Our eyes met and held for a long moment.I didn’t say it out loud, but somehow I had the idea that she read the truth in my eyes: that my publicly charming father was a tyrant in private.An abusive asshole with a hair trigger temper.A man who punished any sign of weakness.A man I’d cut ties with after I finished college and no longer needed his money, even though our paths crossed from time to time.
“My father was a hockey player too,” she finally said.“Mom was a figure skater.They were both on the Swedish team for the International Games and met at the Opening Ceremonies.They fell in love, but they decided to focus on their careers, so they parted ways.Five years later they ran into each other at a restaurant, realized that their feelings never went away, and they’ve been inseparable ever since.They’re disgustingly happy, setting the bar way too high for me and my brother to ever find love.”
She paused to take a sip of her coffee.
“I always kind of wanted to though,” she said almost wistfully.
“I don’t believe in love,” I said, my voice sounding wooden even to my own ears.
“I wouldn’t either if I hadn’t seen it in real life and seen what it could be like.My parents are poster children for true love, despite all their differences.But I know that’s pretty rare.”
It felt like an acknowledgement of everything I hadn’t said, but maybe I was just making that up, twisting her words to what I wanted to hear.
Unbidden, an image of my father appeared in my mind, warning me not to trust anyone, especially rivals.
“Trust only your teammates,” he’d say in Russian.
He only spoke Russian to me and my mother at home.
“And even them, only trust so far.There’s not a guy in the league that won’t hook you or check you against the boards if they think they can get away with it.You have to look out for number one Ivana, always.”
I hated the Russian version of my name.I’d legally changed it as soon as I turned eighteen, although for some reason I’d kept my surname.Most days I wished I’d changed that too.
“Are you okay?You look… I don’t know, nauseous or something.”
Toni was watching me carefully, her astute eyes seeing way more than I wanted her to.The acidic feeling in my belly intensified.
“Yes I’m fine,” I said icily.“I have to get to practice.”
If she was thrown off by the change in my mood, she didn’t show it.
“Yeah I know, we’re both going to the same practice,” she reminded me.“But we still have some time.”
“I’ve got to do something first,” I lied.“Alone.”
“What?”
I couldn’t think of an acceptable lie, I only knew I needed to get away from her inquisitiveness.I needed a few minutes alone to reinforce the walls I kept around myself.So I said the first thing that popped into my mind.
“I have to poop.”
Toni
“Okayladies…,”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.I hated it when coaches called us ‘ladies’ especially the male coaches, although it was way better than the ‘girls’ that followed us all through college.As if the men’s team players were being called ‘boys’…
“We’re going split into two practice squads, goalies will rotate in and out.Divide up when I call your name.”
I put on a yellow vest when my name was called, noting that Yvonne was on the red team.She’d seemed out of sorts at breakfast.Friendly one minute, cold the next.It was something about her father, I’d bet money on it.I could swear she’d dissociated for a few minutes when I brought him up, just staring into space with a completely blank look on her face that had freaked me out more than anything.I didn’t need to be a psychologist to pick up there was some trauma there.
I lined up on the ice across from her, and our eyes met for just a few seconds before she turned her attention back to the practice game.
Why was I so fascinated with Yvonne Volkova all the sudden?
One of the coaches blew the whistle, and we started our scrimmages.My skates flew across the ice, weaving in between players as I fought for the puck.I loved this feeling.Loved racing across the ice, feeling almost weightless, all my attention focused on getting that disc of black rubber into the net.
I guess with a father who was a professional hockey player and a mother who was a figure skater, it was inevitable that I’d do something on the ice.I’d been skating as long as I’d been walking, and some of my earliest memories involved skating at our local rink and following my parents to their competitions.
