18. February 19, Saturday
Chapter eighteen
Zoey
The moment Zoey finished talking, the rink exploded.
Kids surged past her in a wobbling stampede of oversized jerseys and team-sponsored sticks, pouring off the benches like someone kicked open the gates at recess.
Tiny skates scraped, sticks clattered, pucks pinged off the boards, and one little girl in a too-small helmet tipped over backward with a soft oomph Zoey could hear even over the shrieks.
Zoey inhaled. Cold, sharp air rushed down her throat, laced with that familiar cocktail of Zamboni fumes and conditioned air.
She’d done it. The laughter, the chaos, the joy…she pulled it off.
Her fingers tightened around her camera, unable to wait any longer.
Out on the ice, Cyclones jerseys were scattered like confetti among the kids.
In his usual chaos gremlin glory, Tommy had two toddlers clinging to his stick as he towed them in a slow circle.
Teemu was bent double, helping a preschooler stand, his giant goalie pads making him look like some benevolent Michelin Man.
A couple of the guys were wrangling the eight-to-ten crowd through cones and very theoretical crossovers.
Up in the corner by the far net, a knot of teenagers in their shiny new gear watched one of the guys demonstrate ways to stop on skates.
Meanwhile, along the boards, lounging haphazardly on the team benches, a different clump of teens relaxed; some leaned with their elbows braced on the ledge, others lay on their backs on the bench, or faced away from the ice entirely: too cool or too embarrassed to actually get on the ice.
The arena felt different. Lighter. Like someone let fresh air into a room that had been closed too long.
Zoey let herself have a full three seconds of satisfaction. Little Cyclones: Skills & Smiles Clinic. Her baby. Her pitch, her time, her PowerPoints, her begging Nina for budget crumbs, her harassing Tommy, Jason and Ilya for dates that worked around their insane schedule.
And it worked.
Kids were here. Foster agencies sent whole vans. Group homes, too. There were tiny jerseys everywhere, team colors on bright display.
She snapped a quick shot of a kid lying flat on the ice, snow angel style, laughing so hard his helmet tilted over his eyes. Perfect. Social post. Sponsor deck. Holiday campaign. Her brain did the PR math on autopilot, slotting images into folders, imagining captions.
“That’s a good one,” Nina muttered from behind her shoulder as she passed with a clipboard, cheeks flushed, scarf trailing. “Tag sponsor logos. Win me money.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Zoey agreed, satisfied, as Nina disappeared back toward the check-in table.
She lifted the camera again, lined up another shot…that’s when her treacherous brain offered up a flicker of last night.
Dancing. The terrace. Her lips tilted up, waiting for Ilya’s to touch hers…
Heat coiled up her belly.
She shut her eyes. Perfect. She’s hosting children and trying to build the community, while her brain replayed the way her body leaned toward Ilya like he was Earth and she was a very stupid satellite.
Her ex-husband’s best friend. Her friend too, except maybe not anymore, because normal people didn’t try to put their tongues in their friends’ mouths the second they let their guard down!
But… He hadn’t moved.
If he'd reared back in horror, she could’ve filed it under: Wow, that was dumb, good job, never doing that again. If he’d closed the distance, different problem, but at least it would be…an outcome.
But he’d gone still. Like a statue. Like a man waiting to see which bomb went off first.
And now she was at work, and they were in public, with children everywhere.
Act normal.
She focused on the viewfinder, letting her lens sweep across the ice until… There.
Ilya was crouched near the blue line, one hand braced on the ice, the other wrapped around a kid’s elbow.
Jayden.
Of course, it was Jayden. Every time she went to the group home, Jayden made sure to show her either his newest magic trick…or his newest drawing of him and Ilya doing something together.
The boy stood on trembling legs, skates collapsed in, his arms wide.
The Little Cyclones jersey Zoey ordered for him practically swallowed him, the hem almost down to his knees, the number 33 on the back flaring in navy and white.
His helmet kept tipping forward until it bumped his eyebrows and he shoved it back with an impatient shove of his glove-covered free hand.
But his face—God. He was beaming. Full wattage. Missing-tooth grin splitting his cheeks as he looked up at Ilya like the man built the rink with his own two hands.
Without really thinking about what she would say to the man she tried kissing last night, Zoey lowered her camera and skated toward the pair.
The ice grabbed slightly under her skates, the familiar give-and-slide thrilling through her feet. Cold air bit at the strip of skin between her scarf and her jaw. Her camera bounced against her sternum with every push as she glided toward them, weaving around a pileup of six-year-olds.
