He saw me. And I felt something dangerous in return. Not loyalty. Not admiration. Not dependence. Something sharper. Deeper. More permanent. Something like brotherhood. And if I’d understood then what that meant— what it would cost later— I might have run. But I didn’t. I let him in. And the universe never lets you do that without a price.
Chapter Nine
Goodbye Without Warning
It happens on a Tuesday.Not a dramatic day. Not a holiday. Not anything meaningful. Just a Tuesday.
The rink smells like cold rubber and sweat, same as always. I’m taping my stick, half-listening to two defensemen argue about whether some pop star is dating a footballer, when the locker room goes unnaturally quiet. Silence spreads like a crack through ice. I look up. Mikhail is standing in the doorway. No gear. No bag. No smirk.
He’s wearing a pressed navy coat over his uniform sweater, and behind him stands a man with a stiff posture and a jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Mikhail Volkov Senior. The cage-maker. Conversation dies instantly.
Coach steps forward. “Mr. Volkov. Is something wrong?”
His father’s voice is calm. Too calm. “My son will be withdrawing from the athletics program effective immediately.”
Coach freezes. “Excuse me?”
Mikhail looks at the floor, shoulders tight, fists clenched in his pockets. He is not allowed to speak. I see that instantly.
“Why?” Coach asks.
“Family obligations,” his father says. “It is time he begins preparing for his service.”
My stomach drops like I’ve been punched. Now? He’s fourteen.
Coach tries again. “Sir, with respect, he’s our starting winger. He’s top three in the league for his age. Pulling him now?—”
“Is not your decision,” Mr. Volkov cuts in. His tone could frost glass. He turns to Mikhail. “Say your goodbyes.”
The cruelty is in those words. Say your goodbyes. As if boys are toys. As if teammates are objects, he can pack away.
Mikhail lifts his head slowly. His eyes scan the room. Not the team. Not the coach. Me. My throat tightens. He walks toward me, steps measured, every inch of him tense with the effort of not shaking. I don’t stand. I can’t. I’m rooted to the bench like if I move, the world shifts too fast for me to catch it. He stops in front of me. Close enough that I can see a small cut on his lip from practice the day before. We don’t speak. Not at first. Everyone else watches. Like this is a funeral.
Finally, he says, quietly, “I’m leaving.”
“I see that,” I manage.
“This wasn’t my choice.”
“I know.”
He swallows hard. “I don’t know when I’m coming back.”
“You won’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
His breath stutters. “Maybe not.”
A beat of silence. He looks at my taped stick. At the bruise on my knuckles. At the locker where we’ve thrown insults and jokes and gear for months.
Then he says it: “Don’t stop hitting me.”
It’s a stupid sentence. Cryptic. Childish. But it’s everything.
He means: Don’t stop playing. Don’t stop fighting. Don’t stop being the one person who never bowed to me. Don’t stop being my equal.
I nod once, sharp, because anything more would break something inside me, I can’t fix.
“Okay.”
