Chapter 28
Sasha
Aaron looking impossibly sexy in a perfectly fitting suit is a problem I don’t know how to solve.
He’s across the ballroom, shaking hands with some coach from Boston College, and he’s doing the thing — the polite smile, the firm handshake, the slight nod that says thank you, sir, I appreciate it, sir. The golden boy. Everybody’s favorite.
I want to undo that tie with my teeth.
Instead I’m on the other side of the room with a glass of sparkling water, making small talk with a Hockey East media coordinator who’s been telling me about the award categories for ten minutes. I nod at the right moments. I’m very good at nodding.
The Hockey East Mid-Season Awards Night is exactly what it sounds like — a hotel ballroom near Boston, round tables with white tablecloths, a stage with a podium, and every coach and player of significance in the conference packed into one room wearing suits they bought for occasions exactly like this.
The lighting is warm. The food is adequate.
The conversation is the same conversation that happens at every one of these things: standings, stats, who’s getting NHL looks, who’s falling off.
And, of course, the rivalry.
I’ve heard it four times already tonight.
Variations on the same bit. So, Sasha, how’s life with your co-captain?
Still trying to kill each other? And I do the grin, do the shrug, say something about how Aaron is an excellent player and a terrible dresser and how I plan to outscore him by Valentine’s Day.
They laugh. I’m very charming. This is my job.
But the bruise on my temple hasn’t fully faded — it’s gone yellow-green now, visible even under this lighting — and every time someone asks about the rivalry, I think about the ice coming up at my face and Aaron’s voice cutting through the static and his hand in mine in the dark of my dorm room while I fell asleep.
The media coordinator excuses herself. I drain my sparkling water and scan the room until my eyes find Aaron again.
He’s at our table now, pulling out a chair, saying something to Coach Rafferty that makes Rafferty do that rare almost-smile.
Nakamura is next to him, looking uncomfortable in a suit that’s slightly too big through the shoulders.
Robertson is at the bar, talking to someone from UMass with the easy confidence of a guy who has never questioned his own charm.
I make my way across the room. Pull out the chair next to Aaron and sit down.
“Kelly.”
“Vorontsovsky.”
He doesn’t look at me. He’s straightening his napkin on his lap with unnecessary precision. But his leg shifts under the table — toward me, not away — and his knee brushes mine for half a second.
“Behave,” he murmurs.
“I always behave.”
“You never behave.”
“I behave in the ways that matter.”
He finally looks at me. Green eyes, sharp, a warning in them. But underneath the warning: I know exactly what you’re doing and I hate that it’s working.
Rafferty clears his throat from across the table and we both snap forward like guilty teenagers. He’s not looking at us. He’s reading the program. But the timing is suspicious.
The awards move through the usual categories.
Best defensive player. Best goaltender. Freshman of the year.
Each one comes with a short speech, polite applause, someone thanking their teammates and their coaching staff and their parents.
The emcee — a Hockey East broadcaster with a good voice and a permanent smile — keeps things moving.
I already know what’s coming. They told me two days ago — Mid-Season Conference Player of the Year. My stats back it up. Thirteen goals, twenty-two assists through January. Top of the conference in points. The concussion didn’t slow me down enough to lose the lead.
What I didn’t know, until the program landed on my table, is the format. The award comes with a two-minute speech. And the emcee’s notes, which I can read upside down from here, include a line about the famous Kelly-Vorontsovsky rivalry that has captivated college hockey fans this season.
So that’s what they want. A few jokes at Aaron’s expense. The trash talk, the grin, the show. Give the room what they came for.
Two months ago I would have done it without thinking. The act is easy. I’ve been playing this character since I was fourteen — the kid who fights and scores and talks shit. The cocky Russian. It got me ice time in Omsk. It got me here.
But I sat in a bathtub with Aaron Kelly on Christmas morning and told him I wanted a future where we didn’t have to hide.
And I lay on the ice two weeks ago and his face was the last thing I saw before the lights went out.
And I fell asleep in my empty dorm room with his hand in mine and woke up and he was still there.
I’m tired of the act.
Not tired of being funny. Not tired of competing. Tired of pretending that the person who matters most to me is the person I care about least.
