Christopher chuckles nervously. “Always straight to the point, huh?”
“On it, boss,” Dom says with respect in his voice, knowing I mean exactly what I say.
We leavethe meeting and climb into the car. Dom starts the engine, and for a while, it’s just the low hum of tires on the road. The kind of quiet that feels heavier than words.
After a beat, he says, “You ever hate this?”
The question hangs, sharp and quiet, cutting through the roar of the city outside. I glance at him, trying to read the expression behind his calm exterior. His jaw is tight, fingers drumming against the wheel. There’s a flicker of doubt in his voice.
I don’t answer right away because what I feel doesn’t fit into words that simple. It’s anger, exhaustion, a thrill I can’t admit even to myself.
“This?” I ask finally.
“Yeah. The meetings. The family stuff. Then, having to flip it off and play hockey like none of it exists. Living two lives.”
“Hmm.” I pause, weighing my words. Ishouldbe the leader; he works for me as a part of the Barkov organization, but he’s also one of my only true friends. “Yeah… sometimes.”
He glances at me, eyebrows raised, seemingly kind of shocked by my honesty. “Really?”
I shrug. “I don’t really hate them, but both worlds just take everything out of me. There’s barely any room left for anything else.”
“Like your budding pickleball hobby?” Dominic jokes.
I raise an eyebrow. “Fucking pickleball. Hockey and Barkov business are a hell of a lot higher on my list than that sport.”
“Is it an actual sport?”
“Not to me, no,” I say.
“What’s higher on the list than Barkov’s business and hockey, then?”
I don’t answer.
“Fucking,” he says, like he’s checking off a box. “Never mind. Guess I answered my own question.”
I snort.
“I like killing people,” Dom says, then rolls his eyes at himself. “Okay, killingassholes, usually. I’m not some psychopath who murders for fun.” He shrugs. “And I like hockey. But if I’m honest? I keep this stupid little daydream of meeting a pretty girl and getting off the grid. A farm. Dogs. Chickens. Up at dawn. Simple shit.”
It actually makes me laugh—the real kind I don’t give away often. “I cannot picture that. Not even a little.”
He shrugs, half-smiling. “Dreams are dumb. Probably never gonna fucking happen. Suppose I live long enough to be too old to enjoy it, maybe. I’m a killer—so I’m also a target. That’s life.”
The mood darkens again. “You’re a ghost. No one can touch you.” I say.
The conversation endsas we pull into the arena parking garage. Conor is pulling in at the same time, and I groan.
“You like him,” Dom says with a smirk as we both step out of the vehicle and grab our bags. “Deep down, you like him.”
“Hey, fuck-asses,” Conor yells as he strides toward us. “When do I get an invite to the top-secret asshole club again?”
“Never,” I mutter.
Dom chimes in at the same time, grinning, “You didn’t spend enough money, the girls said you were ugly, and your dick was small.”
Conor throws up his hands in mock outrage as we head toward the locker room. “Wounded! First, it’s not the size, it’s what you do with it. Second, every man in this room has seen it. It’s not small!”
A few other guys hear this exchange and start making jokes about the size of Conor’s dick.
