22. February 21-27, Monday-Sunday
Chapter twenty-two
Ilya
After flying out that afternoon, sitting on the edge of the bed in a hotel room that smelled faintly of must and old carpet, he scrolled.
Messages from Kira.
A raccoon meme from Tommy; a trash can overflowing, captioned FIDO???
And near the top of his notifications, a thread with Zoey.
They hadn’t talked much since the kiss. A couple of texts about clinic logistics and recapping what worked and what didn’t. A short, careful exchange the day the trade broke, where she’d sent: Well. That’s a plot twist. You okay?
And he’d replied: I should be asking you that. Coach has our ass to the flame right now but let me know if you need anything.
Not a word about mouths or hands or the way she’d trembled when he’d pinned her to her car.
A new message blinked at him.
She’d sent a photo from Little Cyclones: a kid in a mini Cyclones jersey passed out on a bench, helmet askew, mouth open, a Goldfish cracker stuck to his cheek.
Zoey: A casualty of Little Cyclones. Our new marketing angle: send us your kids, we’ll wear them out so they'll finally sleep.
He could almost hear her laughing as she took it, breathless and soft.
Zoey: How’s the reunion tour? Have you murdered him yet or is that scheduled for the Rangers game?
He thumbed a reply responding to her back to back messages.
Ilya: The Cyclones program is fantastic and the kids have a blast. You might be onto something with that marketing strategy. Mitch is settling in fine. Just busy as we get ready for the road trip.
On instinct, he added: Miss you.
He stared at the words for half a second, stomach clenching, then deleted them until only the safe version remained. He hit send before he could talk himself into adding anything dangerous.
A few minutes later, bubbles appeared.
Zoey: Don’t get eaten by Rangers fans. They’re feral. Also: remind Mitch that we’re no longer twenty-two. Hydrate. Stretch. Don’t let him talk you into tequila.
He huffed, tension in his chest loosening a fraction.
He typed: I’ll do my best.
His thumbs hovered over: Goodnight, Mama Bear.
He deleted it. This was fine. This was controlled. They were talking. They weren’t talking about the kiss. It was…something.
He set the phone face down on the nightstand and lay back, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, pretending he wouldn’t sell his soul to have her there beside him.
His stomach still felt like he’d swallowed shrapnel.
Madison Square Garden smelled like hot dogs and beer.
Morning skate was the same drill as always—stretch, warm up, run plays, keep legs loose. Reporters hovered at the glass, cameras peering down. High above, retired numbers stared down from the rafters.
Between reps, during a water break, Mitch drifted over and leaned against the boards beside him.
“So,” he said quietly, eyes on the far net. “How’s she really doing?”
Ilya’s grip tightened around his bottle. “Zoey?”
“Yeah.” Mitch took a pull, Adam’s apple working. “Figured you’d know. You always…kept better track of her than I did.”
The words lodged under his ribs like a splinter of ice. He had kept better track. The schedule reminders when Mitch forgot birthdays. The check-ins when she’d sounded a little too bright on the phone. The times he’d noticed her in the stands before he’d found her husband on the bench.
“She’s good,” he said after a beat. “Running half of PR already. They’d be lost without her.”
Mitch huffed a small laugh. “I’m not surprised.”
A stray puck clanged against the glass a few feet away, rattling the boards.
Mitch watched a drill reset, then nodded down the boards where Nina stood with a tablet, talking to a league camera crew.
“She cornered me before practice,” he said.
“Said they want me for some singles-night promo when we get back. A hockey romance thing. Asked if I’d be okay doing it with Zoey there.
” His mouth twisted. “Weird where life puts you, huh?”
A muscle jumped in Ilya’s jaw.
He imagined Zoey hearing that pitch in a conference room somewhere; Nina bright and efficient, talking about chemistry and closure like they were marketing angles instead of scars.
He could picture Zoey’s smile, the polite, too tight one she used when she wanted to crawl out of her skin and punch a bitch. He almost wanted to smile. Almost.
“You say yes?” Ilya asked.
Mitch shrugged. “Yeah. Figured I shouldn’t be a coward about it.
She works here. I play here. It is what it is.
” He bumped Ilya’s shoulder. “Just…if you see her before I do, tell her I said hi and that I didn’t mean anything by accepting.
Or don’t. I honestly don’t know what the hell the etiquette is there. ”
Yeah. Ilya had no fucking idea either.
“Yeah, will do.” It was the safest answer he could come up with.
