Chapter 20 - Aleksey
Ever since Karter and I crashed on his bedroom floor, I had survived on pure caffeine, worked night shifts at the Food Mart, and worn a path into the floorboards of my room.
The waiting was chewing me up from the inside.
Karter stubbornly refused to let me take the fall alone. He wanted us to face the administration together, and like an idiot, I agreed to stand my ground. But bracing for the school to officially end my career was driving me out of my mind.
Since my suspension banned me from official team practices, I was forced to maintain my fitness alone. But the summons finally came late this afternoon.
I was out on the empty rink, skating suicide sprints until my lungs burned, just to bleed off the restless energy. Coach Corby walked out of the tunnel, banged his hand against the glass, and pointed up toward the administrative suites.
We both knew what that meant.
The sweat had already dried cold against my neck by the time I reached the top floor of the athletic building.
I spent the entire walk up the stairs finalizing my strategy.
Hastings could not legally railroad a scholarship student without proper representation.
So, I needed my academic advisor, Mr. Morris, in that room to act as a shield.
The administrative wing was dead quiet. Thick carpet muffled the sound of my sneakers as I walked straight into the Athletic Director’s office without bothering to knock.
Gerald Hastings sat back in his oversized leather chair.
He held a coffee mug with what looked like his grandkids’ faces printed on the side, trying to look like a friendly neighborhood grandfather and not an administrator paid to make problems disappear.
He offered me a polite, sympathetic smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Take a seat, Aleksey,” Hastings said, gesturing to the chair opposite his desk.
“No,” I stopped right in front of the polished mahogany desk and planted my feet wide.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I stared down at him and let my sheer size dominate the room.
I was a hockey enforcer, not a scared kid begging for permission to stay and play.
“I want Mr. Morris in here before we start talking.”
Hastings let out a long, disappointed sigh and placed his mug down. The ceramic hit the wooden tabletop with a sharp clink.
“There is no need to be so defensive,” Hastings said, folding his hands together on the desk. “And I have already briefed Mr. Morris. He understands the situation.”
I clenched my teeth so tight that the muscle ticked near my scar. “Then pick up your phone and get him down here. I deny the Title IX complaint entirely, and I am not having an unofficial chat about it.”
“The academic board is fully aware of the allegations.” Hastings leaned forward, dropping the grandfatherly routine just a fraction. His features hardened into something more calculating. “And we are united in managing this risk, Aleksey. I simply want to help you navigate this quietly.”
“Help me?” A dry, humorless laugh scraped out of my throat. “You just want to sweep me under the rug. Call Morris.”
I dug my fingers into the sleeves of my coat, gripping my own arms to keep from reaching across the desk. They were shutting me out. That was the moment I figured blunt was the only option left. If I pushed back enough, maybe the admin would buckle.
“Expel me, then,” I challenged him.
Hastings blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Expel me. I will fight it at a hearing. I will clear my name.”
“I do not think you want to do that,” Hastings spoke like he was some kind of disappointed mentor. “A hearing means a public record.”
“I do not give a shit.”
“You should.” He folded his hands on the desk.
“If you fight this, the allegations will become public. The entire campus and our donor base will hear the story of a senior scholarship player abusing his tutoring access to target a legacy freshman.” Hastings watched my face.
“Karter’s family name will be dragged right into the center of a locker-room scandal.
He will be outed to his parents, the alumni network, and the entire National Hockey Circuit.
Do you honestly think a scout will touch either of you after a circus like that? ”
My stomach dropped. Hastings was not just threatening my draft spot anymore. He was holding a match to Karter’s entire life and forcing me to choose who burned.
“Furthermore, you lose your housing and all financial aid immediately if you are expelled,” Hastings said.
I scoffed and shifted my weight, gripping the back of the empty guest chair until the leather groaned. “Then I will get a lawyer. I will take this whole school to court for a rigged investigation.”
Hastings offered a slow, pitying smile. “With what money, Aleksey? I know you work night shifts at a convenience store just to send money home. The university has a corporate legal firm on retainer. We can bury you in paperwork and appeals until you age out of your hockey eligibility.”
The threat hit right where he aimed it. My grip on the chair slipped. He was right. I could not afford an attorney for a single week, let alone a multi-year legal battle.
