His jaw tightens.
His father clears his throat. “Mikhail.”
The sound is a leash being snapped. Mikhail stands straighter. Mask on. Walls up.
He turns to leave. Something in me snaps like a stick under pressure.
“Volkov.”
He stops. Turns back.
I force the words out. “Thank you.”
“For what?” he asks, voice cracking at the edges.
“For choosing me.”
His throat works like he’s swallowing something that won’t go down. He doesn’t hug me. He doesn’t shake my hand. He just nods once. A single movement that feels like the closing of a door I wasn’t ready for. Then he walks away. His father’s hand clamps on his shoulder as they disappear through the doorway. The silence they leave behind is worse than screaming.
Coach exhales shakily. “Back to practice.”
No one moves. No one breathes. No one knows what the hell to say. I tape my stick again even though it doesn’t need it. My fingers shake. I hide it. Someone pats my shoulder. Someone else mutters, “Sorry, man.”
Sorry for what? For knowing. For seeing. For understanding, I lost something I never admitted I cared about.
Practice runs. I skate harder than I ever have. Every stride feels like punishment. Every shot feels like betrayal. Every check feels like a lie. When practice ends, I stay on the ice alone.
I skate until my legs burn. Until sweat freezes on my neck. Until the cold cuts through my hoodie and straight into my bones. Until the ice feels empty in a way I’ve never felt before.
Mikhail is gone. And the rink doesn’t echo the same without him.
Chapter Ten
Escape on a Scholarship
The dayI leave Moscow for good, it doesn’t feel real. There’s no ceremony. No tearful farewell. Just my brother shaking me awake at five in the morning, telling me we have to get to the airport before traffic starts and before our father tries to sniff around again.
I shove my life into one duffel bag. Skates. Clothes. My stick case. Nothing else fits. Nothing else matters.
My brother watches me zip the bag. His eyes are tired, the kind of tired you see in men twice his age. He hasn’t slept properly since our father came around the last time.
“You sure about this?” he asks.
I nod. “I don’t have anything here.”
He flinches. I hate myself for saying it.
“You have me,” he says.
“I know.” I say softly. “But you want me out. Safe.”
He doesn’t deny it. He hugs me tight. Too tight. Like he thinks if he lets go, I’ll vanish.
When he pulls back, his eyes are wet. He wipes them aggressively. “Call when you land.”
I nod again because I don’t trust my voice.
He walks me as far as security. I look back once. He raises two fingers in a salute Mikhail used to give me after practice. It hits me harder than the goodbye itself. Then I turn away. And Russia becomes something I walk out of.
