Chapter 8
Lex
Life moves slowly from the moment I wake up to when I walk back into my apartment or hotel room every day.
Going to practices, doing media, playing games every two or three days, and short roadies . . . it all drags at a snail’s pace ever since I had the trade talk with Patrick.
Once it’s real.
Nothing’s changed, really. There’s no way Patrick could ever rush the very delicate and secretive conversations he needs to have, but the moment I get home, I can at least go online in peace and see what crazy things Eli’s been posting.
I get to smile at my phone like an idiot then pretend I’m cool when we talk right before Eli goes to bed.
Or right before he’s supposed to go to bed.
There’s been no obsessive binges since I last saw him, I don’t think, but he has been working longer than nine hours a day since he’s getting a bunch of new clients, and I’m sure he’s working on a few other things he can’t talk to anyone about.
Eli always has a few projects going on at the same time.
I know that’s how he likes it, how he thrives.
He always manages to ask how I’m doing, though, and wants to know absolutely everything about the most mundane things.
He demanded a tour of my apartment, which I was ashamed to realize he’d never seen before.
He listens while I explain the meal plans the team sends us home with, and he also asks a lot of questions about hockey, which remind me that I actually love it.
It’s a good reminder.
Hockey’s my first love. Eli’s my second one, of course, but I fell in love with hockey before I could understand what a lifelong dream was, before I even had control of my bladder for fuck’s sake.
There’s been moments when I’ve hated it, of course, moments when I’ve felt that insurmountable pressure of being a Jankowski, but I will never regret how Dad put me on skates the day after I stood on my own two feet for the first time.
I will never regret those precious few memories I have of Vinny leading me around the rink with endless patience when he’s always had very little of it to spare.
All the damn feelings and memories that rise up every time I talk to Eli about hockey help me come to terms with my decision to ask for a trade, to hope that it happens this season.
Still, I can tell Eli’s biting back questions about the possibility of trades, and more specifically, questions about which teams I told Patrick I’d accept being traded to.
I haven’t been able to bring myself to tell him the details because I don’t want to disappoint him. I don’t want him to think I’m not choosing him, because I am. I’m also choosing myself, though, and I think in this case, that has to come first.
If everything goes to plan, I’m still going to be close, just not as close as either of us would probably want. I know that if I did tell him, he’d understand. He’d process the information and work around it, but talking to him is the only good thing I have.
I don’t want to . . . infect that with the depressing reality that is my career right now.
I didn’t tell him that on that fateful phone call, Patrick got his wife Cindy—who’s my cousins’s manager—to listen in so she could literally take notes.
He asked me to explain, in as much detail as possible, every instance of harassment, of violence during practices, and of bullying.
I balked at the term, of course, I’m an adult, how can anyone bully an adult?
They had very big opinions about that.
They asked for dates, locations, sometimes even timeframes, and documented everything so “we have all our ducks in a row when I barge into the GM’s office and take him to the fucking cleaners” All I know now is that Patrick has been having lots of very private conversations with a few people, and that we don’t have anything concrete yet so I’m still stuck playing for a team that hates me, and keeping my mouth shut.
I’ve gone so far as to start avoiding Dad, or I guess, I avoid spending long periods of time with Dad, because there’s no way to escape him when he has a private suite at the arena and basically an open invitation to every inch of the facilities.
I’ve seen him a few times in the past three weeks, and I know I’m going to have to give him something when Christmas rolls around, but for now I’ve been managing by letting him ramble on for hours about Ally.
And hey, I’ve got nothing against Dad’s girlfriend, I actually really like her and her son Corey, but hearing about her smile for more than one minute is excessive in my opinion.
It gets me out of talking, though . . .
Thinking about it any more isn’t going to help.
I have to get up, get ready, and head to the practice rink for a quick morning skate before tonight’s home game against Vancouver.
I take one thing for myself, though.
I open threads and go right to Eli’s profile to see what he’s been up to and a smile instantly takes over my face.
@ivalsupremacy
I will fight to the death on this hill: if the Jankowskis are ever on the same team, they’d win ten straight cups. Did you see Alexei’s hat trick against San Jose? Ruko built them in a lab.
