Chapter 17
Lex
I never thought I’d be indifferent to Eli’s startled gaze, to the slight fear and apprehension in his eyes, or to his stuttered out response.
“I-I said that T-Tucker made the t-trade happ—”
“It was a rhetorical fucking question, Eli!” I shout. “Fucking hell, I can’t believe this,” I say to myself.
I have to stand, have to hold my head, pull hard on my hair, because this seriously cannot be happening.
“It’s fine,” Eli says, his obvious panic barely penetrating the rush of blood in my ears. “I asked him for a favor and I’ll have to do something for him at some point, but it got you here, didn’t it? So who cares if I owe him?”
I stare at him, incredulous for a long second, and wonder if he really thinks what he’s saying is in any way going to make this better.
“Seriously?” I ask, wondering—hoping—that he’s actually messing with me.
He nods, all earnest and fucking clueless, goddammit.
“After Buffalo I started doing the social media thing we talked about right? But it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t going to get you out of that team, so when you told me you’d talked to Patrick, I just told—”
“You stuck your smartass nose where it doesn’t belong,” I snap.
“Lex, I don’t understand—”
“That’s right, you don’t fucking understand!
” I roar at him. “You have no idea the fucking shitshow you’ve created, and if anyone finds out, I might never play hockey again.
” His beautiful blue eyes begin to fill, but I’m past the point of caring.
“All because your spoiled ass wanted me here, conveniently playing just a few blocks away from your house, in your city. You obviously didn’t stop to think about what it means that I’m now playing in the biggest media market in North fucking America.
You of all people, should fucking know it, since your father owns that media market.
“I’m Alexei Jankowski, son of the Hulk, brother of the Eagle, godson of the great Paul Wayne.
Everyone already thinks my family somehow rigged the Draft lottery so the Empire could get me as the first pick, and believe me, they’re all probably convinced my family orchestrated this whole shitshow.
They think we’re some hockey mafia already, Eli.
And what you just did could prove them all right.
“And on top of that, you clearly didn’t stop and think about what playing for a team owned by Jim Barclay would be like for me.
You freaking know him personally, so you better than anyone would know he’s a fucking homophobe.
He’s made public fucking statements about my brother’s team being a disgrace to the sport.
And he now owns my ass. That kind of thinking bleeds down the totem pole, and I know for a fact the GM is a bigot too.
I don’t know what the fuck Tucker did to convince him to get me, but he sure as shit stuck his neck out for this. For a favor from you.”
I step back, chest heaving with heavy breaths that seems to be doing absolutely nothing for my lungs.
“I told you,” I whisper now, my thoughts still spiraling but somehow still bursting out of me without me choosing the words. “In Buffalo, I told you talking to Tucker wasn’t something I should do, and you still went and did it.”
When the silence stretches on too long, I can focus again.
On the tears streaming down his face, on his shaking hands hovering just above his thighs, and on the discarded tablet showing a house I was imagining living in with Eli.
What a fucking joke.
How can I picture a future with someone who clearly doesn’t trust me enough to hear me? Someone who will always think he knows best?
A few minutes ago, I also thought he did.
Now we both know better.
He’s got nothing to say, and I’m all out of words.
“I can’t keep looking at you right now,” I croak out. “I’m going up to my room.”
“Lex—” he cries, but I just walk out and slam the door behind me.
And he doesn’t come after me.
Good.
I wake up with crusty eyelids and a headache.
Figures.
It took me until the sky was lightening to actually fall asleep, but it’s not like all those hours helped me come to terms with anything—my thoughts are still scattered, blurred.
I don’t know what to do, who to talk to, or what I’d even say, but I know that I need to talk about this with someone.
Talking to Dad seems like the worst idea in the world. Despite everything, I don’t want him to know what Eli did, same with Mom—I don’t want their view of him to be affected . . . like mine has been.
Shit.
I’m for sure not telling Michael. If Eli wants to then he can go right ahead, but I’m not butting in there.
Telling Vinny would mean making him into a kind of accomplice, and also I don’t want to hear his infuriatingly calm reassurance, or his full-on panic—which are the only two possible reactions I’d get from him.
