Mikhail ’s Real Life
Practice runs late on Thursdays.Coach is in a mood, barking orders like someone pissed in his coffee, and by the time we hit the showers half the team is limping.
Volkov is humming. He does that sometimes. Soft. Under his breath. Like pain is a background noise he enjoys.
We finish up, head into the hallway in our winter coats, steam still clinging to our skin. I am planning to grab the metro back to the apartment my brother and I are renting when I hear Mikhail call out.
“Kilovac.” I turn. He is leaning against the wall like a scene from an ad campaign. Hair damp. Hands in pockets. Eyes bright with something between mischief and intention. “You walking?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Come with me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Where?”
“My place.”
I snort. “No.”
He blinks slowly, like no one has ever told him no in his entire life. “Why not?”
“Why would I?”
He shrugs. “We have a history assignment. I am not doing it alone.”
“We do not work well together.”
“That is why it will be interesting.”
I shake my head. “I have things to do.”
He steps closer, eyes narrowing in challenge, like inviting me is a game now. “Afraid?”
I laugh. “Do not confuse disinterest with fear.”
He smiles like that is exactly the answer he wanted. “Come on.”
Before I can argue again, he is already walking, expecting me to follow because of course he does. People like him are raised to believe the world moves with them.
I do not follow at first. Then I do. Not because he asked. Because I want to see what his perfect life looks like up close.
We walk through the city, snow drifting lightly. Mikhail talks half the way about hockey strategy, about the next game, about the winger who keeps missing open nets. He talks as if he's filling a space no one else knows how to fill. He talks to me like he expects me to understand. I do. Then the neighborhood changes. The buildings get taller. Cleaner. More glass. More security cameras.
Mikhail nods to the doorman at the entrance of a high-rise that looks like it should have a red carpet rolled out front.
“Evening, Mr. Volkov,” the doorman says immediately.
Mr. Volkov. He is fourteen. What the hell.
We step into a marble lobby where everything gleams. Elevators with gold trim. Water feature running along the wall. The kind of space were silence costs money. I feel out of place instantly. Mikhail doesn’t.
In the elevator, he leans against the mirrored wall and watches me instead of the numbers. “You look uncomfortable."
“Should I pretend not to be?”
He grins. “No. I like honesty.”
I raise a brow. “Since when?”
