4. Mason #3
I opened my mouth before snapping it shut. There was no questioning our father. His exacting requirements were why I’d made it this far.
At his whistle, Bair slid on a goalie mask.
“Prove to me you can compete at the next level. Do not leave a single puck behind.” He kicked over the bucket of pucks in front of me. Do not disappoint me. The words boomed in my head.
A ten-minute clock ticked away on the scoreboard. I arranged the pucks on the center line and skated toward Bair, sending the first puck skimming across the ice. Blocked. Slipping behind the net, I raced against the clock counting down our father’s approval.
My first goal slipped through the gap between his blocker and top of his leg pad.
A grin burst free, but I quickly stifled it. Lukyan Petrov didn’t accept gloating. Every goal was expected. There was no room for celebrating the mediocrity of achievement.
He shouted at Bair in Russian.
He’d taught him the language, but not me. He’d stuck around with Bair’s mom and they’d lived with him until Bair was twelve. Had he attended all Bair’s peewee games? Bought Bair his first pair of skates? Actually talked to him about anything other than hockey?
These challenges between Bair and me weren’t new, but this time I was determined to win. Bair might be my older brother, but I would prove I was the better son.
Our father skated around us, circling from the outside edge of the ice, slowly drawing closer. A shark scenting blood, and I wasn’t sure who he was coming for. I didn’t know the stakes, but from the way Bair fought against the pain of deflecting my shots without much armor, they must’ve been high.
Less than a minute left. Fear sparked like a flint strike over kindling in my chest. I whipped my stick back and swung at the puck. Airborne, it flew bullet-fast toward the back of the net. Until a form intercepted it.
A pop echoed in the arena and Bair wheezed, grabbing at his side only for a second before resuming his position, but slower than normal.
As much as I hated to admit it, he was a tough son of a bitch.
He never flagged, never failed at a task our father put in front of him.
Still seeing him as a childhood superhero and nemesis all rolled into one, I’d always wanted to be like him even while I hated him.
That was the only reason to explain why I dialed back the power on my slap shot when the win was a breath away. Even with my half-power shot, he lunged, diving to the other side of the net, and a noise escaped him that echoed through the space. The puck bounced off the bar and crossed the line.
Disbelief wrapped in shock shot through me.
Bair skidded across the ice, wrapped an arm around his chest and pushed up. Once, twice, collapsing back onto his knees. Face pale and tight, he finally made it to his skates. But it cost him.
A vicarious stab twisted inside of me—knowing that pain but still staggering to your feet, especially in front of our father.
Then I remembered how many times Bair had watched me do the same and never held back like I had today.
It was stupid of me to even let it cross my mind, let alone go soft on him.
How many times had I failed in front of him? It was finally my time to win.
Our father skated to me with his eyes alight, lips not drawn down in a frown.
A triumphant goal horn blared in my chest.
“Bair.” He didn’t even look in his direction.
Bair tugged off his mask, dropped his gloves and had one arm squeezed tight around his chest as he skated to our father’s other side, panting but trying to keep it quiet.
I swallowed my wince. I’d been there, dying for more air, but not wanting to show how much the pain clawed at my insides.
Our father settled his hand on my shoulder. “There is much to work on this season. We need to finally secure the state championship. Then you will be ready for Rhode Island.”
Pride burned in my gut, an eternal flame. That was as close to a hug and “good job” as I was ever going to get.
Dad tilted his head. Bair dropped his arm and straightened, gritted his teeth tinged with blood. “This is proof that you must never become too satisfied with your achievements. There is always someone who can come and snatch them from you.”
We left the rink. Our father and Bair got into the same car to leave. My adrenaline spike got me through the drive back to the house. Then I pulled into the driveway.
Ryker’s shitbox of a car sat in staff parking.
And worse, Lilah’s screams came from around the corner.
“Rye, put me down,” she yelped as they appeared on the path.
And he did, his hands grazing over her body as he set her down.
She stilled when she spotted me.
But I kept my eyes averted and marched into the house, still wrecked from my impromptu skate against Bair. Watching Ryker and Lilah all over each other against his car was on my list of eye-bleach-worthy moments.
But maybe I should’ve stayed and watched, if only to stop the pulse-sprinting pull she seemed to have over me.
I couldn’t let up on my plans for Lilah.