Calling Uncle Paul is one of the best options—he’s even-tempered, thoughtful, and knows everything there is to know about hockey—but since I have no clue what his reaction would be to finding out all the rules have been broken, I’m not super confident there either.
Silas is out too because he’d tell Vinny, and even if he didn’t, it doesn’t seem fair to ask him to keep a secret from him.
It feels crushing, suddenly, the realization that the only person I feel like I can actually talk this through with is Eli.
I refuse to lie here in bed feeling that, allowing it to overtake me, so I spring up, and that’s when I remember I still have the brace over my nose, that I’m still healing.
It doesn’t hurt all that much anymore but it’s tender, the skin pulling a little and reminding me I’m fragile right now.
That pisses me off.
I’ve never in my fucking life been fragile.
Even as a baby.
Mom has reminded me all my life about how big I was when I was born and the twenty-hours of labor she pushed through to bring me into the world.
I’ve always been ready for a fight, ready to put in the work, put all my effort into something and push through and get to the other end—whatever it may be—and now there’s no way through.
Fighting won’t get me anywhere if I can’t make sense of what it means that Eli did all this behind my back, made so many choices for me and took away the one reassurance I’ve always had when it comes to hockey—that I’ve never leveraged my name for my position.
I avoid facing myself in the mirror for as long as I can, brushing my teeth, washing my face carefully with a damp cloth, but when I finally look up, the green in my eyes reminds me of where I came from.
Legacy isn’t a concept I’ve been able to get a good grasp on in my twenty-three years.
In theory, I know what it means, but the Jankowski legacy isn’t mine. I haven’t done enough with my career to claim one, not like Vinny has.
I could be petty and say he’s had it easier, since there are bigger physical differences between him and Dad, but people only started to care about that after I was drafted. He’s been under the pressure of our last name his whole career too.
I shake my head then have to breathe deep to brace myself for the hard fact that I have to go down and get clothes from Eli’s closet.
I still don’t know what the fuck to say to him, still don’t really want to listen to anything he has to say, and I rehearse a way to say that without sounding like a total asshole, because I already did enough of that yesterday.
When I get to his floor, though, I see the door to his office is open, everything inside shut down, and the bedroom’s empty too, his bed made and everything.
He left . . .
Maybe he just went to the office? Maybe he’s giving me space.
That should feel better than it does.
It’s annoying at best, infuriating at worst.
I change quickly, and grab a few more things to take up to my room since I don’t know how long I’ll be using it.
When that’s done, I go downstairs to find the house empty except for Sam, who makes me a quick protein shake for breakfast and asks me if I’ll be eating at home since everyone’s at work and won’t be back until dinner.
I try, I really do, not to let my anger through when I tell him I’ll be here for lunch in a couple of hours.
It’s really not Sam’s fault, so I even try to smile, but the thought that Eli just cut tail and ran is enough to have me power walking out of the house and onto the first path of the park just one block away.
The biting cold snaps me out of most of my anger, but nothing could stop my mind from overthinking everything I now know.
Every step I take, I replay every moment of the last two months, trying to pinpoint anywhere where Eli could’ve told me about this, anywhere where I’d maybe have had a chance of stopping this from happening.
I can’t find it.
I do find an empty bench, miraculously, and I sit, looking at the bare trees, some with a dusting of snow, the grass fully covered by now, and the sky a bleak gray.
I wonder when exactly Eli talked to Tucker. Was it when he first got back on social media? Or did he wait even a little?
I take out my phone, my delusion telling me that if I read every comment or post he’s made, I’ll be able to find out.
Instead, the first thing that pops on the screen is Lottie. A video of her giving a press conference.
I click play without thinking too much about it, and I’m speechless pretty quickly.
“Were you aware that Alexei Jankowski had waived his no-trade clause?” One reporter asks, and Lottie’s shaking her head before he’s even done.
“No. My family has kept me in the dark on this topic. I only realized they were doing it when it was announced. It’s pretty obvious why, though. I saw Lex during our Christmas break and I could tell something was going on.”
I’m surprised by how candid she’s being.
“I didn’t know what, and I still don’t know the details. All I know is what you know. I’m not even sure when he waived it, because that push from Girard looked intentional to me at least. In any case, New York obviously put the right deal on the table and the Empire agreed to it.”