Drawing another breath, this one’s much different from the one that woke me, I slide the curtains open, staring at the slow-falling snow beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass of my penthouse.
The winter is still in full swing here in Boston, despite the early spring hitting the calendars but that’s never bothered me. Cold is not something to fear when you come from Russia and basically have one day out of three-hundred and sixty-five where there’s not a cloud in the sky.
One. While winter lasts nearly half of the year.
It’s been years since I lived there, but it never quite leaves your soul. Especially not when your last name is Minaev. It’s almost as famous as the president’s, seeing as it’s our family that holds the reins of the oil trade and manufacturing of basically anything made in Russia.
No, not “our.” His.My father’s. It will never be mine, no matter how much he pleaded or threatened me. Not that he’s tried in the past five years.
But I am the sole heir left to inherit Minaev Corp. The only one he didn’t succeed in putting into the ground. Well, the only one we know of, because given my father’s track record, it wouldn’t be surprising if there were more.
Fuck, why am I even thinking about it now…
I exhale loudly. That’s what happens when you spend the whole night combing through the past, you end up bringing it tothe surface—and I don’t need that shit today. I’ve got practice to get to.
I make my way to the bathroom, turning the cold shower water on until it cools every inch of my body. Until it washes away the remnants of the nightmare I had. Avoiding the mirror as I go through my morning routine, but just before I leave the shower I catch my own reflection in the glass door. The one I reserve for the confinement of my own house. The real face behind the mask I wear on the daily.
The black bleeds through the gold in my eyes more, exposing the storms brewing behind them when no one’s looking. The corners of my mouth don’t even try to fill in the few smile lines around my lips. The ones everyone takes for genuine.
The tattoos covering my neck—the story of which nobody knows, buying the bullshit I created long ago.
Sometimes, I have the urge to drive my fist through this reflection. To shatter it. To see blood dripping down every broken piece. Maybe then I’d feel something more than this silent rage that sleeps inside me like a beast, baiting his time.
Five years is a long time to forgive and forget. But I’m neither the forgiving nor forgetting type. I’m the kind who will keep on living, stashing all those feelings away into a box in the back of my mind, but won’t step on the same beaten path twice.
Because everything has a price. And everyone must pay.
I’ve learned it the hard way when I made my choices. The ones that haunt me in those nightmares.
“Let’s get this party started,” Coach Hill hollers from the bench, followed by the shrill sound of a whistle for all those who possess the hearing abilities of an earthworm. Meaning, virtually none.
But unlike earthworms, who have their other senses to rely on, the same can’t be said about a few of my teammates.
“Zlatan! This is not a basketball court, put the puck down and come here,” Coach adds as the two class clowns pretend to shoot the hoops on skates.
Very much not impressed, especially since they’re holding up my time, and I still need to make it to Iris Lake today.
“Zlatan, Fooley, get over here,” I say in a calm voice, one they hear right away.
“Fuck, how do you do that?” our first line center, Anze Goram, asks under his breath. The guy rarely talks to anyone, and when he does it’s barely audible. Goram is new to the team, getting traded from Arizona at the start of the season, but not new to the hockey world. His last name is almost as well-known as my own. Albeit for a vastly different reason.
The guy is lethal on ice, and based on the demons I catch in his eyes when he thinks no one is looking, he’s lethal off it as well. Hell, after the shit he went through it comes as no surprise.
“Do what?”
“Get them under control like that? Those two are underage opossums on steroids, running around, causing havoc, yet one word from you and they obey.” Anze shakes his head.
“I’ve had more than enough practice with Quinn,” I tell him, avoiding the names of who played more instrumental roles in my life.
Goram grunts in response as if it makes all the sense in the world.
And to those who don’t know real monsters, it should.
Exton Quinn, my previously mentioned best friend, is the magician of a defenseman for our team, Boston Outlaws—or he was up until a month ago when he lost it on the ice. Again. Because he’s also an idiot with a temper of a raging bull, the patience of a live grenade, stubbornness of a mule, and generallyan asshole with a fight-trigger more sensitive than a newborn’s skin.
A few weeks ago, he beat the shit out of Yanis Zima from the Ice Devils right in the middle of the second period when the idiot cross-checked him. Granted, Zima is an entitled asshole and had it coming for a long fucking time.
Frankly, if Exton hadn’t, I’d have lost my mask soon enough and punched the guy myself, only I’m not sure I’d have been able to stop like Exton did. I have too much rage buried in that one box, and sometimes it rattles too much.
