Chapter 10
The cab ride from the airport to my parents’ house feels longer than the flight itself.
Snow is falling lightly outside the window, turning Yekaterinburg into a gray, muted version of itself.
I sit in the back seat, duffel bag at my feet, staring at the familiar streets sliding past. Everything looks smaller than I remember.
Or maybe I have just grown too used to the wide-open spaces of Ravensburg.
The driver tries to make small talk in Russian. I give short answers until he gives up. My mind is elsewhere — on the paperwork I finished before leaving, on the house Damian arranged for my mother, on the plane tickets sitting in my email. On Cole.
Always on Cole.
The cab slows to a stop in front of the modest house I grew up in. I pay the driver, grab my bag, and step out into the cold. The front door opens before I even reach the porch.
My mother stands there, small and bright against the dim interior light. She looks even tinier than I remember, swallowed by her old cardigan, but her smile is the same one I have carried with me across oceans.
“Vitya!” she calls, her voice cracking with emotion as she steps out onto the porch.
I drop my bag and close the distance in two strides, wrapping her up in my arms. She feels so small against my chest, but she hugs me back tight, pressing her face into my coat.
“Hey, Ma,” I murmur into her hair. I hold her a little tighter than I mean to, breathing in the familiar scent of home — black tea, cooked beets, and the faint lavender soap she has used for decades.
She pulls back after a long moment, cupping my face with both cold hands as she looks up at me. “You look tired. Come inside, it’s freezing.”
We step into the house together. The warmth hits me first, then the familiar smell of the kitchen.
But the living room is the same as always.
My father is slumped on the couch, vodka bottle loose in his hand, his eyes glued to an old hockey game playing on the television.
He does not even look up when we walk in.
“Hello, Dad,” I say flatly.
He grunts. That is all. Already drunk. The bottle is half empty, and it is not even noon here.
I roll my eyes and look away before the old anger can take root. My mother’s hand finds my arm, steering me gently toward the kitchen.
“Come,” she says softly, with a small smile. “I made your favorite. Borscht with the good beets. Pelmeni too.”
I let her pull me away from the living room, away from the man who still somehow manages to poison the air just by existing. The kitchen is warm and bright, pots simmering on the stove, the table already set for two. For a moment, it almost feels like enough.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the rich smell of borscht and fresh pelmeni.
My mother moves around the stove with quiet efficiency, humming an old song under her breath as she plates food for both of us.
For a few minutes, it almost feels peaceful.
Normal. Like the kind of home I never actually had.
Then the heavy footsteps come. My father stumbles into the kitchen, bottle still in hand, eyes glassy and red-rimmed. He sways slightly in the doorway, glaring at the table like it personally offended him.
“Look at this,” he slurs. “The big NHL star comes home and suddenly there’s a feast. You never cooked like this for me, woman.”
My mother tenses but keeps her head down, setting a bowl in front of me. “Eat, Vitya.”
My father lurches closer, sneering. “Still hiding behind your mother’s skirts, boy? Alternate captain. Pathetic. You think you’re better than me because you play in America? You’re soft. Weak. Just like her.”
The words land like old wounds reopening. I feel the familiar burn of anger rising in my chest. I set my spoon down slowly. “Sit. Down,” I growl.
My father laughs. “Do not talk to me like that, you disrespectful prick. I made you. I put you on the ice. And what do you do? Stand behind some American boy like a loyal dog.”
He takes another swig from the bottle, then turns his bloodshot eyes on my mother. “And you — still coddling him. Always talking too much, always laughing like some stupid girl. No wonder the boy turned out soft. You ruined him with your weakness.”
I stand up so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
The room feels smaller. My hands are clenched at my sides, turning my knuckles white.
The image of him grabbing her, yelling at her, dimming her year after year flashes behind my eyes like lightning.
“You will not speak to her like that,” I say. “Ever again.”
My father straightens, trying to look imposing even as he sways. “Or what? You think you can come into my house and—”
“It is not your house anymore,” I cut him off, stepping closer until I tower over him. “And if you touch her again — if you so much as raise your voice at her — I will make sure you never see either of us again.”
The kitchen falls silent except for the bubbling of the pot on the stove. My mother’s hand finds my arm, small and trembling but grounding. My father stares up at me, drunk and furious, but for the first time in years, there is a flicker of something like fear in his eyes.
I am not my father. But right now, I am willing to become something close if it means protecting her.
I take a slow breath, forcing my voice to stay low and controlled even as rage simmers under my skin.
“And Ravensburg is in Canada, you ignorant drunk,” I say flatly, staring him down.
He blinks, confused for a second, then his face twists with fresh anger.
