Chapter Twenty-Two
Moskins
I already know it’s going to be a shit day when I have two missed calls and three text messages from my agent all by the time I finish my run, shower, and hop in the car to go to the stadium for a team meeting.
The first image he sends me is of me pulling Winter inside my home. It’s from the other day and must have been taken by the Uber driver who recognized me.
The second one is us at a diner, sitting across from one another in an intense conversation. It looks like it was taken from behind a counter, which means one of the servers must have snapped it. My bet is on Linda. I’d seen the flash of familiarity in her eyes that Winter insisted wasn’t there.
And the third is of us kissing in my car outside her apartment building. Yesterday. Which means that while I was dropping her off, someone was waiting for her. Someone who knew I’d be there.
My jaw clenches as I dial my agent’s number and growl, “Kill it, Ashton.”
“Good morning to you too, asshole.”
Teeth grinding, I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. “Hi, Ash. Would you be so fucking obliged as to get rid of the goddamn pictures you sent me? You know, like I pay you to take care of.”
He mumbles something under his breath about Scott needing to step up in his managerial role. Then adds, “I’m working on it, but I figured you’d need to know in case you decide to have anymore guests at your house that can’t drive themselves.”
“So it was the driver,” I guess, swiping a hand down my face.
“He took multiple pictures of you and Winter. They’re incriminating, Tom. He sold them off to TMZ, which is how I found out about them from our contact there.”
My nostrils flare. “Son of a bitch.”
“I told—”
“Now is not the time for ‘I told you so,’ ass wipe,” I cut him off.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I pull into the back lot of Yokav Stadium and park in my usual spot.
“I’ve done what you suggested and backed off a little.
I’m doing what I can to make sure I don’t pull her into my bullshit until I can figure it out. ”
When she kissed me yesterday, it’d been an unexpected—but welcome—surprise. And that fucking kiss changed everything for me. It made me want to find a solution that gives us an actual chance to get to know one another. It made me want to cook dinner for her and give her as many hugs as she wanted.
It made me wish I didn’t have a wife.
And that was a crushing thought.
Because I love Emaly too.
“I’m not trying to be a dick,” Ashton says with a lofty sigh.
“We have a standing relationship with our source at TMZ, but we don’t always have that at other tabloids.
I already bought out the images for a pretty penny, including the other two.
You’re walking on a very fine line, my friend.
Everything you do is under scrutiny, regardless of what good deeds are being done in the community. ”
I close my eyes and lean back in the seat, letting my body melt into the leather.
I’ve been around long enough to know that I can’t control everything, not even with all the money in the world.
There will be people, like that damn Uber driver, who will want a piece of that profit to say they got the best of me.
“How much did you have to pay?”
Ashton pauses, but eventually says, “Half a million for five images. You’re seen pulling her into your house in two of them. TMZ seemed to think it was a worthy paycheck for that kind of photography.”
It doesn’t matter that we hadn’t done anything more than talk. People will come up with their own narrative, whether it’s true or not.
I pull my phone back and glance at the thread I’ve been avoiding. I feel bad for ghosting her after I’m the one who asked if she was okay. If I’d met Winter first, maybe things would be different. I’d have more ability to make a difference in her life. If she’d let me.
But something tells me she wouldn’t.
“You’ve got to figure out what you want,” Ashton says, cutting into the silence.
But it’s not what I want that he’s referring to.
It’s who I want.
My throat bobs. “Yeah, I know.”
“There might be other photos out there, so I’m going to try finding them before any get out.
But I can’t make any promises, Tom. So while I work on making this shit disappear, I need you to behave at the gala tonight.
I won’t be there to intercept any of the media bound to be in attendance since they announced you, Head, and Clarkson would be there. ”
I don’t need him to babysit me anyway. “I’ll lay low. Just take care of this using whatever money necessary,” I say, before hanging up.
Scrubbing a palm down my face, I lean back and stare up at the ceiling of my car. It’s not often that I’ve had to pay out anybody for images. But as time went on, and rumors of my affairs started spreading, more of the media became interested.
I’m not sure why it’s all come to a head now.
I know some people need to make ends meet, so maybe the pictures are a means of survival.
