Volsky and I were still in the early, careful stages of friendship—the kind where you were still learning what the other person found funny and what they found intrusive. He’d signed with the Frost last year after his rookie contract with theBuffalo Bolts expired. On paper, it should have been a full season to build chemistry. In practice, we’d barely shared ice time.
I’d gone down with the ACL tear just as the ink was drying on his new contract. I spent six months rehabbing, watching games from the press box, charting plays I couldn’t execute. By the time I returned, Volsky had torn his rotator cuff. We had practiced together but this was our first season playing together on the top line.
It meant we were essentially starting from scratch. And that mattered, because Volsky played left wing to my right. On paper, we were mirror images. Same position, opposite sides, theoretically interchangeable. In practice, it was more complicated than that. The best forward lines didn’t just skate the same system, they thought together. They anticipated.
Morrison, our center, needed to be able to read both of us individually—he’d been playing with me for six years and we had the kind of chemistry that made highlight reels. But a line was three players, not two. Volsky and I needed to find each other the same way Morrison and I had. We weren’t there yet. We were still in the phase of near misses and half-seconds of hesitation, of plays that almost connected but didn’t quite.
Coach Reeves had been patient about it—”Chemistry takes time, you can’t force it”—but I could feel the expectation underneath. The team needed us to click. This was supposed to be our year. The season was too short for almost.
So when Volsky showed up tonight, sliding into the seat across from me with his usual economy of movement and a glass of something clear, it felt like progress. A small door opening. The kind of thing you couldn’t manufacture but could only show up for and hope.
“What are you drinking?”
“Seltzer.” He lifted the glass slightly. “Rehydrating.”
“No wonder you’re Thomas’s favorite.” I took a pull of my beer to emphasize my point.
“God, I hope not.”
“All those extra hours in the gym? He definitely has a poster of you in his office.”
The corner of Volsky’s mouth twitched. “That’s horrifying.”
“I’m just saying, the rest of us look bad by comparison.”
“Bradley’s out of town,” he said, like that explained everything. “Not much else to do so I put in extra gym time. But I’m picking him up from O’Hare tonight so don’t expect to see me at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
“The gym will feel empty without you.”
“It’ll survive.”
Petrov had just bought a round for the table, dramatic about it the way he was dramatic about everything, when the door opened and Avery came in with Hana on one side and Théo on the other.
I hadn’t expected him to come. Hismaybehad sounded a lot likenowhen he’d said it. So when Théo appeared anyway, it threw me off.
Long sleeved black shirt despite the warm evening. Hands tucked into the cuffs like he was hiding them. Shoulders slightly caved in. His eyes did a quick, professional sweep of the bar—cataloguing exits, faces, threats—so similar to the way a player scanned the ice before a faceoff that it made my brain stutter.
Hana spotted our table and made a beeline, already talking before she’d fully arrived.
Then from across the bar— “Kenz! Sully!”
Avery cut through the crowd with Hana in his wake, taller and broader than everyone around him, tattoos on full display in a black T-shirt with the sides hacked out to mid-torso. He clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to slosh my drink, grinning like he hadn’t seen me four hours ago.
Théo came last. Measured steps. Sat down at the edge of the group like he was reserving the right to leave quickly.
“Hey everyone, this is my brother Théo,” Avery said, gesturing vaguely. “Théo, my team.” That was it. Avery was already sliding into a seat, scanning the beer list.
Hana rolled her eyes and took over. “Théo, this is Kenzo, my brother. Sully, Morrison, Petrov…” she went down the line while I flagged the server.
“What are we drinking?”
“IPA on tap,” Avery said.
“Espresso martini,” Hana said.
I looked at Théo. He glanced at the table briefly. “Vodka with sugar free Red Bull please.”
“Coming right up.”
