Chapter 16 - Aleksey
Two missed calls from Coach Corby before nine in the morning never meant good news.
I woke to the notifications glowing on my phone screen, the cold bedsheets beside me empty.
Last night, Karter and I had killed the headlights a block from the Ice House, crept up the back staircase one at a time so the old wood wouldn’t groan under our combined weight, then spent a few hours tangled together in the dark before he slipped back to his own room.
But now, I simply lay here staring at the ceiling, my mind still stuck on taking Karter all the way, for the first time. Watching him lose control under me, coming hard and shouting my name—the memory of it messed with my head.
I wanted him so damn much, and realizing I actually needed someone scared the shit out of me.
A third call lit up my phone screen, vibrating against the wooden floor and interrupting those thoughts.
I snatched up my phone, swiped to accept the call, and lifted it to my ear.
“Athletic office. Now.” Coach Corby hung up.
I didn’t freak out. I simply pushed the memories of the backseat out of my mind, threw on some clothes, and headed over to face whatever shit was waiting for me.
Walking into the athletic office did nothing for my growing morning headache. Coach Corby stood near the window with his arms crossed over his Ridge Cross University quarter-zip, rubbing his head. That usually meant he was pissed.
Meanwhile, Athletic Director Hastings sat behind his massive wooden desk. The room was dead quiet.
I frowned as I crossed my arms. “I’ve got class in twenty minutes. What’s this about?”
Hastings pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Sit down, Zotov.”
I stayed standing.
Hastings frowned and pointed at the leather chair across from him. “That was not a suggestion.”
“Leave it, Gerry,” Corby said. He waved a hand in my direction. “He never sits down for these things. Just let him stand.”
Hastings clearly did not like it, but he let it go. I fought the urge to grin at the face he made.
Corby sighed. “Someone slipped an envelope under my door this morning.”
Hastings did not raise his voice. Instead, he slid a standard manila folder across his polished desk. “Take a look.”
I stepped forward and flipped the cover open. I kept my face carefully blank as I looked down at what was inside.
A stack of grainy printed photos sat in the folder. And I recognized that morning weeks ago in the parking lot right away.
The top picture showed the exact second I grabbed him. It caught the tense angle of my shoulders and the way I boxed him in. My hand was locked hard on the back of his neck.
To Corby and Hastings, it just looked like an angry senior roughing up a freshman.
But staring at the paper, I saw the real problem.
Anyone with eyes could see it wasn’t a fight.
The shot caught Karter with his chin tilted up, not fighting back at all.
It caught me leaning down, staring straight at his mouth.
I snapped the folder shut. My only way out was to swallow my pride and let them think I was just being a hothead.
“Looks like two guys arguing,” I said, dropping the folder back onto the desk.
“It looks like an assault,” Corby snapped. “It looks like a senior intimidating a freshman.”
“I didn’t assault anyone,” I fired back. “Nobody threw a punch.”
Corby rubbed his head again, his frustration clearly spiking. “Look at the damn picture, Zotov. You have your hand clamped on his neck. What the hell is going on between you two? Are you going after the only kid actually helping you keep your grades afloat?”
“I grabbed his hoodie. Not his neck,” I said flatly.
“It does not matter what you grabbed when it looks like this,” Corby said, pointing at the desk. “Why were you putting hands on him?”
“We were arguing about study schedules,” I lied, staring straight back at him. “He kept pushing me to meet at the library when I had to work a night shift. I told him to drop it and I got pissed.”
That caught Corby off guard. He dropped his hand from his head. He clearly expected me to throw a massive fit or deny the whole thing. But I just stood there and took the hit as the bad guy.
Hastings leaned back in his leather chair and folded his hands.
“My sense is that this is not the kind of attention anyone wants.” He tapped a finger against his desk.
“The Johnston family name is on our practice facility. Have we thought about how an assault investigation involving his youngest son looks to Richard Johnston?”
That made it click.
