Chapter 24 - Aleksey
Black grease covered my hands when Coach Corby’s name lit up the screen of my phone lying on the garage floor.
I kicked my shoe against the concrete and rolled out from under the rusted sedan on my creeper board. A deep ache spread through my shoulders after hours of wrestling with its undercarriage. And the smell of brake fluid clung to the sweat pooling at the base of my neck.
From the next bay over, a pneumatic wrench shrieked and rattled against the cinderblock walls.
Down here in this Detroit garage, the deafening noise drowned out any lingering memories of ice rinks or Ridge Cross.
Turning a wrench earned a paycheck, and I embraced the grease and the mind-numbing work.
I snatched an oil-stained rag from a nearby tool cart and scrubbed the worst of the sludge from my hands. Down on the concrete, the phone continued to vibrate, Corby’s name still flashing right over a stack of missed notifications from Karter.
I had spent the last week ignoring every single attempt Ridge Cross made to contact me. So, my thumb hovered over the red decline button out of pure habit. But blowing off the head coach felt like a line I could not cross, even if it was a surprise to me that he was even calling.
I swiped the screen and brought the speaker to my ear.
“Zotov,” I answered, keeping my tone flat.
“So the kid does remember how to answer a call,” Corby grumbled. His voice carried a rough, exhausted edge over the tiny speaker. “I was starting to think you threw the damn thing in a river.”
“Only for you, Coach. What do you need? I have a car transmission waiting on me.”
“Then take a break. We need to talk.”
I leaned my aching shoulders back against the steel post of the car lift. “There’s nothing left to say. I’m already in Detroit.”
“Trenton Wright’s suspension just went public,” Corby stated, entirely bypassing what I’d just said. “The athletic director is officially reinstating your scholarship. Your roster spot is open.”
My lungs seized up. The dirty rag slipped from my grip and hit the floor. Every instinct I possessed screamed at me to hang up. They had thrown me out the second a legacy player pointed a finger, and going back meant placing my neck right back on the same chopping block.
“I’ve moved on,” I lied, forcing a harsh laugh to cover the sudden tremor in my hand. “I do not need your charity. You guys tossed me out fast enough the first time.”
“Stop being a stubborn ass,” Corby shot back. “This is not charity. The Karter kid got him.”
I froze, my grip tightening on the plastic casing of my phone. “What do you mean?”
“Karter and Elliot marched straight up to Hastings last night. They twisted the AD’s arm.”
My shoes suddenly felt glued to the concrete. “They went to the front office?”
“Karter had a recording on his phone,” Corby explained. He sounded almost amused beneath the grit. “Trenton apparently bragged about making up the harassment claim just to get you kicked off the ice. The idiot confessed to the whole thing.”
My eyebrows rose high on my forehead. “Karter got it on audio?”
“He got every word. Then he and Elliot demanded your return.”
The screeching pneumatic wrench in the next bay dropped to a dull drone. Pulling in a full breath took real effort.
Karter actually fought back. After all the garbage lies I told him in that attic, he still refused to just keep his head down.
Standing there on the oily concrete and listening to the quiet static over the line, I struggled to get my head around it. Guys with trust funds did not stick their necks out for guys like me.
“Is he really out?”
“Trenton is done on the team,” Corby confirmed. “His old man is throwing a massive fit to get him back on the ice. But the Wrights just do not have the Johnston-level donor pull to override this. Elliot and Karter backed the administration into a corner.”
Static hissed through the receiver once again. And then Corby cleared his throat loud enough to crackle the speaker, followed by an exhale.
“Listen,” Corby said. His usual locker-room bark vanished. He clipped his words into the stiff, guarded rhythm I’d heard him save for reporters and admin. “Karter went to the mat for you. Whatever situation you two have going on, he did not back down. And the whole team knows Trenton is out.”
Pressing my spine against the cold steel of the car lift, the silence stretched out. The head coach of Ridge Cross had just casually acknowledged the exact secret that drove me out of his locker room.
Standing around waiting for the inevitable punishment felt useless. Pushing off the metal post, I confronted the issue head-on.
“Am I getting benched over this, Coach?”
Corby let out a rough grunt over the line.
