"I don’t know, Reedman," I say as I glide past. "You seem more focused on me than on your own game. Maybe pick one."
Hunter laughs. "Asshole."
"Yeah. And I’ve earned every syllable."
The bench erupts with chirps and laughter that bounce around the rink as if it’s alive.
JP Dumont shouts something in French from the crease that I don’t bother translating, though I could. I learned to speak six languages during my time at the all-boys prep school I was sent away to as a child. Wolf whistles like he’s impressed, which catches my attention because Wolf is only impressed by three things—hard hits against opposing players, Scottie Easton’s daily caloric intake schedule, and, of course, himself.
Trey Hartley, our other left winger, skates by and bumps my shoulder on purpose, grinning like he always does when things get physical.
"Save some gas for our last game this week," he mutters.
I don’t slow down.
I never do when things start pressing in around me.
Call it growing up with a second-generation Russian mob boss for a father who never allowed a bad day.
Call it playing under the Russian Olympic program, where one mistake didn’t just cost you ice time… it cost you worth, family honor, and pride.
Where being exceptional isn’t a choice. It’s a requirement.
And I learned young how to carry the crushing weight of that expectation as if it were nothing.
In a few days, I’ll be in Switzerland at my favorite resort in the Alps. Fresh powder, crisp, clean air, and peace away from locker-room chirping and athletic-tape residue. Maybe a warm snow bunny for the night. Someone I pick up on the slopes or at the bar. No names, definitely no strings, and absolutely under no circumstances do I stay.
But today? Today I skate like I’m chasing something, not running from it.
The harder I push, the quieter everything gets, and that’s why I chose this.
I earned three Olympic medals. They weren’t inherited, or negotiated for, or bought with blood or favors with the Popovich name.
Gold, silver, and bronze. Proof that I made something of myself without bending the knee to anyone.
My father still hasn’t forgiven me for choosing hockey over the family dynasty. He called me a traitor when I told him I was staying with hockey instead of coming home. As if choosing my own life was the ultimate betrayal. As if carving my own path made me disloyal.
The memory flashes like a blindside hit, so I skate faster to outrun it—to outmaneuver its effects on my game. He doesn’t get to be here on this ice. Not his words, nor his disappointment. This rink is off-limits to the man whose love is conditional.
I bury the past under exertion, because the truth is that I don’t miss the life I left behind. If you can even call it a life.
The only person I’ve ever cared about enough to drag with me out of that world is my sister.
Katerina.
Everything else can burn.
Coach blows the whistle again. "Last drill!"
I dig in, finishing strong, muscles screaming as the buzzer finally sounds. Practice ends in a rush of breath. Everyone is just happy to still be standing up straight.
Relief settles into my bones, not satisfaction. Satisfaction breeds overconfidence. Satisfaction makes you stop pushing. Satisfaction makes you think you’ve arrived— that you’ve done enough. Unfortunately, in professional sports, there’s no such thing asyou’ve done enough. There’s only working hardand working harder, because somewhere, someone hungrier is already outworking you and coming for your spot.
The locker room explodes the second we’re off the ice.
Music blares from someone’s speaker, echoing off the cement walls. Towels snap from somewhere near the showers. Voices and laughter overlap one another as the steam from the showers turns the locker room humid.
I strip off my gear the same way I do every time, like I’ve done a million times before.
