Chapter 17 - Karter
Pretending Aleksey didn’t exist for two hours on the ice took more effort than actually playing the game.
Usually, the ice is where I stop thinking, but stepping onto the rink for two o’clock practice just felt cold.
I tried to fall back on muscle memory: keep my head down, cycle the puck, don’t draw attention. But my timing was half a beat off, and every delayed reaction gave away exactly how distracted I was.
Instead of reading the hockey play, I was reading the other side of the rink. I couldn’t stop tracking Aleksey.
Even in a generic practice jersey, he took up too much space. I watched the broad line of his shoulders right up until he drove his weight into the boards, delivering a punishing check that rang off the high ceiling. He looked entirely unaffected.
Matt sent a routine tape-to-tape pass my way. Normally, I’d receive it without looking. Today, my hands reacted a full second later, and the puck skipped harmlessly over my blade.
A shrill whistle cut through the rink noise. Elliot skated over before I could line up for the next drill, his stick tapping my shin guard hard enough to sting. He corralled me toward the glass, squaring his shoulders in that captain’s stance he’d been perfecting since peewees.
“Alright,” he said, planting his hands on his hips. “You want to tell me why you’re skating like a guy who only just learned to hold a stick yesterday, or should I start guessing?”
“I’m fine.”
“You just fumbled a tape-to-tape pass. It was an absolute gift.” He tapped his blade against the ice three times. “That’s the third one you’ve blown this period. I’m keeping a tally.”
“Sounds like a productive use of your ice time.”
Elliot frowned at me. “Don’t get cute. You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
“Maybe I haven’t.” I shifted my weight, watching the far end of the rink where Aleksey was lining up for a breakout drill. Shoulders braced. Jaw set. Zero indication that I existed. “Midterms.”
“Midterms?” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving the front sticking up. “You’re pre-med and you’ve never lost sleep over a test in your life. Try again.”
“What do you want me to say, El? I’m in a slump. It happens.”
“It doesn’t happen to you. You don’t slump. You show up, you execute, you go home. That’s been your whole thing since bantams.” He leaned in, dropping his voice. “So either you’re sick, or someone’s in your head. Which one?”
The hum of the ice plant filled the silence. Across the rink, a puck rang off the crossbar.
“Neither,” I said.
“Right. So you’re just magically forgetting how to catch a pass?” He studied me for a beat, then jutted his chin toward the opposite boards. “I heard Hastings pulled Zotov into the athletic office. Couple days ago. Word is it wasn’t friendly.”
My grip on my hockey stick tightened. The tape bit into my glove.
“And you’ve been a ghost ever since,” Elliot continued. “If he’s leaning on you to lie for him, you tell me.”
“He’s not leaning on me.”
“Then look at me and say it.”
I turned my head and met his stare. “He’s not leaning on me.”
Elliot held my gaze. Whatever he found in my eyes made him exhale hard through his nose.
“Fine. Keep your secrets. But if you don’t pull your head out of your ass before the booster dinner tonight, Coach is going to notice.
And Coach noticing means Dad gets a phone call. You want that conversation?”
“No.”
“Then fix it.” He clapped my shoulder, the gesture landing somewhere between captain and brother. “And eat something. You’re pale.”
I let out a slow breath. “Can I skip it?”
“Not a chance. Coach wants the entire roster there.” He tapped my shin guards once again with his stick. “The scholarship guys have to play grateful for the cameras, and we,” he gestured between us, “have to go shake hands with the guys writing the checks. So, pull it together.”
Nodding once, I pushed off the glass and fought my own edges the whole way back to the center circle.
Getting dressed after practice just meant putting on a different kind of uniform. Yet buttoning up a tailored shirt in the locker room felt exhausting. These alumni events were pure politics, and keeping up a polite act for another three hours sounded like a nightmare.
I spent the entire ride over in the passenger seat of Elliot’s car, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. Thankfully, Elliot kept quiet, letting go of the tension from practice earlier. But the silence in the vehicle only gave me more time to dread the rest of the night.
The wealthy donor’s house was massive and much too packed. The heat from too many bodies trapped in one living room hit me the second we walked in. Ignoring the clink of expensive glassware and the loud boom of forced laughter, I skipped the greeting line.