“I do not care what you two do in your private time, so long as you clear the crease and produce on my ice. We are heading to the Cold Quartet in two weeks.” Dropping the awkward topic, he slipped right back into his demanding locker-room bark.
“We have scouts attending our upcoming practice. So you have exactly forty-eight hours to get your gear back into my facility and lock in your roster spot.”
“Coach, I am in Detroit. I do not even have a bus ticket back, and...”
“Then buy one,” Corby interrupted. He dropped the drill-sergeant volume, shifting into a quieter tone.
“You read the play before it develops, Zotov. And you clear out the zone better than any guy on my roster. Hell, you have a real shot at going pro. Do not throw that talent in the dumpster because you are too proud to take this win.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Corby left no room for excuses.
“Forty-eight hours,” Coach ordered. “Get your gear back into my locker room. If you are not here, the spot goes to someone else.”
He hung up before I could say another word.
Lowering my phone, I stared at the blank screen. The faint beep of the disconnected line sounded out of place against the roar of the auto shop.
Corby never handed out direct praise like that. He always kept his distance from the scholarship guys, and I’d started to resent him for it. But hearing him acknowledge my potential stripped away the comfortable numbness I had relied on since I’d come back home.
Snatching the dirty rag off the floor and tossing it onto a nearby tool cart, I wiped my palms down my jeans. Crawling back under a rusted transmission would not fix anything.
I had to go home and face my mother.
Pushing open the front door of our apartment, I caught the strong scent of boiled cabbage and cheap lemon dish soap right away.
I secured the deadbolt and moved through the tight hallway toward our cramped kitchen.
Mama stood at the sink. She kept her back to the doorway while scraping a sponge against a battered pot.
“You’re home early,” Mama noted, and kept right on scrubbing.
Tossing my keys onto the chipped counter, I stripped off my stiff work jacket. “The Ridge Cross team coach just called me.”
“The coach?” She turned the faucet off. She dropped the sponge, faced me, and wiped her wet hands on a dish towel. “Why is he calling you?”
“Karter cornered the player who filed that fake report,” I explained. “He got a full confession on audio and took it to the Athletic Director. The administration is giving me my full scholarship back.”
She gasped and dropped the towel onto the counter. Stepping forward, a massive smile broke across her face as she gripped both of my forearms and squeezed hard. “Lekha! You have your spot back. You can finish your degree. Go get your duffel bag.”
I moved out of her grip, took a couple of steps back, and leaned against the doorframe. “I cannot go back.”
Her smile vanished. “What do you mean?”
“I said some really bad things to Karter when I left,” I muttered, staring at the scuffed floor. “I did it so that he would let go of our relationship.”
“And you thought that would stop him?” Mama pointed out, her voice hardening.
“His family is going to scorch him for dragging their name into a scandal.” I countered. “Maybe if I stay in Detroit, Karter can still fix things with his dad. I have absolutely nothing to offer a guy like that.”
Mama closed the distance between us in two quick strides and smacked the side of my head.
I winced and rubbed my scalp. “What was that for?”
“For talking like a fool,” she scolded, pointing a finger at my chest. “Running away makes you exactly like Daniil.”
I stilled at the mention of my dad’s name.
“That Karter boy stood up for you just to hand you back your future,” she snapped. “Your father called his running away from us a sacrifice too. But staying here to hide in a garage while that boy takes the damage alone? Lekha, that is just selfish.”
Leaning back against the wood trim, I crossed my arms over my chest. Mama saw right through the bullshit. She always did.
“He is going to figure out I am a mess,” I said, dropping my volume to a rough whisper. “He deserves better than that.”
She let out a long breath and relaxed her rigid stance. She reached out and patted my cheek. “Sweetheart, you owe him the truth.”
After a beat of silence, I met her eyes.
“And you owe yourself a chance,” she added. “That boy fought for you. Now you must swallow your pride and fight for him.”
I stared at the yellow light reflecting off the wet sink and processed everything from the past week. Karter refused to accept my easy exit. He stood up to the people who bankrolled his entire life, all to hand me back a future I’d already thrown away.
Staying here at home meant letting him take the fallout from that all alone. Hiding under a rusted Chevy didn’t make me noble. It just made me exactly the kind of man I’d spent my whole life trying not to become.
Uncrossing my arms, I pushed off the doorframe.
“I need to pack.”