Page 122 of Wicked Serve

“You could have played hockey somewhere else. They have minor leagues.”

“It’s not about that.”

“Nik—”

“He helped us, okay?” The words burst out of him, as if they’ve been pent up a long time. “Years and years of watching my mom endure shit from my dad, and then she finally called him, and he helped. I owe him, Isabelle, and anyway, he’s family. I can’t have my father, but he’s... he cares, in his own way.”

I breathe out hard through my nose. “That can’t... be what you want.” My mind races, trying to wrap around this clusterfuck of a situation. I haven’t met his grandfather yet, although we’ve been talking about taking a trip into the city soon. Right now, I’m glad I’m nowhere near him. I’d eviscerate him for forcing Nik into this.

He works his jaw. “It’s not about what I want.”

“Your life should be about that. Quite literally.” I huff out a breath. “Does Katherine know about this?”

He just nods.

“And what? She’s fine with her father strong-arming her son into giving up the thing he loves?”

“She understands the reasoning.”

Scratch that. I’d eviscerate his whole family, even Katherine, despite the fact she’s basically my boss. She always says she’s so proud of him, but all along, she’s known that he’s giving it up. I want to pace, maybe kick something, but instead, I crawl onto the bed next to him.

“So what? You win the Frozen Four with Cooper and the guys, hang up your skates, and learn the world of corporate real estate?”

“At least I’ll be in New York. I’ll be able to visit you here whenever.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s reality.”

“You can tell him you changed your mind. Why does he want you to work for him right now, anyway? You won’t be in the NHL forever. You can do it after. If you want.”

He rests his hand on my knee, and despite the highly flammable mix of emotions pouring through me right now, I lace our fingers together. He meets my gaze. There’s a tiredness in his eyes that isn’t from being sick. It’s deeper than that. It’s been there so long, it’s nearly permanent.

“Hockey isn’t mine. It’s my father’s. And if there’s one thing I can’t be, it’s like him.” His voice is quiet, but intense. “This is the way I prove that I’m not him.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent. My heart aches for him; I feel the pain in every word. I understand why he wants to be nothing like his father—and he isn’t, even if he doesn’t let himself believe it—but even if he’s the one who introduced him to hockey, that doesn’t mean he can’t love it on his own merits.

I’ve been around professional sports my whole life. It doesn’t matter how or why you fell in love with your sport. If the love is deep enough, you need it in your life no matter what, and if you’re able to make a career from it? It’s a privilege you hold on to for as long as you can. My dad did it, and James is doing it, and soon Cooper will be, too. It’s what Nikolai deserves, and his father has nothing to do with that. No wonder he’s been so adamant about getting me back into volleyball. He doesn’t want me to miss it the way he thinks he’ll be missing hockey, sooner or later.

“I was glad.” He presses fevered lips against my temple. “When he said he got me into McKee, I mean. All I could think about was that I’d have a chance to see you again.”

Despite everything, my heart skips a beat. “I’m glad, too.” I should go make him some breakfast, see if I can find cough medicine, but I stay put. “Thank you.”

He looks at me warily. “For what?”

“For trusting me with this.” I smile slightly, stroking my hand through his sweaty hair. Even sick, he’s too handsome for his own good. “I know that opening up is hard for you.”

“I wanted to tell you sooner.” He traces over my fingers, my knuckles. I suppress a shiver. “It wasn’t about not trusting you. I do trust you, Isabelle.”

“You just knew I’d hate it.”

He laughs shortly. “Can you blame me?”

“No. And for the record, I still hope you change your mind.” I pat his hand before sliding out of bed. “Let me make you some toast. No sneaking out of the house. You’re staying put and resting.”

Once I’m out of the room, I stop in place, taking a couple deep breaths. I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands and clear my throat. In the kitchen, I give Tangerine a treat before putting on the kettle and pulling out the rye bread.

He might think this is what he has to do, but it isn’t. Not by a long shot. I’m sure that when he’s actually presented with a contract, it’ll be different; he’ll realize he can’t say no. Giving up such a special future would be too hard. No one as talented as him should have to think about doing anything but what he was born to do. And as long as the Sharks think he’s still going to accept their contract, the possibility is there.

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