Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Thorne
After being in a bubble of laughter and good sex with Mollie all summer, the first day of training camp is a rough reminder of the ugly realities awaiting us in the regular season.
Beck asked me this morning why Mollie is still living with me.
And being the sonofabitch that I am, I told him that she was picky.
That was my great excuse.
Thankfully he let it go after I mentioned needing someone to look after Gordie while I’m playing away games.
I’m going to have to figure something else out soon. Especially because Mollie has been talking about Indie’s friend, who’s looking for a roommate. I really need to get down on both knees and beg her to stay.
My house didn’t seem lonely before, but now I’m sure that it will be.
As my body starts warming up, anticipating putting in the hard work to prepare itself for a long season, Mollie arrives on the ice at the same time as Konstantin Kuztnetsov.
As If I needed one more pressure point in this clusterfuck of a morning.
She has her phone out, standing out of the way to shoot video of Konstantin Kuznetsov as he steps on the ice. His dark hair is held back from his angular face by a hair tie, and he's wearing a Havoc practice jersey in white and dark gray. He looks like he belongs here.
My hands curl into fists. It took me ages to earn my place on this team, to feel like I belonged here. But Kuznetsov steps on the ice and owns it.
I can't help but hate him for it.
My gaze snags on Mollie as Kuznetsov skates over and says something to her, too low for me to hear. She smiles and says something back.
That's it. Now I fucking hate him. Sure, I don't have any right to feel like a possessive beast over a guy talking to Mollie. But as she runs her fingers through her hair and gazes up at him, I smolder inside.
Not only has Kuznetsov appeared to make trouble on my team, but now he's trying to fucking flirt with my girl.
And I'm going to murder him for it. Maybe metaphorically, maybe not.
Luckily, Coach Cross and Coach Ryan blow their whistles in tandem. "Huddle up!" Coach Cross calls. "Let's go, let's go!"
The rink is filled with bodies. The usual team of twenty-five heavy hitters are there, plus the AHL players hoping for one of the empty spots on the roster.
There are a few entry-level players that haven't been assigned to the farm team yet, and a few PTOs contracted to be here for camp.
The coaches are all here, watching every single player like a bird dog with an eye on the horizon.
The training camp is as much about player development as it is about making sure our conditioning is up to snuff.
Beck and I circle around Coach Cross as he calls out general instructions for what he wants to see. "Got it?”
“Yes sir,” we all say.
“Okay. I want to see some clean skating. Leave your bad habits at the door. Let’s see some hustle!”
I take off at an easy pace, allowing everyone else to catch up. Beck is right beside me, his eyes on this season's rookies. There are only a couple that have made the team so far. The rest are going to be selected over the coming days.
Usually, I'd be focused on all the new blood, trying to assess what the team needs and whose techniques need work.
But Kuznetsov skates gracefully up beside me.
He's a big dude so I have no doubt that he'll crack skulls if he needs to.
Given that he put a guy in the hospital, this seems a obvious.
But his crossovers also seem particularly effortless.
The man was born to be on skates. It's something that Mollie is no doubt noticing about him, too.
Not checking to see if she's noticing him is killing me. Mollie doesn’t seem like the kind of girl to run around with other guys. Then again, I haven’t actually asked her to be my girlfriend.
Shit.
Kuznetsov catches my eye and gives me a cool smile, then looks ahead again. Is it too much to ask that Kuznetsov be a terrible skater?
Beck whistles and I drag my attention back to what I'm supposed to be doing. Leading the way for the team, not having a petty one-sided competition in my head.
Coach blows his whistle. "Edges!"
I follow Beck to the boards, all of us skating in a single file line of almost sixty players. The coaches stand in the middle of the rink, assessing us as we run through crossovers and starts and stops.
Then Coach directs us to start on the halfway line and skate to the blue line, breaking us into small groups. For the first time, Kuznetsov waits until Beck and I have already gone to take his turn. And his breakaway speed makes me suck in a breath.
"Damn,” Beck mutters. "That bastard is fast."
He pulls a quick hockey stop, shearing up a mist of ice before launching himself back in the other direction. Shit.
I'm definitely in awe of his edge work. Fuck. I lick my lips as I realize Jimbo Greene is in the stands, smiling like he knows he made a good decision bringing Kuznetsov into the fold.