Hastings had been looking for a reason to cut me all season. But a formal hazing investigation meant calling Karter’s dad. The athletic director just wanted to sweep a massive PR nightmare under the rug to protect his own job and the university’s wallet.
“This photo was slipped under the door anonymously,” Hastings continued, his voice perfectly level. “Right after the Chicago scouts started asking for your transcripts yesterday. The timing is very convenient.”
“You think someone on the team is trying to tank my draft?” I asked.
“I think someone is handing us a reason to suspend you,” Hastings said smoothly. “So, if Karter claims you tried to attack him, you are off the roster.”
“He won’t,” I said.
Hastings raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
Hastings stared at me for a long time. Finally, he pulled the folder across the wood and shoved it into a drawer.
“I am going to keep this file right here for now. We do not need a donor scandal. But you need to stay entirely away from Karter Johnston.” He dismissed me with a short wave of his hand. “Go to class.”
I turned toward the door and walked out. Behind me, Coach Corby muttered a quick, “I’ve got him, Gerry,” to the athletic director.
Corby’s footsteps rang down the hallway before his voice cracked behind me like a whip. “Zotov. Stop.”
I froze just outside the office. Corby caught up to me. He crossed his thick arms, rocking back on his heels the exact way he did behind the bench when we were blowing a lead on the ice.
“I told you to keep your nose clean,” Corby said, his voice dropping to a gruff warning. “You already had a behavioral note in your file before this photo landed on my desk. Now it looks like you’re ignoring the warning.”
I stiffened. “I heard you.”
“Really?” Corby let out another exhausted sigh.
He stopped rocking and uncrossed his arms. “Do you know I spend half my damn week fighting off guys in suits? I have parents who think writing a check for a new facility means they get to dictate my roster. Plus, I have Hastings breathing down my neck trying to protect the college brand.”
He pointed a thick finger directly at my chest.
“But I do not care whose last name is on the jersey,” Corby continued, his tone hardening.
“I back the players with actual talent. The guys who put their heads down and earn their ice time. You are one of those players, Zotov. So do not make me look like an idiot for going to bat for you. This is your final year here. Make it damn well count.”
I held his stare, keeping my expression blank.
“If this blows up, Chicago pulls its offer and your future in hockey is gone,” Corby warned. “So I do not care if Johnston drives you crazy. You do not put hands on him. You stay away from him. Understood?”
“Understood,” I said.
“Now go.”
I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and strode out of the athletic building. The strong wind hit my face, but my nine-thirty lecture did not matter anymore.
I’d said I didn’t care what it cost. However, that was last night, in a warm car, with Karter’s mouth on mine, and no-one watching us.
Now a manila folder held a grainy photo and the end of everything I’d bled for. My mother’s tired face surfaced in the back of my mind, then the scout’s warning about PR nightmares.
I ground my teeth and kept walking. My only focus was finding Karter.
It took twenty minutes to track him down. He sat alone at a back table in the library archives, highlighting a textbook.
I stopped at the edge of his desk, planted my hands flat on the wood, and leaned in close.
“Pack your shit,” I told him, keeping my voice low. “Outside. Now.”
I turned around and walked straight out of the room.
The courtyard was deserted, and the bleak morning light was a reminder that the Michigan winter was nowhere near done with us yet.
As I inhaled the crisp air, every instinct in my body screamed to hold on to Karter.
But then my mother’s tired face flashed in my mind, followed by the image of that manila folder.
I had too much to lose.
The glass doors pushed open. Karter stepped outside.
He walked toward me with an easy stride, hands in his pockets, not even bothering to check the courtyard to see who else was around. Instead, he just looked straight at me, grinning as if he was still thinking about last night.
“Couldn’t wait until practice to see me?” he asked. His tone was light, carrying an easy confidence he usually hid from the rest of the team.
I didn’t answer.
Karter’s grin flickered. He stopped a few feet away, head tilting. “What’s with the face? You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re planning a funeral. Whose funeral are we talking about, exactly?”
