Chapter 9
Lex
“Why are you putting on the game?” I ask Dad, hours later.
“I want to see them make fools of themselves,” he grumbles.
Ally shifts on the corner of the couch opposite mine and smiles tenderly at him like he doesn’t have steam coming out of his ears.
“Here you go,” Corinne, Dad’s chef, announces. She walks into the living room with a huge tray that’s stacked with so many plates I can’t make out any of it.
I go to stand to help her but Dad’s there before I can.
“Thank you, Corinne,” he says and focuses on not dropping anything as he sets the tray on the coffee table. Ally and I chorus him, and Corinne pats my shoulder and then my head before walking back to the kitchen.
“They’re going to lose to a supposedly lesser Vancouver team, and I want to enjoy my first time rooting against the Empire. It’s an important day for me, you know.”
His gentle smile is yet another thing that threatens to break me, but I dig the nail of my thumb into my index finger to keep my shit together and nod back at him.
As if what he just said doesn’t mean more to me than I can express. As if he hasn’t proved to me, yet again, that he’s not only the best father in the world but also one of the best and most protective, loyal humans I’ve ever met.
I’ve always admired him, but I think today I can finally let myself admit that I want to be like him when I grow up.
“I love you, Papa,” I whisper, my voice still lacking strength, but I guess it means more like this, doesn’t it? Using the name I called him when I was little, letting him see me as the kid I still feel like most of the time.
“I love you too, little king,” he whispers and sits between me and Ally. “I’m gonna call Paul.” The truly unhinged glint in his eyes makes me realize what an idiot I was for not telling Dad before I broke down.
The call is long enough that they’re still on the phone when the first period of the game is halfway over. Of course, now they’re dissecting every play, and I’m impressed with how they’re mocking my teammates, but I also know it’s going to take a while for it to sink in for both of them.
They’ve been loyal to the team they made legendary for over four decades, and that can’t just disappear overnight, right?
I don’t know how hard it’ll hit them eventually, but Uncle Paul definitely sounds less animalistic than Dad when he says goodbye.
“Call me if you need anything, Alexei.” Ridiculously, the use of my first name also chokes me up. I don’t remember the last time my godfather called me Alexei. I’ve been Lex to everyone I call family for my whole life.
“Thanks, Uncle Paul, I will.”
“Good.” I can picture his decisive nod perfectly.
Dad puts his phone away then looks at me with a less manic smile on his face.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what team you want to go to?”
December 15th
After two days spent with Dad sharing his strength with me and Ally pampering me, I have a new goal when I walk into the practice rink.
I want to act and feel like I did when I was in juniors, like I did when I got drafted first overall.
I’m not expecting it to be easy, and after getting over the shock of Dad of all people telling me I should seriously think about getting a therapist, I know I’ll need help getting back to that place where I was confident in my game, and when hockey didn’t equal dread.
This doesn’t mean I’m going to give my best hockey to these assholes, though.
What I’m going to do is bide my time.
In less than twenty-four hours, Patrick is going to walk in here and lay down the law on this fucking team. I’m going to be thirty thousand feet in the air on my way to Florida and I’m going to be giving them the bare minimum on everything.
I know it won’t be easy. I know it might take months, but now I know Dad’s on my side.
The embarrassment of needing my father hasn’t hit yet, and I hope it never does because it’s fucking liberating to feel this strong again, this safe.
I straighten my spine and set my shoulders before I walk into the locker room, preparing myself because I know it’s not going to be easy to remain like this.
Sure enough, Bojarski is the first to snap his eyes up at me, and a sneer immediately curls his lips.
“You fucking snitch,” he shouts, whiny and petulant.
“I am,” I tell him, keeping my tone measured.
I only spare him a glance before moving on to my locker but I feel him stand and stalk closer to me. It might seem stupid and like asking for trouble, but I’m not going to delay this any longer, I can’t.
I face him head on because I’m not going to spend however long I have left in this team being intimidated and bullied. I’ve got four inches on him, and I use them to make him feel as little as a cockroach as I step right up to him and stare him down.
