Chapter 25 #2
Konstantin leans back, studying me. "Every new team is different. I spend the first couple of months figuring out which guys will learn to talk to me and which ones won't bother." He shrugs one shoulder. "Most don't."
I squint. "What about the stick taps? Your mom mentioned it on the phone."
His jaw tightens for a second, and I realize I've just confirmed that I overheard more than he wanted me to. But he lets it go. "Some of the guys do it. Some forget. I can't exactly send out a memo telling everybody to change how they play because the new guy has a hearing problem."
His words make me scowl. "It's not like you can help it."
“True.” He takes a moment to say the next bit. "I can’t make players want to help me. All I can do is try to anticipate and lead."
I take another pull of my beer and sit with the weight of what he's telling me. He assumes that all the players are the same. And I haven’t gone out of my way to disabuse him of the notion.
“I’ll do better. You only have to remind me once, okay? But please. If I’m not doing something right that will make a difference in how we mesh, how the team plays, tell me. I want things between us to be smoother.”
Kuznetsov dips his head. “I’ll try.”
"What happened to the interpreter you had in Los Angeles?"
Something flickers behind his eyes. "Oleg.
" He says the name like it costs him something.
"We worked together for two years. He knew every signal I used.
He knew when to step in during meetings and when to let me handle it.
He could tell when I needed a break from auditory processing before I could.
" Konstantin rubs his jaw. "He couldn't come with me. His wife's family is in Los Angeles."
"And the Havoc are supposed to find a replacement."
"They say they're working on it." His tone makes it very clear how much stock he puts in that promise. "It's been over a month. And they were told way before I got here."
I think about every team meeting since Konstantin joined the roster. Cross talks fast and paces around the room. Beck chimes in. The assistant coaches talk over each other. And Konstantin sits at the back, quiet, nodding along.
“Fuck.” I shake my head. “This is going to be dealt with, immediately. I’m sorry we’re making it so hard.”
He shrugs, eyeing me as he sips his beer. “It is what it is.”
“Nah. I’m a captain. I should do better. And the whole team should. What a fucking letdown.”
My burger arrives and I look at it without seeing it for a few seconds.
Konstantin watches my face. I can feel him measuring whether this is the golden boy putting on a show or whether I actually mean what I'm saying. Whatever he finds in my expression, his jaw loosens by a fraction.
He nods once. That's all, and it's enough.
"Teach me the signals I don't know," I say. "All of them. Not the basics. The ones you use on the ice that I should've asked about weeks ago."
He considers me for a beat, then another. "Tomorrow. During practice."
"Good." I pick up my burger and take a bite. “I don’t know what Cross is doing, but we’re going to reduce the friction and make it work like a well-oiled machine.”
Kuznetsov nods. He frowns, obviously thinking something. But whatever it is, he doesn’t say it.
It's quiet between us, and I let it simmer. Something shifted in the last ten minutes. I wouldn’t say we are friends. But we just had our first honest exchange since he joined the team.
Surely that’s something to be proud of.
I've spent weeks treating Konstantin like a threat.
To my position, to my ice time, to my girl.
Every minute I've been around him, I've been so caught up in my own bullshit that I couldn't see past it.
The jealousy over Mollie, the paranoia about Cross replacing me, the ego of watching a guy skate faster than me and deciding he must be the enemy.
And the whole time, my teammate was drowning.
I'm usually good at this. I check on the rookies. I notice when a guy is struggling before the coaches do. Beck calls me the glue of the locker room, and I've always taken pride in that. But Konstantin walked onto this team with 85% hearing loss and a reputation he didn't earn.
And I never once stopped to imagine what that's actually like. I never considered what it would feel like to play a fast, loud, violent sport where you can't hear the whistle or the calls or the guys on your own bench. And he still plays well. He plays better than well.
He plays like a man who loves hockey so much that he refuses to let anything take it from him.
We finish our food. Konstantin picks up his check and I pick up mine, and we walk out into the afternoon without any big farewell. I clap his shoulder once and he tolerates it without flinching. For us, that feels like progress.
I drive home. In my truck, I sit with the engine off for a minute, staring at my phone. Then I type out a text to Beck.
me
Got a minute?
I hit send before I can second-guess it and watch the screen for a read receipt that doesn't come.
Inside, Gordie greets me at the door with his usual enthusiastic shove of his head against my hip. The house smells like Mollie's candle; the vanilla one she burns in the evenings. The couch has her throw blanket draped over one arm and Slothra tucked in the corner.
Everything about this place has her in it now.
So, I need to tell Beck about us. I need to stop hiding behind the excuse that keeping this secret protects us. It felt like protection when it started, back when we were new and fragile and I could convince myself that the bubble was for her sake.
It's not protecting anyone anymore. It's just the same isolation I've been choosing my whole life, dressed up to look like something better.