22. February 21-27, Monday-Sunday #2
And another, newer scene he wished he could delete: him tossing a duffle onto a hotel bed, watching a video of a first step, a first swing, a first game he’d missed. His throat felt tight.
He could say a dozen things. That there were ways to show up that didn’t only involve being in the room.
That Zoey would have carried more than her share.
That what she’d needed from Mitch had been effort, not perfection.
That she hadn’t wanted a guarantee, just someone who didn’t treat her dreams like a nuisance.
Instead, he heard himself say, “This life…it’s hard.” His voice sounded rough to his own ears. “It is a lot to ask of any kid. Or any partner.”
Mitch’s shoulders dropped. Relief, quick and visible. “Exactly,” he said. “You get it. Everyone made me the villain, but nobody gets it unless they’re in it.”
Ilya took a slow drink to keep from grimacing. He had just, however gently, aligned himself with the exact logic that had broken her.
For a heartbeat, he saw it from the other side: Zoey saying in a low, wrecked voice, “He says it wouldn’t be fair to a kid, that he’d never be there. Like I’m selfish for even wanting one.”
And later, her eyes shining as she’d told Ilya he’d be a good dad, like the thought was the most natural thing in the world.
He’d just cosigned the argument she’d bled over. The one she trusted him, of all people, not to believe.
“I’ve been…working on myself,” Mitch added, straightening a little. “Cut back on the partying, if you couldn’t already tell. Even got a therapist for a bit, but that didn’t last long. Wasn’t my thing. But I’m trying to do better. Be better.”
Ilya started peeling at the corner of his own label, tongue leaden.
“Like…sometimes I would just not go home,” Mitch said, staring at the table.
“I’d crash on a couch so I wouldn’t have to answer questions, or explain some tabloid shot.
She wanted constant reassurance and I just…
didn’t have it in me. I was exhausted. Turns out, cutting back on the booze solves a lot of those problems. Not that she’s lining up to hear that from me now. ”
A hot, sharp anger flared up Ilya’s spine. She exhausted him?
He pictured Zoey at their kitchen table with charts, calendars, a heaping gallon of coffee ready and trying to talk about timelines and options while Mitch scrolled his phone. She would’ve swallowed a lot before she’d ever ask for reassurance. And then swallowed more when she didn’t get it.
Mitch could sit for hours reassuring jittery rookies, charm media, sweet-talk management. Apparently, there had been reassurance for everyone but her.
Ilya’s jaw ached from holding back. “Mitch,” he said finally, cutting across some story about a drunken night in Vegas with models. “Wanting to know where she stood with you isn’t the same as being needy. You know that, right?”
Mitch shrugged, unapologetic. “Maybe. I don’t know. I know that I fucked it up with her. And I also know that I felt like I was always failing. That wears on a guy.”
So had being failed.
They sat in silence for a while, each picked apart by his own thoughts. The TV in the corner cycled to a highlight package from their own game; muted footage of Mitch’s goal flashed across the screen.
“But hey,” Mitch said, tipping his beer at Ilya in a salute. “I know I keep saying it, but…thanks, man. For this. For putting in a word. For vouching for me. I won’t let you down.”
Ilya grunted something noncommittal.
Mitch huffed out a breath. “Anyway.” He nodded toward the TV. “Fresh start, right? New team, new me. I’m trying.” He glanced over, mouth tugging into a crooked smile that had charmed half of New England at one point. “At least I’ve got you while I figure it out, right?”
He said it lightly, but the words slid inside Ilya’ s ribs and twisted.
He thought of Zoey in the parking garage, whispering, Ilya, like a plea. Of the text she’d sent when the trade broke—You okay?—and his cowardice answer. Of the way she’d looked at him the last time they were alone, like he was something solid to hold onto.
The pressure in his chest ratcheted tighter. “Right,” Ilya agreed. What else was there to say?
“You still the kids’ hero at that group home?” Mitch asked eventually, changing lanes with all the elegance of a bus on black ice. “The guys said you’re basically a cult leader there now. Little Sergechev fan club.”
Ilya shrugged. “They like hockey. They like getting out of the house.”
“And you like playing superhero,” Mitch added, mouth quirking. “Nothing new there.”
By Ottawa, the road trip blurred into a repeating loop of rinks, buses, and hotel carpets.
They squeaked out another win against the Senators on Saturday. Ugly, but effective. The locker room smelled like sweat and death; guys yanked off gear with the cranky satisfaction of men who’d blocked one too many shots.
More than ready, they flew home Sunday morning.
The plane hummed; guys dozed, watched movies, scrolled. Mitch passed out in his seat fifteen minutes after takeoff, mouth open, looking unexpectedly young when he wasn’t talking.
When they landed in Bradley, the bus ride from the tarmac to the arena was a low murmur with complaints about sore everything, and debates about whether sleep or showers came first.
As they filed off at the players’ entrance, his phone buzzed.
Zoey: Welcome back to civilization. How sore are you? How pissed was Jason at his misconduct call?
Also: I got you a bag of very high-end dog chow to try with Fido. Maybe he’ll be tempted if he smells you on the bowl.
He could see her typing that, grinning to herself in some office surrounded by labeled bins and color-coded spreadsheets. Hear the joking lilt in her voice, the way she’d bump his arm as she handed him the bag.
His thumbs danced across the screen.
Ilya: He’s a little wound up still but working through it. I’ll grab the dog chow tomorrow. You should be proud. Clinic photos looked great on the main site. Kids stole the show.
He stared at it, added: You did good, Mama Bear.
Deleted it. Left the rest. Hit send.
The parking garage brought a wave of memory as he cut through with the rest of the guys, boots squeaking on salt-streaked concrete. He took a longer route to his truck, skirting the exact lane where he’d pressed Zoey against her car because the sight of that spot made his chest feel too tight.
When he reached his tailgate, a Tupperware sat on the ground, lid flipped open and untouched. Four compartments, each holding a different overpriced delicacy someone had talked him into buying to tempt Fido.
He sighed, bent, and folded the container closed, mashing the neat separations into a sad mush. For a wild second, he wanted to hurl it at the wall. Instead, he set it carefully on the passenger-side floor mat like it was something fragile.
Control was hanging on by a thread.
His phone buzzed again. He didn’t look.
He sat in the driver’s seat and stared blankly at the row of cars opposite, pulse thudding in his ears.
Brother.
Captain.
Best friend.
Secret kisser of that best friend’s ex.
He’d built an entire life around being the one who held other people together.
Now, every time he opened his mouth, it felt like he was lying to someone; Mitch, Zoey, the team, himself. And he couldn’t tell who he was betraying most.
He pictured Zoey curled up on her couch, phone lighting up with Mitch’s name in a headline again, stomach dropping the way it had for years, except this time Ilya’s name would be there too. Same team. Same locker room. Same frame.
He’d answered her trade text with coach-speak and reassurances while offering Mitch pity and agreement over beers.
He sat there for a long moment, phone heavy in his hand, already dreading the next time he had to look Zoey in the eye and pretend this week—and the words he’d given Mitch—hadn’t happened.
The screen lit up again.
Zoey: Oh, by the way. Ashley, Thea, and I have been running Fido stakeouts in shifts and still no sign, but we’ll find him.
She sounded so sure. About a half-wild dog. About lost things finding their way back.
He closed his eyes, his throat tight, and returned to the same conclusion he'd been circling for days: There was no version of this where someone didn’t get hurt.
The only choice left was who.