” I manage to force out. I even smile. “We did it.”
He claps me on the shoulder, eyes bright with excitement. “What are you doing? Get back out there, celebrate with the guys.”
I take off my helmet, tucking it underneath my arm. Sweat drips down the side of my face. I wipe it away with a trembling
hand. “I have to find my dad.”
“Of course.” His eyes soften. “He’ll be so proud of you.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.
“And I’m proud of you, too. You played a hell of a game, just like you have all season.” He clears his throat, glancing at
the ever-growing celebration on the ice. “I know the Sharks got in touch. If this was your last game with us—I want you to
know it was an honor to coach you. You’re a special talent, son.”
I blink once, hard. “Thank you.”
He gives me another pat on the shoulder before letting me pass. I tear through the tunnel.
There he is. Waiting.
Part of me wants to turn around and head back onto the ice. But I’m too curious for that, and anyway, if he doesn’t talk to
me now, he’ll just find a way to make it happen later.
He hasn’t cheered for me like that since I was thirteen.
He hasn’t hurt me since then, either.
I have to keep my head. Maybe he’s changed, but I doubt it. It’s not fair that he gave me this talent, this love, without
being a good father. I can wish all I want that things were different. That doesn’t make it so.
“Kolya!” he says, pulling me into a one-armed hug. He presses a kiss to my sweaty hair. “I definitely owe you that drink.”
He half drags me down the hallway, around a corner and away from the crowd. I let him, dazed by the tone of his voice, the
display of affection I haven’t gotten from him in so long, I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. As the sounds of the crowd
fade into the background, I finally wrestle myself away from him, backing up a few steps.
There’s a hint of alcohol on his breath. Of course. It was too much to hope that that part of him had changed.
“No critiques?” I swipe my hand through my hair. My palms were already sweaty, but now my fingertips are going numb. “I expected
more feedback.”
“You played an excellent game, start to finish.”
“I doubt you actually think that.”
“You were sharp and focused. You’ve gotten so clever, Nikolasha. You’re exceptional at reading the offense.” He laughs in
disbelief, shaking his head. “I was so proud to see that—”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop—doing that. Praising me.”
“You earned it.”
“I know I did,” I say shortly. I flatten myself against the wall, letting the hallway act as a chasm between us. I shove down the tiny sliver of my soul that wants to embrace him again, and stay there as long as he’ll let me. The Russian rolls off my tongue the way it did the other night, with Isabelle. “I know I’m talented. I don’t need you to tell me that.”
“A father can’t tell his son how proud he is of him?”
“Not when I remember how much you liked to point out my mistakes.”
“To make you better.” He takes a step closer, his gaze soft and beseeching. “To get you to this point. You know that.”
“Is that what it was? Encouragement?”
“Of course.”
“And what about the rest of it?”
“The rest of what?”
I never should have left the ice. “You know what I mean.”
He doesn’t take the bait. “I pushed you from the very beginning because I knew you could be great. And I was right. I’ve been
patient for so long, Kolya—but now it’s time to come home.”
Scratch that. I never should have let it get to this point at all. “Home? I was born here, I’ve lived here—”
“Your childhood memories are in Russia. It’s where you belong. Not here.”
“You can’t actually believe I think that.” My voice hardens. “What about everything else? Or do you think I’ve forgotten by
now?”
“Think about how good it would feel to come home. You’ve been away for too long.”
“This has nothing to do with being Russian,” I finally burst out, my voice rising. It echoes in the hallway. “It has everything
to do with you. You’re what I don’t want anything to do with, Dad. Not my heritage.”
Something ugly crosses his face for the barest moment. Then he wipes it blank, forcing another smile. “Of course I have regrets.
If we could just talk about this—”
“Regrets? That’s a funny word for abuse.” I push away from the wall, getting in his face. After years and years, the anger is finally pouring out. I can hardly think over the rush of blood in my ears. “Here I was thinking maybe you changed, but I see you’re still the same piece of shit you were when we left. How many drinks tonight, Dad? How long until you snap?”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. The calculated hint of warmth leaves his eyes.
We’re the same height now, I realize with a jolt. He was my age when he met my mother, when he tried his hand at the NHL and
failed miserably. Let him take a swing at me. I couldn’t fight back properly at thirteen, but I can do it now. It doesn’t
fucking matter if someone walks in on us brawling, because I’m not going to California.
“Son—”
“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son.”
He hustles me against the wall, hands fisted in my jersey. A wild lick of panic punches through the anger. The scar on my
face twinges with phantom pain. I swipe my tongue over my lip, chest heaving.
Instead of taking a swing, he cups my jaw. Traces my scar. I try to twist away, but he leans his weight into me, pinning me
to the wall.
“You might wear a different name on your uniform, but you’re still my son. Nikolai Andreyevich Volkov.” He says my full name
slowly, lovingly. “The name I gave you. The name your mother called beautiful. You can’t change blood, Kolya.”
I shove my elbow into his chest. “Fuck you.”
He grunts with pain, but he just smiles, self-satisfied. “You’re my son. You will always be my son.”
“Then guess what, Dad? You just saw your son play one of his last games. Congratulations.”
His grip loosens. “What?”
Before I can twist the knife, even if it’s a wound for me as well as him, someone says my name.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. My sweater on her body. Glitter on her cheeks. Blue eyes, wide with shock.
Isabelle.