“But you have a lifeline here.” Hastings opened a manila folder and slid a single sheet of paper across the desk. “A voluntary withdrawal from the hockey program. You cite family financial hardship and step down from the team.”
“If I step down, I am not playing.” I forced myself to hold his gaze. “How does that save my draft spot?”
“It leaves your record spotless,” Hastings countered without missing a beat. “Scouts will see a dedicated kid who had to step away to support his struggling family. Sign this, and I will permanently seal the complaint. You keep your academic scholarship, and you finish your degree quietly.”
A chilling silence fell between us. He had boxed me in from every single angle.
“This is your only way to keep a clean record,” Hastings said, his voice dropping into that fake, caring tone again. “It makes sure your mother’s years of sacrifice to keep you in skates do not end in a very public, very ugly expulsion. Plus, it protects Karter.”
I looked from the paper to his smug face.
“You have twenty-four hours to sign the resignation,” Hastings told me.
Pressing my lips into a thin line, I snatched the unsigned piece of paper off the desk. I turned my back on him and walked out without giving him the satisfaction of another word.
I pushed through the doors of the varsity locker room and headed straight for the dark, quiet corner where the scholarship guys usually sat. Dropping onto a wooden bench, I let the silence ring in my ears.
The unsigned resignation letter rested on my knee. My thumb rubbed over the sharp corner of the paper while I ran the harsh logic in my head.
Fighting the complaint meant losing everything. Signing the paper meant losing Karter. But if I signed it, the Title IX charge stayed buried, and I could still salvage my draft. Walking away was the only logical play. Which meant I had to cut Karter loose.
I had to look out for myself, just like I always did.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated against my thigh. I pulled it from my pocket, the cold plastic edge of the case pressing into my palm.
An unknown number flashed on the screen.
I swiped to answer. “Zotov.”
“Aleksey. It is Russell Turner, scouting director for Chicago,” a man said.
I sat up straighter, forcing the exhaustion out of my voice. “Mr. Turner. Good to hear from you. I was just reviewing some game tape.”
“Glad to hear you are staying sharp,” Turner replied, but the words sounded forced. “Listen, I am reaching out because our front office just received an automated flag from the collegiate athletic registry. It says you were officially scratched from the active roster indefinitely.”
A dull pressure throbbed behind my eyes. Hastings had already filed the suspension paperwork.
“It is just a temporary scratch.” I lied smoothly. “Coach and I are working through a minor issue. I will be on the ice soon enough.”
“A minor issue.” Turner repeated the words slowly. “Because the whisper network is saying it is a lot more than that. We are hearing rumors about a pending misconduct complaint, something messy involving the Johnston family.”
I gripped the edge of the wooden bench. “That is nothing but a rumor. There is no official complaint on my record.”
“It does not matter if it is official yet,” Turner cut in, dropping the polite act. “You are a bubble prospect, kid. A depth guy. We like your style of play, but you are not a franchise star. And that is why we cannot afford to draft a depth guy who brings a media circus with him.”
“There is no circus,” I argued.
“The Johnstons have enough money and political backing to bring grief to half the teams in our league,” Turner shot back.
“If you are tangled up in some locker room scandal that involves one of their kids, they will make it a public nightmare. Our ownership group will not touch a prospect who pisses off that kind of old money. The legal headache is not worth the payoff.”
“Mr. Turner, give me a chance to clear this up.”
“I’m sorry, kid, but we’re pulling our interest, Zotov,” the scout said. “Take care of yourself.”
The line went dead.
“Shit.” The word hissed out into the empty room. “What the fuck just happened?”
Lowering my phone, I watched the screen go black in the palm of my hand. That was it. Chicago was out. The draft was gone.
Every garbage night shift I worked at the Food Mart, every hard check I took on the ice to get here, was erased in a two-minute phone call.
The folded edge of the withdrawal form pressed into my knee.
Sign it and I keep the academic scholarship.
Which meant two more years of sitting in classrooms while my mother broke her back on double shifts, all for a degree that wouldn’t land a job paying enough to pull her out of that moldy apartment.
Hockey was my ticket. The only one. Without it, staying here was just selfish.