Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Brothers Without Saying It
The next night I can’t sleep.
My brother’s shift ran late, so the apartment is still and quiet in that way that makes you hear every memory you’d rather not. I stare at the ceiling until the walls feel like they’re leaning in.
When I can’t stand it anymore, I grab my skates and slip out.
The city is colder tonight. Wind sliding between buildings.
Snow swirling in slow circles under the streetlamps.
I walk fast because that is how I keep the thoughts from catching up.
When I get to the rink, the lights inside are dim but not off.
Someone left them in practice mode. Probably a lazy custodian.
Probably the universe being kind to me for once.
I punch in the side door code they gave all players and step inside.
The rink is empty. Silent. Perfect.
I lace my skates in the locker room and step onto the ice. First glide. First cut. First deep breath I’ve taken all day. This is the only place I feel like my body is mine.
I start skating laps, slow at first, then faster, pushing until the air burns my lungs. I fall into the rhythm. Blades slicing the ice. Muscles firing. The sound of my own heartbeat drowning out everything else.
I’m halfway through another sprint when I hear the scrape of a blade.
My head snaps up.
Mikhail Volkov stands in the shadow of the players’ tunnel, skates on, stick in hand, hair messy like he got out of bed and came straight here.
He steps onto the ice like it belongs to him. It doesn’t. Not tonight.
“I knew you’d be here,” he says.
I don’t stop skating. “How?”
“You’re predictable.”
I snort. “You’re annoying.”
He smiles, pushing off into a smooth glide that irritates me just by existing. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says.
“Maybe try being less dramatic.”
He circles around me, humming under his breath. He does that when he is thinking too much. I know that now.
“You always skate when you’re angry,” he says. “I figured if I couldn’t sleep, you couldn’t either.”
He’s right, which pisses me off more than if he were wrong.
“Whatever,” I mutter.
He swings his stick lightly into mine. “Want to warm up?”
“I’m warm.”
“Then race me.”
I frown. “Why?”
“Because you hit hard,” he says. “But I’m faster.”
The challenge hits exactly where he wants it to. I push off immediately. He curses and takes off after me. We race. Two laps. Three. Four.
We skate until our legs shake. We push each other without speaking, trading the lead back and forth until neither of us knows who’s winning.
On the fifth lap, he cuts me off too close and I check him. Hard.
He slams into the boards and laughs. Actually laughs.
“You’re a menace,” he pants.
“You’re fragile,” I say.
He grins. “Come hit me again, then.”
I do. This time he pushes back. And suddenly we’re not racing. We’re wrestling on skates, trying to knock each other off balance, checking, shoving, grabbing jerseys, laughing in that breathless way boys do when pain finally feels like relief.
We crash into the boards again. And again. And again.
At some point he stops laughing. At some point, I realize he’s breathing differently. At some point I realize I am too.
We collapse onto the ice, lying flat on our backs, blades scraping lightly as we stretch our legs out. The ceiling lights flicker above us. Everything is quiet except the sound of us trying to breathe normally again.
“You ever think about quitting?” he asks suddenly.
“No.”
“Never?”
“No,” I say. “It’s the only thing I’m good at.”
He turns his head toward me. His hair is stuck to his forehead. His cheeks are flushed red. He looks younger like this, and older at the same time.
“You’re good at more than hockey,” he says quietly.
I scoff. “Like what?”
“Like surviving.”
The words hit me harder than any check he’s given.
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to respond.
After a moment, he keeps going. “My father says the military will make me a man,” he says. “He says it’s tradition. Duty. Honor. All that crap.”
“It’s not optional?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Nothing is optional when you’re a Volkov.”
His voice cracks in a way I don’t think he hears.
I sit up. He doesn’t.
“You’re scared,” I say.
He flinches. Just slightly.
“I’m not scared,” he says automatically. “I just… want something else.”
“What?”
He swallows. “A life I choose.”
I look at him—really look at him. The perfect prince of the gymnasium.
The kid with the penthouse and the clothes and the name everyone whispers.
The kid who gets whatever he wants except the one thing that actually matters.
He wants freedom. I want stability. We are both starving for different things.
He sits up too, wiping frost from his gloves. “Kilovac?”
“Yeah.”
“If I ever…” He stops. Starts again. “When I’m gone—if I must leave—keep skating. Even if I’m not here to push you.”
Something cold slides down my spine. “Why would you be gone?”
He forces a laugh. “Ignore me. I’m tired. Dramatic, like you said.”
But I don’t ignore it. Because this is the first time, I realize Mikhail might not get the future he pretends he doesn’t care about. And I hate it.
We stand together. Not touching. Not talking.
Just breathing the same cold air, two kids who shouldn’t be standing on the same ice but somehow ended up here anyway.
Before we leave, he taps his stick to mine.
A quiet sound. A private one. No words. No promises.
But it means something. Something I won’t understand fully until it’s too late.