“Corby and Hastings just pulled me into the office,” I said. My voice came out even.
Karter’s smile vanished. “Why?”
“Someone slid an anonymous folder under Corby’s door.
” I watched his face. “They got a picture of us in the parking lot from a few weeks ago. When I grabbed your...” I slipped a hand out of my pocket and gestured at my neck a moment before slipping my hand back in.
I sighed, then shook my head. “It looks like it could be something. At least, they think it looks like something.”
Karter frowned. “So? We tell them we got into a shoving match.”
“I did,” I said, my tone hardening. “But anyone with half a brain who looks at the photo can see it wasn’t a fight. I am staring right at your mouth. It looks like I am about to kiss you.”
Karter went still. The frown disappeared, leaving his expression blank as the problem began to register.
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and dragged a palm down his face.
“Who sent it? Angel Perez?” He looked around the empty courtyard like someone was watching us.
“Angel was pretty clear about us being a problem.”
“Angel looks out for himself, but he does not rat out his own linemates,” I said. “He knows what losing this scholarship means to me and Mom. It wasn’t him.”
Karter swallowed hard. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. “Then who?”
“Think about the timing.” I held his gaze. “Chicago scouts asked for my transcripts yesterday. This shows up today.”
Karter’s eyes widened. He looked past me for a second as the pieces clicked together. “Trenton? He is one of Elliot’s guys. He has been bitching all season about the legacy roster getting pushed out. He could be trying to screw with your draft.”
“That tracks.” I kept my voice dead level, not wasting any energy on getting pissed off. “I remember him acting like an entitled prick and getting in our faces over ice time a few weeks ago. He wants me gone.”
“Okay, so we deny it,” Karter pushed back. He took a quick step toward me, closing the gap. He looked up at me, his eyes wide. “We will just be smarter. We can figure this out.”
“If they catch us again, I am done.” I stepped back, cutting him off before I did something stupid. “We have to go cold. No contact. No nothing.”
Karter froze. “Aleks, no.”
I crossed my arms, building a wall between us. Locking down every single thing I felt for him, I stared back with zero expression. “There is no other way. It is done.”
“You do not mean that.” Karter’s voice actually shook. “Last night...”
I forced a hard swallow, fighting the sudden ache in my throat to get the lie out. “Last night doesn’t matter,” I cut him off. My voice came out completely dead.
His face fell. The absolute heartbreak in his expression physically hurt to look at, making my fingers twitch with an urge to smooth that hurt away. But the scouts, the scholarship, the pressure: all of it had piled up.
“Just stay away from me,” I told him.
I turned my back and walked away, absolutely refusing to look back while I left him standing alone in the courtyard.
Getting through the rest of the day was a grind. Especially when I had to share the ice with Karter for a two-hour practice later. But I spent the entire time running drills on autopilot just to make sure I never looked directly at him.
By the time I could finally retreat to the Ice House and lock the door to my small attic room, I was worn out.
I did not bother turning on the lights; I just sat on the edge of my mattress in the dark.
The corner radiator clanked in the background while I listened to Karter moving around next door.
The cheap drywall didn’t hide a thing. A shoe hit the floorboards, followed by the sharp slam of a drawer, and then his bedsprings let out a loud squeak when he finally dropped his weight onto the mattress.
Sitting there, listening to him, drove me crazy.
I cracked my knuckles over and over, using the sharp pops to keep my hands busy.
The urge to walk over to his room, knock on the door, and take the whole thing back was a massive fight.
I tried to convince myself I had made the smart, realistic choice to protect my draft chances.
But the logic did not fix the crushing thought that I had just thrown away the only real thing I had found since I came to this college.
Collapsing back onto the bed, I stared up at the ceiling. Then, reaching out, I flattened my hand against the cheap drywall.
Karter was right there, sitting a few inches away on the other side. But I had just made sure I could never touch him again.