Mollie skates around, casually capturing moments on film. She doesn't look at me once, which means she's either focused on her job or she's trying to keep our hookup a secret. Knowing Mollie, it's both.
Konstantin completes another breakaway drill and she gets the whole thing on camera. I watch her watch him, and something ugly settles in my chest.
Beck nudges me. "You're staring."
"I'm assessing."
"You're staring," he says again. But the bastard skates away before I can argue.
Coach Cross blows his whistle. "Tate! Kuznetsov! With me."
I watch Cross pull them both to the center circle—Beck and Konstantin, not me—and talk to them in a low voice for about ninety seconds. I have no idea what he's saying. I have no business caring what he's saying. I stare at a spot on the boards and tell myself I'm not bothered.
But of course, I'm extremely bothered.
Konstantin is younger. He’s extremely focused, talking to no one. And he’s a power forward, someone this built like a tank that can skate fast and create space for his teammates through sheer physicality.
I have the edge on experience and stick handling, but is it enough to keep the Havoc from getting antsy? The fact that I don’t know rocks me to my core.
After the next break, Beck skates over to me with a neutral expression that tells me nothing. "Cross wants full speed laps. You're leading."
"What was that about?"
“Later.” He shakes his head. "Just lead the laps, Thorne."
I lead the laps, my mouth pinched.
By the time camp breaks for the morning, my phone has seventeen notifications. I check them in the locker room while the younger guys shower and the veterans sit in the specific silence of men who know the first day of camp is no place to relax.
The notifications are from people I haven't talked to in months. College friends. Two journalists whose numbers I never deleted. Six from Juliet, our head of PR, trying with increased aggravation to get me to call her.
That can only mean one thing.
I pull up ESPN’s website. It only takes a few seconds to hunt down the news I’ve been dreading.
NHL Legend Mike Thorne Engaged to Son’s Former Girlfriend.
In the article, my father poses with Naomi, her hand on his, the diamond on her ring finger visible from outer space. But they’re looking at each other with such a goofy expression that I snort.
If I were anyone other than Mike Thorne’s son, I might find it charming. But the Thorne men haven’t been raised to believe in fairy tales.
So the news is out. The engagement is public. I lock my phone, put it face down on the bench, and stare at my skates.
Silas sits down next to me, pulls off his helmet, and says nothing. He's been in the league long enough to know when to talk and when to just be present. I appreciate it more than I can say.
Moose drops onto the bench across from me, towel around his neck, and opens his mouth. He’s going to try to make me feel better. I know it.
"Don't," I say.
He closes it.
Beck comes out of Coach's office and catches my eye across the locker room. He jerks his chin toward the door. I follow him out into the corridor.
"You saw the article, I’m guessing," he says.
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
"No." I lean against the wall. "But I will be."
Beck nods. He doesn't push it, which is one of the reasons he's my best friend. "For what it's worth, she's an idiot. Actually, they both are. He’s a crusty old man and she’s a gold-digger. Did you at least get a heads-up that they were engaged?"
"Yeah." I scrub a hand over my face. "Well, I think Naomi tried to warn me. Instead I ignored her and got ambushed.” I shake my head. “It doesn't matter. It's my dad. He does what he does. Takes whatever he wants, doesn’t think of the blowback. He’s been like that my whole life."
Beck looks at me for a long moment. "I’m sorry, man."
I don't say anything to that. “What’s happening with Kuznetsov?”
"Cross wants you and Kuznetsov cross-training," Beck says. "Center and left wing. Both of you, running both positions."
There it is. I knew something was coming. "So he's taking my position."
"He said both of you. Not one of you." Beck holds my gaze. "Cross doesn't do anything without a reason. You know that."
"I know that." I push off the wall. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."
I find out about the cross-training officially when Cross pulls me aside after the afternoon session.
His words are blunt. “You and Kuznetsov are each other's shadow until I say otherwise.
I want you running every drill together, switching positions on my call.
You'll both play center and left wing. Questions?”
I have approximately forty questions, but I ask none of them.
"No," I say instead.
"Good." Cross skates away.
I stand at the boards for a moment. Kuznetsov is on the other side of the rink, talking to one of the assistant coaches, nodding at something. He hasn't looked at me except for that single cool smile during the group skate. I don't know if that makes him composed, or arrogant, or both.