Conor doesn’t know the danger of crossing that line. He doesn’t know how far I’d go to keep her safe from assholes like him. From anyone who even thinks about touching her in ways she doesn’t want.
The air feels thick with tension, like everything is waiting for me to explode. I glance at Dominic, who looks at me like he knows exactly what’s coming.
For a fraction of a second, I imagine ending Conor right here, right now, making an example and showing what happens when someone eventhinksabout fantasizing about my sister.
But I stop myself.
Conor, of course, misreads the silence like a fucking moron. He peeks over my shoulder, grinning like a lunatic. “Dude, your sister is a fucking smokeshow.”
I lift the phone, forcing myself to keep my voice calm as I answer Misha. “Hold on, Misha.”
Fuck waiting until we’re on the ice.
I ram my fist into Conor’s loud-ass mouth. Of course, the lunatic just grins through bloody teeth like a fucking psycho. He laughs and says, “You might scare the shit out of everyone else, Ivanov, but you don’t scare me.”
“Get out of my face,” I warn Conor.
I turn, jaw locked, shoulders tight. Don’t need to look back. The message is delivered.
Conor, somehow, manages a wider grin. “Call me, Misha!” he shouts before disappearing into the bathroom to spit out his teeth or whatever.
“Sister,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
“Meh. Another day at the office,” she says. She’s used to dumb hockey assholes. “Is the job done?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Cool. I’ll come over later, and you can tell me about it?”
“Yup.”
“Good talk,” she says. “Bye.”
I hang up, tossing my phone into my locker with far less care than I gave my suit.
“You good, boss?” Dominic’s voice comes quietly from the locker beside mine.
Dominic Belkin is part of my off-ice team, the only person here who knows about the double life I lead. He’s also a true friend, the only person I truly trust, besides my sister and Lars.
Technically, it’s not wrong for him to call me boss. I am his supervisor when we work for the Barkov family. I’m also his team captain here at the Chicago Reapers.
“Yeah. I’m good,” I say, bending to lace my skates, letting the calm I wear like armor settle back over me.
“Did he wail?” Dominic asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I nod, letting a negligible grin creep in, then shake my head. “You know the walls have ears here. Let’s go out tonight. Have a drink. Watch beautiful women dance. Let loud music drown out our conversation. Yeah,moy brat?”
Dom’s not my brother by blood, but he is in every way that matters.
He’s been there for me more times than I can count. He dragged me from a delivery gone bad, a bullet in my shoulder, just over a year ago. Managed to haul my bleeding ass to a waiting taxi. He staunched the blood, and when we got back to his apartment, he dug the damn slug out himself, cauterized it with a bottle of vodka, then tossed me a couple of painkillers like it was just another Tuesday.
I was back on the ice for practice the next day, wearing a black dri-fit t-shirt that I refused to remove, because how the hell would I have explained a bullet hole in my shoulder to my teammates or coaches? I had to pretend I wasn’t in pain for weeks.
And Dom didn’t say a damn word. He just gave me that look he always does. Those soulful eyes of his, asking without asking.
“You good, boss?”
The same question he asked today—the same quiet check-in.
