What would I do? Help Nikos? Start my own restaurant?
Fly back to Nicosia? Or hell, head down to the coast and buy a fucking boat and rot?
My stomach twisted around itself, and it took a while for me to breathe through it. I hadn’t lived at home—like home home—in decades. So many I’d almost forgotten what a Cypriot sunrise looked like over the sea. I’d been living in the UK since I was ten,and Canada for the Q. And while I could remember distinctly the first time I saw snow fall from the sky—real, Canadian snow, not like the rare flurries we would get in Brighton, which happened a handful of times since I’d lived there—I’d forgotten what a winter without it was like.
“Zeki!”
Turning my head, I rolled my eyes when I saw Ivan skating toward me. He was kitted out in his pads, his face barely visible past his goalie mask. He lifted his stick, and I raised mine, tapping them together when he was close enough.
“What do you want, Vanya?”
“Why you so pissy today? Who take a shit in your Cheerios?”
Pretty sure that was not how the saying went, but Maximov rarely cared about that. Of course, guys like him didn’t have to give a shit about that. He was dark-haired and pretty, with a lanky figure and legs that could stretch in odd shapes.
People tended to give him a pass where they gave me double takes and frowns. Then they found out I was defense, and I was given the pity look, like I was a walking dipshit pulled out of the caveman era to hulk around on the ice.
I didn’t often let that get to me, but it wasn’t easy some days.
“Just working on my backhand,” I told him with a shrug. “It’s shit this year.”
“Everything is pretty shit this year,” he said, skating over to the net. He hunkered down and rolled his shoulders. “Come. I give you something to work with.”
I didn’t really want to do all this, but he wasn’t exactly having his best year either, and I didn’t really want to count practice goals if I didn’t have to work for it. I took a breath, then pulled another puck from the bucket and watched as he saved the shot.
I wanted to be happy for him, but I was pissed at myself.
“Motherfuck!”
“Breathe, friend. Is not that big of deal.”
I fought the urge to snap my stick. I’d done that at the last game against Tampa, and I still hadn’t lived it down online. That game had been the biggest shit show of the year. Six-zero and a two-game suspension because the Mavericks’ fuck-ass captain, Holtzmann, couldn’t stop running his fucking mouth, and, well…
I did what I did best, and I snapped.
“Look, it’s Highlanders tonight. Is a fucking wash,” Vanya said softly. His accent was soothing. “Take breath. We got this in the fucking bag.”
I didn’t know that for sure, but it wasn’t dealing with Salem that was the problem. It was the next day, which was supposed to be my damn day off, but instead, I’d be at the arena filming bullshit media reels with the Legends.
“You gonna show up to that thing on Thursday?” I asked as I got another puck ready.
He snorted. “Yes, okay. Sound like a blast and a half!”
God, where the fuck did he learn that phrase? Digging my blades into the ice, I rushed forward and took my shot. It flew in just past the glove and hit the back of the net.
If I’d been a better man, I might have cried with joy. Instead, I let him knock his helmet into me and say, “Fuck yeah, you fuckin’ beautician. You got this.”
I didn’t believe him, but I did feel a little better.
“Good game. Good game. Good game.”
Knocking my head against Vanya’s helmet as he passed me, I felt a surge of triumph. He was right—Salem was a wash. They were rebuilding this year, so it would be a while before theywere any kind of threat. They had old veterans and fresh-faced rookies with attitude problems.
They spent too much time in the sin bin and not enough time focusing on strategy. And their captain was two years—maybe—from retiring back in Montreal, where he’d crawled out of with a hockey stick shoved so far up his ass it choked him when he tried to speak.
This didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like a given.
Press was easy—the questions were focused on our upcoming game with San Diego, which was going to fuck us up pretty good if we didn’t get our shit together. But the one thing I was good at—the one thing that probably tipped the scales in my favor when I was named captain—was that I was good with the press.