@eliellsworth @ivalsupremacy
Here’s how that would go: their cubbies would HAVE to be on opposite sides of the locker room, and someone’s literal job would be to stop them from bickering when they’re not actually playing.
Their teammates would go insane or egg them on.
The only person fit for babysitting them would be Hulk, and he not only has better things to do, but he’s already done his time with those two.
Sorry, seems unlikely. Just for the bickering, not for any other reason of course
@empirerise @eliellsworth
eli ellsworth has been back on socials for less than five seconds but I’ve seen enough. if anyone is mean to him, I’ll kill everyone in this room and then myself.
I chuckle, impressed by the quick and fervent loyalty he’s earned from our fans, then I decide to stir the pot. I like Eli’s response and leave a comment of my own.
@alexeijankowski15 @eliellsworth
accurate.
I walk into the locker room to see almost everyone is already here, but McGowan, my right wing, Girard, one of the defensemen on our line, and fucking Bojarski are huddled around a phone. They’re in gear already, even have their skates on.
I have to clamp my mouth shut and actually bite my tongue to stop from groaning. Instead, I just walk straight to my cubbie and dump my duffel, then get right to changing for practice.
I don’t even have my sweatshirt off when Bougie notices me.
“Hey, Barbie! We just saw those posts from your best friend, Eli.” His smile, and the two other ones that appear when they all turn to look at me like sharks smelling water, have dread pooling in my gut.
The sounds around the room dim, like everyone knows something’s about to happen.
“Man, that little fairy is so in love with you!” He slaps a hand on his thigh and laughs, and my legs move on autopilot.
“Good thing your brother’s already taken, or you’d lose your only fan. ”
I barely hear him over the blood rushing to my ears. All I see is red, all I know is that suddenly I’m pushing him against his little posse. When his lip lifts into a sneer, I still can’t think. I only act.
One punch, delivered perfectly right to the side of his nose and cheek. Nothing cracks under my knuckles, but I know how much it hurts. He wasn’t ready for it, and he stumbles back again, crashing all of them against their cubbies.
I used to tell him to keep my brother out of his mouth, until Vinny told me to not bother, until Vinny made it his mission to humiliate my goalie every time we play against Vegas.
He’s big for a goalie, and even bigger wearing gear, but I’m still the son of the motherfucking Hulk, and I can act like it even though I rarely do.
My knuckles burn with the second punch to his eye, and I suspect I split his eyebrow open, but I don’t wait to check. I fist his collar with my left hand but someone grabs my arms, pulling me back back and away.
“Jankowski!” The roar of coach Rocco’s voice breaks through my haze and I turn to see him standing by the door. “Take a fucking lap.”
This is how he handles everything . . . a fucking lap.
I look around at the stunned faces and realize two guys from the fourth line were the ones who’d grabbed me. I shake them off, and I’m not gentle.
“Gladly.” I don’t bother with more. I don’t ask for permission, I simply grab my duffel and my sweatshirt and get the fuck out, and I keep walking until I’m throwing everything in the trunk of my car.
I don’t have a plan, at least I didn’t think one through until I’m parking behind Dad’s SUV, looking up at the house I grew up in . . . for the most part.
I walk in with my heartbeat still going crazy, with my ears still ringing, with my hand still throbbing.
None of that changes, even when I walk in to find Dad and Ally making out on the couch like they’re teenagers.
I can’t appreciate the hilarity of the moment, I can only clear my throat to alert them to my presence.
“Need you in the gym,” is all I say, and I see understanding dawn on him by how his face darkens, how that temper creeps in as he scans me from head to toe.
I nod at Ally before turning on my heel and walking to the door that leads to the semi-basement. It has huge glass doors that lead to the side lawn, but it’s still technically a basement, and it’s a full gym.
There’s even a sparring MMA ring, which I ignore for now and go right to the heavy punching bag by the wall of mirrors.
As I wait for Dad to come hold it for me, I finally look at my knuckles. They’re only red, only the middle one has blood on it, though it’s barely a drop.
Still . . . I walk to the rack on the other side of the gym and grab two gloves—Dad’s gonna make me wear them anyway.
He’s there by the time I get back to the bag, holding it steady for me, his hands high, because he knows I like to mix things up. I breathe out once, then release.