But what are the odds that every person I run into will take a picture and sell it?
It’s not that unheard of in more populated areas, but not in Fairbanks.
I’m too new for it to solely be bad luck.
There’s something else going on.
When my phone goes off again, I half-groan, thinking it’s going to be Ashton. When I see Emaly’s name, I frown. “You good?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” she questions, sounding much more refreshed than she did the last time we spoke. I’d wanted to talk to her about what her father told me, and—
For fuck’s sake.
If Mikhail hired somebody to follow his daughter, then my guess is that some of these photos from TMZ were because of him as well.
“I haven’t heard from you in days since you lost your shit on me,” Emaly says as I move my jaw back and forth and try not to punch something.
I rub my eyes and sigh. “I didn’t lose my shit. I was worried because of what your father said, and I thought you should know he got someone to tail you. You’re welcome, by the way, since you never thanked me.”
I can imagine her rolling her eyes. “I didn’t thank you because I already knew. It’s pretty obvious when people are following you. He really should have hired someone better.”
I wish I could say the same, since I’m fairly positive he’s been doing it to me.
But this isn’t about me. “So you and Ronnie have been careful then?”
“Don’t worry about us. We’re good.”
“But—”
“I’m calling because you’ve been moody and I’m making sure you’re not about to go postal or something,” she informs me, clearly diverting the conversation to safer territory. “It’s not like you to go silent on me.”
We don’t talk every day, but there are weeks when we speak more than others.
Mostly because of our schedules. Hers is five times as busy as mine most days, so I try not to bother her.
But I know if I use that excuse, she won’t believe me.
“I’m doing okay. Just keeping to myself and letting everyone live their lives. ”
She hums. “While that’s kind of you, that doesn’t seem like the entire story. Want to try again?”
I check my watch. “No, because I don’t have time for whatever this is. I’m going to be late for practice and don’t feel like having your dad up my ass and threatening to sit me out for next week’s game.”
She groans. “Thomas, I want to talk to you.”
“Then I’ll call you when I’m done.”
It isn’t like I have anyone to speak to these days anyway.
“Do you mean it?”
I don’t know. “Yes,” I lie. “Talk later?”
“Fine. But if I don’t hear from you by the end of the night, I’m calling. And I won’t stop until you pick up. And if you dare turn your phone off—”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Dimples,” I tell her to appease her from this rant. “I love you, and I’ll talk to you later.”
There’s a frown in her reply when she says, “I love you too.” And I don’t have time to think about why it’s there.
I also don’t think about the fact that she called me, which tells me she probably wanted to talk to me about more than what’s up my ass.
So, I’ll make it up to her later.
I have to.
Or all of this is for nothing.
*
The sound of skates scraping against ice and bodies slamming into the boards is music to my ears. Unless, of course, it’s my body being rammed into the plexiglass by a two-hundred-pound man in full gear.
“You good, Moskins?” Hoffman calls out when Dawson releases me with a pat on the back.
Clarkson and a few others were murmuring about Yokav watching our practice from one of the suites. When I looked up, I saw him lurking above us like a king on his throne. And he’d been staring at me.
That’s inevitably when Dawson, the asshole, body slammed me for the puck.
“All good,” I yell back, smacking the wall as I push off it. At least there weren’t any bloody noses today. Yet. The day was still early.
Hoffman gathers us all back in the center of the ice. “Look, I know we all have our own shit going on. But being distracted out here isn’t going to help anyone.”
He doesn’t direct that comment at me, but he may as well have. Nobody else is slacking on their plays or being watched like a zoo animal. Just me. And everybody else probably suspects who the owner of the Fireflies is keeping an eye on.
“Our first game against the Islanders is going to be a good test to see where we stand under pressure. Remember one thing—preseason games may not count toward the Stanley Cup, but they still matter. This is our official introduction to the league. If we want fans to root for us, then we need to prove we’re worth it.
That means giving it our all from here on out. ”
Richie Head smacks my chest. “Yeah, Moskins. Hear that?”
A few of the guys snicker, but quickly stop when I shoot them an unimpressed scowl.
