Page 136 of Wicked Serve

“And I’m proud of you, too. You played a hell of a game, just like you have all season.” He clears his throat, glancing at the ever-growing celebration on the ice. “I know the Sharks got in touch. If this was your last game with us—I want you to know it was an honor to coach you. You’re a special talent, son.”

I blink once, hard. “Thank you.”

He gives me another pat on the shoulder before letting me pass. I tear through the tunnel.

There he is. Waiting.

Part of me wants to turn around and head back onto the ice. But I’m too curious for that, and anyway, if he doesn’t talk to me now, he’ll just find a way to make it happen later.

He hasn’t cheered for me like that since I was thirteen.

He hasn’t hurt me since then, either.

I have to keep my head. Maybe he’s changed, but I doubt it. It’s not fair that he gave me this talent, this love, without being a good father. I can wish all I want that things were different. That doesn’t make it so.

“Kolya!” he says, pulling me into a one-armed hug. He presses a kiss to my sweaty hair. “I definitely owe you that drink.”

He half drags me down the hallway, around a corner and away from the crowd. I let him, dazed by the tone of his voice, the display of affection I haven’t gotten from him in so long, I’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. As the sounds of the crowd fade into the background, I finally wrestle myself away from him, backing up a few steps.

There’s a hint of alcohol on his breath. Of course. It was too much to hope that that part of him had changed.

“No critiques?” I swipe my hand through my hair. My palms were already sweaty, but now my fingertips are going numb. “I expected more feedback.”

“You played an excellent game, start to finish.”

“I doubt you actually think that.”

“You were sharp and focused. You’ve gotten so clever, Nikolasha. You’re exceptional at reading the offense.” He laughs in disbelief, shaking his head. “I was so proud to see that—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop—doing that. Praising me.”

“You earned it.”

“I know I did,” I say shortly. I flatten myself against the wall, letting the hallway act as a chasm between us. I shove down the tiny sliver of my soul that wants to embrace him again, and stay there as long as he’ll let me. The Russian rolls off my tongue the way it did the other night, with Isabelle. “I know I’m talented. I don’t need you to tell me that.”

“A father can’t tell his son how proud he is of him?”

“Not when I remember how much you liked to point out my mistakes.”

“To make you better.” He takes a step closer, his gaze soft and beseeching. “To get you to this point. You know that.”

“Is that what it was? Encouragement?”

“Of course.”

“And what about the rest of it?”

“The rest of what?”

I never should have left the ice. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “I pushed you from the very beginning because I knew you could be great. And I was right. I’ve been patient for so long, Kolya—but now it’s time to come home.”

Scratch that. I never should have let it get to this point at all. “Home? I was born here, I’ve lived here—”

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