“And now,” the emcee says, leaning into the microphone with that broadcaster warmth, “our Mid-Season Conference Player of the Year. I don’t think this one will surprise anyone in the room.
He leads the conference in points, he’s been on every highlight reel since October, and if you’ve been following the Ashford Sentinels this season, you know that his rivalry with co-captain Aaron Kelly has become one of the best stories in college hockey. ”
The screen behind the stage plays a clip. It’s from one of the commercials — the stare-down, the ice spray, the part where we look like we want to murder each other. The room laughs. I feel Aaron go still beside me.
“Ladies and gentlemen — Sasha Vorontsovsky.”
Applause. I stand. Button my jacket. Walk to the stage. The lights are bright and the podium is polished and there’s a plaque waiting for me with my name engraved on it, misspelled slightly. They always misspell it.
I adjust the microphone. Look out at the room.
Aaron is at our table, hands folded in front of him, watching me with that careful, controlled expression I know so well. The one that manages what the room sees. The one that gives away nothing.
I know what’s underneath it.
“Thank you,” I say. “This is a great honor. Although I want to be honest — I don’t think the name on the plaque is right. It says Vorontsovki. Close enough.”
Laughter. Easy. Comfortable.
“They asked me to talk about the season so far. About what makes this year special. And I know what you want me to say.” I glance at the screen behind me, where the rivalry clip is frozen on the stare-down.
“You want me to say something about Kelly. How I’m going to outscore him.
How the rivalry keeps me sharp. How we can’t stand each other. ”
More laughter. A few people look at Aaron. He gives the room a tight smile.
“And I could do that. I’m very good at it. I’ve been doing it all year. I’m told it’s great television.”
I pause. The room is still smiling, waiting for the punchline.
“But I’m not going to.”
The shift is small. A few people lean forward. The smiles hold, but there’s a question behind them now.
“The truth is that Aaron Kelly is the best player I’ve ever shared ice with.
Not the best opponent. The best partner.
” I let that word land. “He is a better captain than I am — and I say that knowing he will never let me forget it — because he leads by earning trust. Not by being the loudest voice. By being the most reliable one.”
The room is quiet now. Not uncomfortable. Attentive. This isn’t the bit they expected.
“Coming to America was the best decision I ever made. This country, this conference, this program — they gave me a chance to become someone I’m proud of.
And a lot of that is because of the person I compete with every day.
” I look at Aaron. Not at the room. At him.
“He pushes me. He challenges me. He makes me want to be better. Not a better hockey player — a better person.”
Aaron’s composure holds. It holds perfectly. His hands are folded on the table. Expression controlled. Anyone in the room would see a co-captain hearing a gracious compliment from his teammate.
But I can see his throat move. I can see the way his knuckles have gone white where his fingers are laced together. I can see what this is costing him.
“So I’m not going to trash-talk him tonight.
I’m sure you’re all very disappointed.” Laughter.
Softer now. “Instead, I’ll say this: whatever happens the rest of this season, whatever happens after we graduate, I’m grateful.
For the competition. For the partnership.
For the —” I pause, choose the word carefully — “friendship.”
I hold Aaron’s eyes for one more beat. Then I grin, and the room exhales.
“Also, I’m still going to outscore him. That part hasn’t changed.”
The room laughs. Full, relieved, the tension breaking into applause. I step back from the podium. Pick up the plaque. Nod at the emcee. Walk back to my seat.
I sit down. Straighten my jacket. Reach for my water glass.
Aaron doesn’t look at me. He’s staring straight ahead, clapping with the rest of the room, that careful expression still locked in place.
But under the table, his hand finds my knee. Presses once. Hard. And holds there.
Not a brush. Not a graze. A deliberate, firm press of his whole hand against my leg, hidden by the tablecloth, while the room applauds and the emcee moves to the next award and nobody sees.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
I put my hand under the table. Cover his. Lace my fingers through his against my knee.
The emcee calls the next category. The room’s attention moves on. Rafferty is looking at the stage. Nakamura is checking his phone. Robertson is still at the bar.
And Aaron Kelly is holding my hand under a table in front of three hundred people, and I’m letting him, and neither of us is letting go.
This is what I wanted. Not the plaque. Not the applause. This.