The idea of her trapped managing some themed promo with Mitch and a camera crew made something coil tight inside his chest. She’d finally scraped off the “Mitch’s wife” label. The organization slapping it back on in high-def, even for one night, felt like a hit he couldn’t stop.
They beat the Rangers in an ugly, satisfying game. Mitch scored his first Cyclones goal on a backdoor tap-in from one of Ilya’s feeds; the bench exploded, helmets thudding against his, someone yelling, “College boys!” over the din.
Two nights later in Long Island, a defenseman tried to drag Mitch into a fight along the boards. He laughed, muttered something in the guy’s ear, and skated away, smiling wide, a little older and maybe marginally wiser.
In meetings and bus aisles, Zoey’s name threaded in and out. Not as a sore spot, just as a fact of organizational life.
Before the Islanders game, Nina stood at the front of a meeting room running through an upcoming calendar on a projection screen: family night, foster outreach, a literacy initiative with the local library system.
“We’re going to need a couple of guys for a shoot with the new community reading program when we get back,” she instructed. “Date’s still moving, but Zoey is spearheading it. I’ll loop with you later, Serge, to make sure we don’t burn anyone out.”
“Okay,” Ilya agreed.
Later, in a cramped hallway under the Islanders’ stands, he passed Nina again, phone to her ear, heels ticking impatient counterpoint.
“No, we can’t just sit on it,” she was saying. “We’ve got a media mess brewing with this… and I’m on the road for another few days… and there’s a three-in-seven stretch next week. We may need to get Zoey on the road with us sooner than planned. I know, I don’t like it either…”
The thought of Zoey wedged into a small room with Ilya, Mitch, and a dozen cameras made his stomach twist. She deserved her peace, not being used as “Mitch’s ex” for content.
Nina saw him, and ended the call with a clipped, “I’ll email you,” pasting on a professional half-smile.
“Everything okay?” Ilya asked.
She huffed. “Define okay.” Then, more briskly, “It’s fine. Nothing I can’t handle.” Her gaze sharpened on him for a beat. “And for the love of God, keep your guys out of trouble at the clubs tonight. I don’t have the juice for another scandal.”
“Will do my best.”
If only his personal life came with that kind of directive.
Instead, he was left wondering whether Mitch wanted Zoey back and was willing to give her what she wanted, assuming she wanted him back too. Ilya should just find a way to disappear.
After the Islanders game, Ilya’s legs felt like sand and his lungs burned. They’d eked out another win. The coaches had been quietly pleased, which was all that mattered.
The hotel lounge was a low murmur of clinking glasses and TV commentary. A few of the guys lingered at high-tops, watching highlights from around the league. Tommy chucked a fry at Jason and missed. Bobby vanished up to his room ages ago, probably with a book and Thea on FaceTime.
Eventually, the tide receded, leaving just Ilya and Mitch nursing beers in a corner booth.
Mitch stared at the condensation sliding down his glass. The loudest sound for a moment was the low buzz of some anchor dissecting a potential Western Conference matchup on the mounted TV.
“Feels weird,” Mitch admitted finally, voice quieter than it had been all week. “Being back out East without her.”
He didn’t look up; didn’t have to clarify who.
Ilya’s hand tightened around his bottle.
“New England,” Mitch went on. “The accents. The freaking weather. I keep thinking I’m gonna look up and see that ugly green scarf in the stands.”
He smiled faintly at some invisible memory, then let it fall.
“I did a number on her,” he admitted. “On us. I know that. Everyone’s been thrilled to tell me.”
He took a long swallow, then set the bottle down with care.
“The kids thing…” He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
“I just couldn’t see it. Or didn’t want to.
She wanted them. Bad. I kept thinking…how the hell are guys like us supposed to be dads?
We’re never home. We’re always on planes, in hotels, half-dead the rest of the time.
I thought, if we ever had a kid and then I’m not there, that’s worse. For everyone.”
He finally looked up. His eyes found Ilya’s like they always had, seeking a mirror, a verdict. “You get that, right?”
The question hit like a body check. He did get it. Too well.
Images flickered unbidden: his father’s empty chair. Kira’s small hand in his as they walked past tipped-over liquor bottles. The cold knot in his gut every time a utility bill came red-stamped. The vow he’d made as a kid to never be that man.
Layered over it, new ones his traitorous brain supplied: Zoey swaying with a toddler on her hip.
Zoey on the ice with Jayden, laughing as she “magicked” pucks from nowhere.
Zoey, last weekend, wiping grease off his cheek in the garage, thumb warm against his skin.
Zoey in the parking garage, breathless and soft as she kissed him back like she’d been waiting years.