Before he can spit out another insult, I turn away from him and move to the stove.
My hands are steady as I fill a plate with borscht and pelmeni.
I slam it down on the table in front of the empty chair with enough force that the spoon rattles.
“Eat,” I tell him. “Or don’t. I don’t care. But you will not speak to her like that in front of me again.”
My father glares at the plate like it insulted him, then at me. For a moment I think he might throw it. Instead he drops heavily into the chair, muttering curses under his breath as he picks up the spoon with shaky hands.
My mother watches me with wide, glistening eyes — a mix of fear, pride, and something like relief.
I pull out her chair for her and wait until she sits before taking my own seat again.
The three of us eat in heavy silence, broken only by the clink of spoons and the low drone of the old hockey game still playing in the living room.
I keep my eyes on my bowl, but my mind is already miles away.
The next day is worse.
I spend the morning helping my mother pack the last of her things — clothes, old photos, a few books, the small wooden jewelry box I gave her when I was ten.
She moves quietly, folding everything with care, but I can see the tremble in her hands.
The fear. The hope. It breaks something in me every time I look at her.
We are almost done when my father stumbles into the bedroom, his eyes wild and breath reeking of vodka already. “You cannot take her!” he barks, his voice cracking with drunken rage. “She is my wife!”
Before either of us can react, he lunges for one of the open suitcases and starts throwing her clothes onto the floor in a fit of fury — blouses, sweaters, the old cardigan she always wears. Fabric scatters across the worn carpet like broken pieces of her life.
I cross the room in two strides and shove him hard in the chest. He stumbles backward and collapses onto the sofa with a grunt, shocked.
“You will not touch her things,” I shout. “You will not touch her. Ever again. Do you understand me?”
My father stares up at me from the couch, breathing hard, his face twisted with alcohol and resentment. For a second I see myself in him — the anger, the size, the way my hand had wrapped around Cole’s throat in that shower. The thought makes me sick.
“You think you can come in here and take what is mine?” he snarls, trying to push himself up. “You ungrateful—”
“Enough!” I roar, stepping forward again. My mother flinches behind me, but I cannot stop. “She is not yours to break anymore. She is coming with me. And if you ever lay a hand on her again, I will make sure you regret it for the rest of your miserable life.”
The room falls deathly silent except for my father’s heavy breathing. He glares at me, but there is fear in his eyes now. Real fear.
My mother’s small hand touches my back. “Vitya… enough.”
I step back slowly, chest heaving, fists still clenched at my sides. The anger is still there, burning hot, but underneath it is the same terror that has haunted me for years.
I kneel down and start picking up the clothes with careful hands, folding them again. My mother joins me silently. My father stays on the couch, muttering curses under his breath.
We finish packing in heavy silence. Two large suitcases and several bags stand by the door. My mother is quiet but determined, wearing her old coat and clutching her small handbag like a shield. I carry the heaviest bags, my duffel slung over my shoulder, and we head for the front door.
My father is waiting. He walks out of the living room as we reach the hallway.
His eyes lock on my mother’s suitcase and something ugly twists across his features.
“You’re not taking her!” he bellows, lunging forward and grabbing the handle of the largest suitcase.
“She is my wife! You cannot just walk in here and steal her like some thief!”
He yanks hard, trying to rip the bag from my mother’s side. She flinches, stepping back. The sight of his hand so close to her makes my blood boil over.
I drop my bags with a heavy thud and move fast, grabbing him by the front of his stained shirt and shoving him backward. He crashes into the wall, eyes wide with shock and drunken rage.
“Don’t,” I snarl, stepping into his space until he has to crane his neck to look up at me. My voice is low, cold, and deadly calm. “Don’t make me take this house from you too, old man. You chose this by drinking your life away, by touching the softest thing in my life. You are done.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. My father’s mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out.
My mother’s hand finds my arm again, gentle but firm. “Vitya… that’s enough.”
I hold my father’s gaze for one more second, letting him see exactly how serious I am. Then I step back, pick up the bags again, and turn toward the door. “Come, Ma,” I say softly, offering her my arm.
She takes it without hesitation. We walk out together into the cold Russian air, leaving my father standing in the doorway, shouting curses that grow fainter with every step.
The cab is already waiting. I load the bags into the trunk, help my mother into the back seat, and slide in beside her. As the car pulls away from the house, I look back once.
My father is still standing in the doorway, small and broken against the gray afternoon light.
I feel no satisfaction. Only relief. And underneath it all, the same gnawing ache that has followed me since the shower in Vancouver.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat as the cab drives us toward the airport.
Soon I will be back in Ravensburg. Soon I will have to face what I left behind.