“You should keep that in mind next time you want to run your mouth at me. I’ll punch you again, but that will be the least of your worries. Next time, I’m going to sue the shit out of you so by the time my lawyers are done with you, you won’t even be able to afford a McDonald’s breakfast.
“I’m going to be watching you, Bojarski. Everything and anything you do. Any puck bunny you pick up, any time you step out of line I’m going to remember it, and I’m going to make sure your life is dust by the time I’m done with you.”
I step back, take a lazy look around the room and see everyone’s watching, everyone’s listening. Their faces are like a rainbow of different emotions, but I don’t stop to dissect them.
None of these men ever tried to be my friend, ever tried to defend me, to stand up for what’s right.
I won’t ever stand up for them.
I focus on Bojarski’s furious eyes for the last time and let that strength show, and I smirk at him with the knowledge that he’ll regret ever making an enemy out of me.
“And either way, good luck not letting any goals in without me helping you.”
I can tell he wants to react. I know he wants to punch me, goad me, try to hurt me with words the way he always has, but he’s a coward, and he’s not stupid enough to think I’m bluffing.
Thanks to my little announcement, practice is boring as hell.
No one passes to me, no one speaks to me—not even coach Rocco, the biggest coward of them all—and I ignore them right back, but when everyone leaves I stay on the ice.
To play, to fall in love with the game again, to stay sharp and in shape.
And to make sure I don’t have to spend an extra second with any of them.
December 17th
Sitting on the bench, I don’t even bother reaching for the water bottle because I’m not winded at all after fifty seconds on the ice. For some reason, Rocco has kept me on the same line, and as center.
I’ve won all the face-offs against the Tampa star center, but I don’t do much else.
Unless the puck literally lands on my stick, I barely even move.
When it does, I take it up the ice and do my best to score, which is the only reason why we have two goals against Tampa’s five.
Yeah, Bojarski is a shitty goalie and none of the D-men are helping, least of all Girard and Ewing, the two on my line.
Peters, my supposed left wing and the miserably mediocre captain of the Empire, barely does anything too.
He’s jaded at thirty-four, and I don’t blame him for that, but I do blame him for being a shitty leader and for having turned a blind eye to how everyone has treated me since the moment I became part of the team.
We lose.
For once they don’t pick me for media availability, and for the first time in a week, I have to shower with the team. There’s an insistent knot of nerves in the pit of my stomach, but I soldier through and resign myself to reacting however I see fit if anyone starts shit.
No one does, though the fact that I’m stupidly vigilant and the intense and uncomfortable vulnerability I feel is something I never want to experience again.
It feels disgusting and more wrong than anything ever has before. It’s humiliating even though no one knows, no one speaks.
I get through it as fast as I can and force myself not to run out of the locker room, but to walk at a normal pace.
I sit at the back of the bus, put my headphones on, and call Eli.
He knows everything that’s been happening, of course. I called him the first night I stayed at Dad’s and convinced him to swear he wouldn’t tell Mom or Michael.
He hasn’t, because as his nickname indicates, he’s too good for this world. He’s also slowed down a lot on posting since almost everything people have talked about regarding me online isn’t something he can organically use to change our narrative.
At least not without letting the whole world know what my reality is. And though he hates it, he understands why we can’t say anything publicly right now.
Three days later, we lose again, falling to Carolina 4–2 and when they call my name for media, I simply say no and keep walking.
Hockey is a team sport, but no matter how good I am, I’m not about to give politically correct answers to a room full of reporters and come even close to admitting I’m part of the problem.
I am . . . now, but I’m done being a team player.
December 22nd
“Don’t bother coming back out unless you plan to win some games for us!” Coach Rocco screams inside the DC visiting locker room.
His anger does nothing to me.
His threats mean nothing.
I’m pretty sure he knows I’ve asked for a trade already because management told Patrick they needed his input before they chose which offer to take for me.
Patrick agreed, but nothing had changed until today. My guess is Rocco is now under fire, and there’s no way I’ll ever feel bad about it.
“I’m happy to stay here. You’re the one who refused to build a full team, and expected me to win on my own.”
He reels back from where he was trying to loom threateningly over me—clearly he didn’t expect me to talk back, and I would never normally do that to a coach, yet here we are.