Page 135 of Wicked Serve

“And we have excellent coaching,” I add, just to say something.

I nearly tack on that he hasn’t been my coach since I was thirteen, but hold my tongue. Everyone is staring. Micah looks like he’s about to burst out of his skin with excitement. Mickey’s beaming the way he does whenever his mom and stepdad come to our games. Evan’s smiling at me with some relief in his expression; he’s noticed that no one comes to watch me play.

“Nikolai is very talented,” Ryder says. “He’s been a welcome addition to the team this season.”

“Of course,” Dad says, narrowing his eyes. Sizing me up, no doubt comparing me to the eighteen-year-old he remembers from the last time we saw each other in person. College hockey has been good to me, and I know it shows. “I expect a good game from him.”

I try to think of a safe reply. One that promises nothing, but doesn’t shift his mood. He’s in good spirits now; he loves being the center of attention. I remember all too well how easily that can change.

“It’s been years,” I finally say, in Russian. I smirk. “I think I’m better than you by now.”

He laughs at that. I relax minutely, panic ebbing away like low tide. Not gone, but contained, at least for now. As he claps my shoulder, I resist the impulse to flinch.

“Prove it and I’ll buy you a drink.”

Chapter 64

Nikolai

I put on a goddamn show.

Every shift, every cut across the ice, every pass and block and check, comes together like choreography. Hockey demands every brutal second of focus, and I don’t blink. My shifts pass in blurs, as natural as breathing, and when I’m on the bench, I just chug water and stare at my skates. Isabelle’s here, but I don’t look at her. I especially don’t look at my father. I’m aware of him—he’s sitting in the front row, middle ice, his eyes narrowed as he tracks each play—but I don’t give him the satisfaction of even a shared glance.

It’s the third period. The guys realized early on that I’m not feeling chatty and leave me at the end of the bench whenever I’m on it. We’re up by a goal, but Vermont keeps pressing. Unless we stay sharp on defense, we’re not going to get out of this with a win.

There’s an opening for me and Evan to get off the ice. We haul ass for the bench. Cooper’s gloved hand squeezes my shoulder as we trade places. I switch out my stick for a fresh one, fiddling with the tape. My shoulder, newly sore thanks to a check early in the game, throbs, but I welcome it.

I think I secretly hoped for a moment like this, all along. I had enough pride not to ask for it outright, but I wanted my father to see the player I’ve become. At eighteen, the last time he saw me in person before tonight, my skills weren’t as sharp. There’s no doubt now that I’m ready to play professionally. This game is a team effort, of course it is, but I’ve set the tone tonight. I’ve carved up Vermont’s offense with the precision of a surgeon, and got the assist on the lone goal earlier. It’s been a clean, efficient game. Dad will have something to critique, because he always does, but deep down, I know I’m at the top of my abilities right now.

My next shift comes. We’ve been stalwart tonight, protecting our side of the ice like an army around a fortress. Cooper falls back while I press forward, tracking as Mickey and the others circle Vermont’s net. Cooper takes the shot, but it goes wide; he slams into one of the defenders as they chase it behind the net. A Vermont winger comes up with it, picking up speed as he skates to the other end of the ice.

I check him into the boards, fighting for the puck. I don’t mean to, but with my face pressed against the glass, I catch sight of Dad.

He’s cheering. Shouting, in fact, pounding his hand against the glass. Most of what he’s saying gets lost in the noise of the crowd, but my name—Kolya—rises above everything else.

I nearly lose concentration, unable to process what I’m seeing, but the Vermont player’s elbow catches me in the stomach. I grunt through the burst of pain, managing to take possession of the puck. I smack it to Cooper, who gets it out of our zone.

The moment the horn sounds a few minutes later, ending the game, the entire arena erupts into frenzied cheers. Cooper shakes my shoulders, shouting with excitement; he pulls me into the middle of the celebration forming on center ice. I try to focus on my teammates—my Hockey East champion teammates, I realize as my heart leaps—but I can’t help risking another look at the seats.

He’s already gone. From cheering and shouting to gone. Evan pulls me into a hug, and Jean starts a McFucking McKee chant as he pounds on my back, yet I’m utterly frozen, unable to stop staring at that empty seat.

“We fucking did it!” Cooper says, hugging me tightly. “Holy shit, Nik, we did it!”

I twist away from him, skating for the bench. We did it. I should be fucking elated. I was elated three seconds ago, watching Dad cheer me on, but now the tight, panicked feeling I had in the locker room comes rushing back. I spin in a circle, looking for Isabelle, but I can’t find her in the crowd of cheering fans. I rub my chest. I need to get out of this gear.

An empty seat. I know who he is, I know I shouldn’t care, but part of me thought that maybe...

“Son?” Ryder asks me as I pass. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” I manage to force out. I even smile. “We did it.”

He claps me on the shoulder, eyes bright with excitement. “What are you doing? Get back out there, celebrate with the guys.”

I take off my helmet, tucking it underneath my arm. Sweat drips down the side of my face. I wipe it away with a trembling hand. “I have to find my dad.”

“Of course.” His eyes soften. “He’ll be so proud of you.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod.

---