Instead, my eyes scanned the crowded space, looking past the suits and ties until they landed on Aleksey.
I took an empty seat next to Elliot at the long table where the boosters had planted themselves and wrapped my hand tightly around a water glass.
Across the room, Aleksey sat crowded around a smaller table with Perez and a few other scholarship guys.
He leaned back, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a worn dress shirt, as he laughed at something Perez said.
He seemed completely relaxed. Yet, seeing him casually joke around, effortlessly shutting off everything that had happened between us, sent a flare of anger across my chest.
I was barely holding my own act together, and he was just sitting there like I didn’t exist. I bit down on the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood.
Trenton dropped into the empty seat beside me. The chair scraped the hardwood floor. A hand clapped my back hard enough to jolt my water glass before he settled in with a practiced smile that stopped well short of his eyes.
“Rough one out there today,” he said. He reached for the bread basket without looking. “You were skating like you had cinder blocks in your boots.”
“That good, huh,” I replied absentmindedly.
Across the room, Aleksey leaned back in his chair, laughing at something Perez said. The worn dress shirt stretched across his shoulders. Easy. Relaxed. As if nothing had happened.
Trenton tore off a piece of bread. “Don’t beat yourself up. It happens. First full season at this level, living in that drafty dump with the rest of them?” He chewed thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of dead weight in that house.”
“Okay.”
I let the silence after my single-word answer stretch long enough to make Trenton shift in his chair.
A short huff escaped him, loud enough to draw my attention. He gestured toward the crowded scholarship table with his bread crust. “You’re sleeping three doors down from guys who’d shove you into the boards for a roster spot. No wonder you can’t focus.”
The glass in my hand was cold. I loosened my grip before it cracked.
“I’m focusing fine.”
“Sure.” He washed the bread down with a sip of whatever was in his tumbler. “You know your old man used to sit at this exact table. Back when he captained the team. Different caterers, same bullshit speeches. I heard he hated these dinners.”
The mention of my father landed like a fishhook under my skin.
“I’m not my father,” I said.
“No. Obviously not.” He smiled again, wider.
The kind of smile that dared me to take offense.
“But you’ve got the name. That counts for something.
The guys whose families built this program have to stick together.
” He leaned back, swirling the ice in his glass.
“We just want to make sure you’re not going soft on us. ”
My fingers tightened again around my glass until water sloshed over the rim and bled into the tablecloth.
“Who exactly is ‘we’?”
Trenton shrugged. “The guys who actually belong here. Not the charity cases soaking up our ice time.”
Aleksey’s laugh carried across the room again.
“I’m doing great,” I said, meeting Trenton’s gaze without blinking. “But since we’re looking out for each other, you should probably worry about your own game. It must be embarrassing, losing senior ice time to guys who actually have to work for it.”
The entire table froze. Guys stopped eating, their forks hovering over their plates. Trenton stared at me, the casual friendliness vanishing instantly. His jaw locked, and he went dead quiet. He opened his mouth to reply, but he didn’t get the chance.
Elliot immediately stood up, flashing a strained, polite smile at the rest of the table. “Excuse us. It has been a long week.”
He clamped a hand on my shoulder, steering me away from the table. The second we hit the quiet hallway outside the dining room, he let go and turned on me.
“What the hell was that?” Elliot asked. He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in the front. “You do not blow up at a senior in front of the boosters.”
“I just told Trenton the truth.”
“No, you are picking fights over nothing.” Elliot stepped closer, lowering his voice. “All week, you’ve been acting like you’ve got your head in the clouds, Karter. If something is happening, you have to tell me.”
“Nothing is happening.”
“Right. So now you are just magically forgetting how to skate and snapping back at your teammates?” He watched me carefully. “Is someone messing with you in the Ice House? Because if one of them is taking their issues out on you...”
“Why do you keep pushing that?” Folding my arms over my shirt, I stood my ground. “Trenton acts like a total jerk to my face, and you are still trying to find a way to blame Zotov.”
“Because Corby pulled me aside after the last team meeting,” Elliot shot back, his tone sharp. “He told me Hastings is pushing hard on a supposed hazing angle. They’ve been going back and forth about it.”
My posture stiffened. “Corby told you that?”