19. February 19, Saturday
Chapter nineteen
Zoey
The last of the Little Cyclones kids got herded into the vans, leaving a battlefield of juice boxes, crumpled napkins, and crushed Goldfish crackers. The event room smelled like sweat, hot chocolate, and the faint tang of abandoned orange peels.
Zoey had a trash bag in one hand and one mission: apologize.
Now that the kids were gone, it was time to face the music.
She’d thought about it all morning…what to say, how to phrase it, whether to try blaming alcohol…
even though she hadn’t had a drop. After ranting to Kayla half the night, she’d decided the cortisol toll of waiting had peaked. Time to get it done.
Ilya was at a far table, lining up stray markers into a painfully neat row—because now that the kids were gone, his avoidance tactics had gotten depressingly desperate. He straightened when she approached, glanced once, then pivoted away without breaking stride.
“I’ll take those bags to the bins,” he told Tommy, who wasn’t holding any bags, and walked the other way with long, uncatchable steps.
Fine. Not a disaster. Maybe he just needed space.
She tried again near the drink table, timing it so they’d collect the abandoned water bottles together. Instead, he peeled off at the last possible second to “sort recycling” at another table.
Okay. Cool. Not concerning at all.
Since when were Conn Smythe Trophy winners such chickens?
Apparently since she’d almost kissed him on the terrace and then let him twist the whole thing into self-flagellation for hours without addressing it.
She should have texted him last night. Stupid.
Heat prickled at the back of her neck. She shoved used straws into the bag with more force than necessary, rehearsing explanations that would all sound stupid the second she opened her mouth. Maybe he’d written it off as a sloppy, tipsy thing. Maybe he’d decided it was a misunderstanding.
Soon the room was clean enough that volunteers and players felt comfortable saying goodbyes. Finally—finally—she found him alone, bent over unopened water bottles, sliding them into neat rows.
Ilya looked tired. Wary. Like a man who suspected his crazy neighbor might show up at any second on a very windy day and ask to borrow his lawnmower to get rid of their poison ivy problem.
“Hey,” Zoey said, stopping across from him, hands full of unopened sugar-free juice boxes. “Great first day for Little Cyclones, right? Minimal blood, no broken bones…gold-star territory.”
He didn’t bolt. He only nodded and lined up another bottle. “They were good. Listened better than some rookies I know.”
“Probably because you scared the crap out of them,” she chirped. “Older ones at least. The littlest had you wrapped around their fingers. Who knew you were such a hopeless softie for a pair of dark eyes and a tutu? I’ll remember that for my next PR ask.”
His mouth twitched, but he kept looking down. The distance felt worse than anger because it read like avoidance.
Say it. Say you’re sorry.
“I, uh, I wanted to—” she started.
At the same time, he said, flat and low, “Tommy said he checked the security footage for Fido. I guess he and Jason wound down last night by scrolling through it.”
Her apology stalled. “Oh. Right. Anything?”
“Not that they could see.” He knocked a bottle over and it skittered out of line, but he didn’t reach for it.
She set the juice boxes on the table. “Do you want a search partner? Two sets of eyes, one tragic lack of depth perception. We could make it work.”
That finally got him to look properly at her. His eyes were dark and tired, and something hard to read lurking under the surface. “I’m sure you’re busy,” he said slowly.
She huffed. “Too busy to help my friend rescue a dog? Hardly. After this, I get to veg and bask in my awesomeness for pulling off two PR events in two days. Sometimes I don’t know how this much perfection can live inside one body without the world exploding.”
“Modest,” he muttered, and she almost believed they were back to normal.
Come back to being my normal friend, please. I’m sorry I almost ruined it.
“That’s me…modest. And demure. Oh, so demure. But with all this excellence rolling off me, what’s adding Canine Crusader to my list of accomplishments? Always strive for perfection, I always say, just like my bestie Ilya taught me.”
Ilya froze in a way that sent terror racing through her. Oh God. She’d fucked up. She didn’t know how, but she had.
Panicked, she stepped closer and dropped the act. “I can spare an hour to help you find your dog, Ilya,” she said, softening.
He hesitated; his jaw worked. “Okay. After we finish here, then.”
Relief unfurled through her. He smiled quickly, wry, almost apologetic, and ducked his head.
They finished cleanup in companionable, practical silence: stacking the remaining chairs, wiping the tables. All tasks they didn’t have to do but found themselves doing anyway. Every time Zoey glanced up, she caught him looking for the briefest second before he looked away.
