Volkov laughs under his breath, low and amused. The girls exchange looks. They walk away, whispering behind manicured hands. Volkov bumps my shoulder lightly as we keep moving.
“You scare them,” he says.
“They do not scare me.”
“That is why you scare them.”
We reach the stairwell that leads to the locker rooms. He pauses, turning to face me fully. “You are not like the others."
I raise an eyebrow. “Which others?”
“The ones who want to be here. The ones who want to be me. The ones who want what I have.”
“I do not want what you have.”
He smiles, small and knowing. “No. But you want the ice.”
“That is all I want.”
“And to hit me again,” he adds, teasing.
“That too.”
He laughs. Rich boy laugh. Bright, careless, confident. It does not bother me as much as I want it to.
Practice that day is worse. Or better. Depending on how you define these things. Every drill becomes a competition. Even the ones not meant to be competitive. Skating laps? We push each other until Coach yells. Passing lines? We fire the puck harder, faster, sharper. Two on one rushes? Volkov tries to dangle past me, and I strip the puck so clean it echoes.
He chirps me endlessly. “Slow.” and “Your footwork is sloppy.” or “You shoot like your stick is broken.”
I chirp back. “You are pretty. Not useful.” and “That haircut makes you look like a housewife.” or “You skate like you are avoiding snow on the ground.”
He grins every time. He likes it. He likes being pushed. He likes someone not kneeling to him the way the rich boys do. By the end of practice, we are both exhausted, sweat-soaked, adrenaline buzzing under our skin.
Coach blows the final whistle. “Good work today. Volkov. Kilovac. Stay after.”
Some of the guys whistle again. Others snicker. A few give us pity looks like Coach is about to scream. We glide to center ice as the rest of the team clears out.
Coach looks between us, expression grim. “You two are trouble."
Volkov shrugs innocently. “Not me.”
“I will bench you,” Coach threatens.
“For what?” I ask.
“For breaking each other before midseason.” He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose like he needs a drink. “I need you both healthy. I need you both strong. And I need you to stop treating drills like death matches.”
“Then stop pairing us,” I say.
Coach stares at me. “You think I am stupid? Iron sharpens iron. You two make each other better. Even I can see that.”
Volkov glances at me, smug. “Hear that? He likes me.”
I skate an inch closer. “No one likes you.”
He smirks. “You do.”
Coach throws his hands up. “Enough. Get off my ice before I lock you both in the supply closet.”