Clarkson clears his throat. “We all need to be at our best. I was slower on the last run and screwed up my pass. It threw things off.”
He wasn’t the problem, and I don’t like him taking the blame for me.
I look at Hoffman. “I have no intention of letting New York beat us. Never been a fan.”
Hoffman chuckles when I point that comment in his direction. He may not have played for the Islanders, but the Rangers were a New York team too, and a damn good one. He always made sure the competition was tight.
“Fair,” Hoffman muses. “And since we have a former Islander”—he looks at Dawson—“we have an insider. If you have any tips on playing their weaknesses, now’s a good time to share.”
I can see the line Dawson’s towing with loyalty as he glances at everybody staring in wait. He started out with the Islanders and still has some semblance of appreciation for them. That’s how I feel about the Penguins, so I get it.
Dawson clears his throat. “Their defense is strong,” he begins, almost hesitantly.
His eyes roam around us and lock on Clarkson, who nods once in encouragement. It’s no wonder that nobody questioned who would captain this team. There’s only one answer when Jesse Clarkson is involved.
Eventually, Dawson hefts a sigh and stands a little straighter. “It’s the goaltenders that aren’t as strong compared to other Metropolitan teams in the Eastern Conference. Their OG starter is out with an injury until at least next year, and the backups have a lot to be desired.”
That’s good to know. “And their offense?” I find myself asking, wondering if there’s a weakness I can exploit.
My teammate shakes his head. “Not as strong as their defense, but still good. During my last season, it was their forward unit that was considered their biggest fault. They’ve done a lot of reworking since then, so I can’t say what it’s like now. We won’t know until we play them.”
Hoffman nods along. “That’s good to know, Dawson. Thank you.”
Someone clasps Dawson’s shoulder when he’s silent, and Hoffman goes on to explain our next formation. It’s simple. I’ve done it a million times before and rarely mess it up.
But when I see Mikhail Yokav with his arms crossed, looking down at the rink with his disdain burning holes into my back, I show him exactly what can happen if he keeps fucking with me.
As much as I love winning, he loves it more.
And if he wants to play with fire, then I’ll hold the goddamn gasoline.
I make a point to meet his eyes, not breaking eye contact until Hoffman blows his whistle. We start the drill. I purposefully fall a few seconds short, letting the puck go past me. The other team gets the goal.
We go again.
I go left when my opposer goes right.
Hoffman stops us for a second time.
Do you get it yet? Is what my eyes say to the man still standing above us.
His arms go to his sides, and he turns to give me his back and walks to his office. He doesn’t want me here. He doesn’t want me in his life at all. The feeling is mutual though.
“Moskins,” Hoffman calls out, sounding exasperated. “Head in the game. We don’t have a lot of time left. I’ve been on the ice with you. I know you can do better.”
I snap my eyes away from where Yokav disappears and skate back to my position. “I’m in it,” I call back, grinding my teeth.
With Yokav gone, I show the team what I’m made of.
Nobody gets past me.
My team wins.
All while Clarkson’s suspicious eyes watch me. When we get to the locker room, he pulls me aside before I can go to the showers. “I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s not fair to the rest of the team if you’re playing a different long game.”
I meet his eyes stubbornly. “Yokav needs to learn a lesson.”
“Well, don’t fuck over everybody else just so you can prove some mundane point. There are rookies on this team who look up to you. They want to follow your lead. Learn from you. Don’t lead them down the petty path. You’re better than that.”
My eyebrows raise. “Am I?” I doubt.
“You know you are,” he replies easily. “You just like to pretend you’re not.”
With that, he walks away to change and shower.
Without the game, I have nothing.
I’m sure a lot of these guys feel the same.
So I have to decide what I want more—to win the game and secure my spot on this team, or to shove Yokav’s face in the mess he’s made to show that he’s not free of consequences.
I feel Dawson’s eyes on me as I leave, and I can tell he wants to say something. He starts to, but stops himself at the last minute. Shaking his head, he disappears down a different corridor as I head toward the parking lot.
It gives me pause, and I wonder if Clarkson is right. If people do look up to me. I feel bad for every person who thinks I’m worth looking up to, because there are far better people in the world than me.