So…maybe not entirely platonic after the terrace, but not a full-on lust storm either. She’d never been particularly reliable reading vibes, though.
Outside, the cold hit like a slap. The garage smelled of oil and winter; the fluorescent lights hummed across her skin.
Zoey jammed her hands into her coat pockets and walked with him down the slope into the underground level, boots clacking on salt-streaked concrete.
Their shoulders brushed once, twice. Each touch sent a zing through her.
“Okay,” she said, voice bouncing off the low ceiling. “Hide-and-seek with a hungry, wily dog. Where would you put yourself if you wanted to avoid well-meaning humans?”
“Under a warm engine,” he brainstormed. “Or near trash, looking for food.”
“Perfect. Love that for him.” She scanned the first row.
If Ilya weren’t with her, she’d loiter less; she trusted Cyclones security but not this place’s layout.
It had jut-outs and angles that made good hiding spots, sketchy for a single woman, but at least she didn’t have to keep a snow broom in her car. Priorities.
“Lead on, captain my captain,” she called.
He angled toward a corner with dimmer lighting. They split the row, peering under vehicles and between tires. She squatted to look under a minivan; no dog, just a greasy napkin and a toy.
“Some heavy Miracle vibes out there earlier,” she teased over the hood.
“You, skating back and forth, growling in Ukrainian while glaring at the teenagers and making them sprint. All just for a little swearing too.” She whistled long and low.
“Boy, if they only knew how much range your potty mouth had.” Zoey shook her head.
“I’ll show you the pics later. They’re inspiring. ”
Enough silence stretched that she paused and looked back at him, confused.
“Not just swearing.” His face worked as he decided something. “A couple of them…mentioned you.” His shoulders squared and he turned to her more directly. “They said your ass was ‘distractingly hot’ in your yoga pants and skates.”
Zoey blinked. “Excuse me?”
“They couldn’t be saying that, especially around the littlest ones,” he hesitated before adding, “Even if they’re right.”
Her throat went dry. Heat unfurled in her belly at his voice, like he’d made a comfortable observation instead of dropping a charge into the quiet.
She straightened, leaning an elbow on the hood. “All my gym time must be paying off.”
Ilya met her gaze. For once, he didn’t look away. “Nah. Your ass has always been fantastic. Gym changed the shape a bit but,” he made a disgruntled hand gesture, “the rest is still there.”
She snorted. “Dude, you don’t need to sugarcoat it. I am painfully aware my badonkadonk is loud and proud at the moment.”
“Well then, that’s good. We’re all aware,” he said dryly. “Misery loves company.”
“You mean ‘we’ as in you, me, and Irene? Or more than just us and the hormone-filled teenagers?” she teased.
He smiled. “Can’t give names…some of them are married. But yes. Your derriere has been mentioned.”
She slapped a hip in mock indignation. “Mentioned? You make it sound like only once!”
His smile faded and his voice dropped. “Yes, mentioned once. I made sure it was never mentioned again.”
Protective, disciplinarian Ilya was suddenly very interesting. She grinned and his scowl softened.
They moved deeper into the rows. For a few minutes, they worked with the easy synchronicity of two people used to side-by-side missions. It soothed something in her.
But the thing he’d said earlier, about not being a good father, hung like a bruise.
She couldn’t stop herself. “Why do you really think you’d be a bad dad?”
He bent to peer under a pickup and stopped, one hand on the bumper. He straightened slowly; his breath came out in a white puff.
“It’s just a fact.” His voice was clipped.
She hugged her coat tighter. “Facts usually come with citations. Wikipedia doesn’t count.”
He looked past her toward the darker corner, then said, “My father was always gone. Work, he claimed. But rent was late. The fridge was empty. Kira…cried…a lot.”
Zoey stayed a few feet away, hands in her pockets, giving him space.
“So, I found jobs,” he went on. “Carrying groceries, shoveling snow, fixing fences. Kira was small; she needed boots and food. I wasn’t much older than Jayden, hauling boxes bigger than me, thinking if I helped more, maybe he’d…
be home more?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.
I started paying rent. Bought food. But he stayed gone, and when he was home… he was already drunk.”
Her throat tightened.
“I thought being useful would mean we wouldn’t be abandoned,” Ilya said, jaw working. “Kids need time. Attention. Love. If you’re always gone because of work or whatever, you’re not doing your duty. You’re a shit parent. Simple.”
Zoey’s heart hurt for the boy who’d taken on too much. She stepped a half-inch closer. “You give him too much credit. He wasn’t a shit parent because you weren’t enough. He was a shit parent because he chose to be.”