Ilya’s head was bent, blonde hair falling over his forehead where it escaped his barely-there helmet. He wore a practice jersey and sweatpants, the thin fabric no match for the muscles moving underneath as he shifted his weight to demonstrate.
“Here,” he told Jayden quietly, his accent barely there. “Little bend in knees? Don’t lock them. You’re not Bambi. You’re…” He considered. “A mini tractor.”
“Tractor?” Jayden snorted, wobbling.
“Strong. And low to the ground.” Ilya pressed two fingers against the outside of Jayden’s knee, coaxing it to soften.
Jayden shifted, copying him. His legs shook, but his center of gravity dropped, just a fraction. He took one tentative glide, blades scraping. Another. It was more of a shuffle, but he wasn’t quite as wobbly.
“Look at you,” Zoey called, braking a few feet away. “Speed demon incoming.”
Jayden’s head whipped around. His upper body twisted, feet didn’t bother to join, and he promptly sat down on the ice with a flump.
For half a heartbeat his face crumpled. Then he saw Zoey stifle a grin behind her camera, saw Ilya’s moue of mock horror, and he burst into giggles instead, glove smacking the ice. “I fell,” he announced, like they missed it.
“Can confirm,” Zoey said. “The ice is still recovering.”
“We all fall,” Ilya said calmly, holding out a steady hand.
Jayden latched on. Ilya hauled him up effortlessly, big palm swallowing the boy’s forearm, steering him back into position. Zoey watched the way his fingers were gentle but firm, how he adjusted Jayden’s elbow, turned his foot out a few degrees, nudged his hips.
He had the same focus he got on the power play. All in. Just for one wobbly kid in a jersey two sizes too big.
Jayden managed three stuttering glides this time before gravity remembered him. He windmilled, skates scraping, but somehow didn’t fall.
“I did it!” His eyes went huge, chest heaving. He looked up at Ilya, desperate, hungry for the verdict.
“Da,” Ilya affirmed, and smiled.
Not his press conference smile. Not the cocky half-grin he used for cameras and chirping opponents. This was slow and startled, like Jayden had given him something he didn’t know he wanted and didn’t quite know how to hold.
Warmth pinched the back of Zoey’s throat. She lifted her camera and snapped on instinct.
“Look at you, Jay,” she said, voice a little too high. “First time on skates and you’re already out here showing off.”
Jayden puffed up, then flicked another glance at Ilya. “I’m gonna be a defenseman,” he declared. “Like him.”
Zoey’s stomach did something faintly illegal. “Oh yeah?” She tried to keep her tone light. “Big plans, huh?”
“I’ve been watching his games,” Jayden said, solemn now, words crowding over each other in excitement.
“At the house. When they let us have the TV. I do the thing he does.” He mimed a slapshot, almost braining himself with his imaginary stick.
“And um, I cut out a big thirty-three and taped it to the back of one of my big shirts, that I’m gonna grow into, so I got a jersey like his ‘cause we don’t got one yet but we will and then… ” He ran out of breath, eyes shining.
Something hot and sharp slid under Zoey’s ribs. Not just because a kid cared that much about a man who spent his nights slamming into other large men for money. It was how deeply Jayden believed. How obvious it was that this wasn’t just about hockey.
He didn’t just trust Ilya on the ice. He trusted him in that small, vulnerable place that needed a hero to stand in front of all the dark.
Ilya had gone unnaturally still beside her.
His shoulders crept up by his ears, muscles tight, face frozen. Ilya’s fingers flexed once on the stick he picked up. His eyes flickered—briefly, almost nervously—to Zoey like he was bracing for someone to laugh and say, Kidding. Like five-year-olds were known for running long cons.
Zoey held his gaze, steady. See? You’re awesome. Even the five-year-olds can see it.
“That’s pretty smart,” she turned to Jayden. “DIY jersey. I like a creative king. Luckily I was able to snag you thirty-three of the Little Cyclones sweaters so you don’t have to worry about damaging your other shirt.”
Jayden grinned, a newly missing front tooth fully on display. He leaned instinctively into Ilya’s side as he shuffled back to him, like proximity alone made him steadier.
Ilya swallowed. “You keep practicing,” he encouraged, voice rough. “Maybe one day I’ll come watch your games. Sit in the stands and yell at the refs.”
Jayden’s jaw dropped, awe momentarily rendering him speechless.
Across the ice, Jason swooped by at a ridiculous angle, skidding in a spray of ice. “Hey, superstar! Grab my stick, let’s go say hi to the other little dudes. I need your help showing ‘em how it’s done.”