Most of the rich boys at the gymnasium play hockey because it looks good on applications or because their fathers want it ontheir resumes. But Mikhail Volkov? He loves this. Loves the ice. Loves the challenge. I can see it in the way he cuts backward, knees bent, stick steady, eyes locked on mine like he is daring me to blink.
I do not blink. I feint wide again, this time pushing speed harder, making it look like I might try to beat him around the edge. His weight shifts, just enough, and that is all I need. I cut inside. His eyes widen a fraction. He plants his skates harder. He expects me to avoid contact. I do not avoid contact. I lower my shoulder and hit him again. Not as hard as the first time, but clean, powerful, enough to knock him off balance. His blade slips, his center of gravity tilts, and he goes down, catching himself on one knee before falling fully. The puck stays with me. I take it straight to the net and send it top right, clean as glass breaking.
Coach blows the whistle. “Kilovac scores.”
There is a moment of silence. A pause. Shock settling like dust.
Then someone says, way too loud, “Holy shit.”
A couple guys slap their sticks against the boards. Another mutters, “Volkov got bulldozed.” It is not mocking. It is awe.
Volkov pushes himself back to his feet. No anger. No embarrassment. Just that same sharp grin.
He skates over slowly, breath fogging in the cold air, helmet slightly crooked from the impact.
“That was better,” he says.
I shrug. “You fell again.”
“It happens,” he says. “To people who take risks.”
“I did not see the risk.”
He laughs. Not offended. Not defensive. Just… entertained.
Coach looks between us. “Enough flirting,” he barks. “Switch roles. Volkov carries. Kilovac defends.”
I hear a few muffled snorts at the flirting comment. Boys are idiots. None of us bother correcting him. We reset.
Volkov takes the puck this time. He skates forward with a speed I did not expect. Strong strides. Not fancy. Efficient. He knows better than to try and deke me. He goes for power instead. Good. I like power. I brace myself. Lower my center. Angle my body. When he reaches me, he does not slow. He tries to drive straight through. Our shoulders collide. Hard. The impact vibrates down my spine. This time, neither of us goes down. We lock. Push. Test each other’s balance. It is a battle without words.
The team goes quiet. Coach does not blow the whistle. Everyone is just watching to see who cracks first.
Volkov’s breath hitches. He shifts his stick for leverage. I counter before he can use it. His weight rocks back. Mine rocks forward. The puck skitters loose. He dives for it. I block him again. We slam into the boards together. The noise echoes through the rink like thunder.
Coach finally blows the whistle. “Break it up. Enough.”
We separate, breathing hard, sweat already forming despite the cold. He bumps my stick with his. A tap. Not friendly. Not hostile. Acknowledgment.
“You are strong,” he says, breathless.
“You are stubborn,” I answer.
He grins. “The girls will like you.”
That surprises me. I do not let it show.
Before I can reply, the rest of the team skate toward us, the air crackling with that electric charge boys get when they witness something they will be talking about for weeks.
A defenseman pats my shoulder as he glides by. “Hell of a hit, new kid.”
A forward elbows Volkov. “You got rocked.”
He shrugs. “I stood up the second time.”
“Barely,” another guy says, laughing.
Coach blows the whistle again. “Enough. Drills are not a circus. Back to work.”
