Page 137 of Wicked Serve

“Your childhood memories are in Russia. It’s where you belong. Not here.”

“You can’t actually believe I think that.” My voice hardens. “What about everything else? Or do you think I’ve forgotten by now?”

“Think about how good it would feel to come home. You’ve been away for too long.”

“This has nothing to do with being Russian,” I finally burst out, my voice rising. It echoes in the hallway. “It has everything to do with you. You’re what I don’t want anything to do with, Dad. Not my heritage.”

Something ugly crosses his face for the barest moment. Then he wipes it blank, forcing another smile. “Of course I have regrets. If we could just talk about this—”

“Regrets? That’s a funny word for abuse.” I push away from the wall, getting in his face. After years and years, the anger is finally pouring out. I can hardly think over the rush of blood in my ears. “Here I was thinking maybe you changed, but I see you’re still the same piece of shit you were when we left. How many drinks tonight, Dad? How long until you snap?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. The calculated hint of warmth leaves his eyes.

We’re the same height now, I realize with a jolt. He was my age when he met my mother, when he tried his hand at the NHL and failed miserably. Let him take a swing at me. I couldn’t fight back properly at thirteen, but I can do it now. It doesn’t fucking matter if someone walks in on us brawling, because I’m not going to California.

“Son—”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your son.”

He hustles me against the wall, hands fisted in my jersey. A wild lick of panic punches through the anger. The scar on my face twinges with phantom pain. I swipe my tongue over my lip, chest heaving.

Instead of taking a swing, he cups my jaw. Traces my scar. I try to twist away, but he leans his weight into me, pinning me to the wall.

“You might wear a different name on your uniform, but you’re still my son. Nikolai Andreyevich Volkov.” He says my full name slowly, lovingly. “The name I gave you. The name your mother called beautiful. You can’t change blood, Kolya.”

I shove my elbow into his chest. “Fuck you.”

He grunts with pain, but he just smiles, self-satisfied. “You’re my son. You will always be my son.”

“Then guess what, Dad? You just saw your son play one of his last games. Congratulations.”

His grip loosens. “What?”

Before I can twist the knife, even if it’s a wound for me as well as him, someone says my name.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her. My sweater on her body. Glitter on her cheeks. Blue eyes, wide with shock.

Isabelle.

Chapter 65

Izzy

For a moment, I just stare at Nikolai and his father. I blink, trying to unscramble the image, but it remains the same. Nik, pinned to the wall by Andrei. Like that night so long ago.

I might be sick. I inch closer, pressing my hand to my mouth. Maybe I should scream. There’s security here; they could throw Andrei out. Joseph Abney and his stupid ultimatum is one thing, but this is another entirely.

Andrei hurt his son. The man I love. He can’t just walk in here and act like that never happened. I should have pushed Nik harder to cut him out of his life. I should have figured he’d come to a game like this, an important one, and I ran as soon as I saw Nik leave the ice. He doesn’t look hurt, but I wouldn’t put it past Andrei to try. He had no qualms about hitting his wife and teenage son, after all.

“Sweetheart,” Nik says, sounding remarkably calm, “I love you, but you don’t need to be here. Go wait for me by the locker room.”

“Like hell I don’t,” I snap. “Get away from him. Right now.”

“Ah,” Andrei says. “You must be Isabelle.”

I press my lips together. He looks so much like Nik, it’s unnerving. A vision of my boyfriend, twenty or so years from now.

“He didn’t want to say much about you,” he continues. “He definitely didn’t mention how pretty you are.”

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