Page 107 of Wicked Serve

“Come on, man.” His voice sounds light enough, but I catch the worry. Damn Callahans. “Want to go home?”

I keep my eyes on the television. “It’s not happening.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to the NHL.”

“Wait. Not the Russian league, right?”

“I’m going to work for my grandfather when I graduate.”

He’s quiet for so long I squirm on the barstool, wondering if I miscalculated confiding in him. Shit. Maybe the moment we shared outside his family’s house on Christmas Eve was a one-off.

“Does Izzy know?” he asks eventually.

“No,” I admit, teeth scraping the inside of my cheek. Part of me has regretted that I didn’t just bite the bullet and tell her about it on New Year’s. I don’t know why I didn’t do it. I think part of me knew how disappointed she would be and didn’t want to have to face that. Of course she’s going to hate it. I don’t like it either. But I made a promise, and I need to be the kind of man who keeps his promises.

“You have to tell her.”

“She’ll be happy, I’ll bet.” I fiddle with the tab on my seltzer can. “I’ll be in New York permanently.”

“I fucking hope that’s sarcastic. You can work for his business when you retire, if you want. You can’t put off a shot at the NHL.”

“That’s the deal I made with him. He got me into McKee, but I agreed not to play hockey professionally.”

“Jesus Christ.” He sits back, mouth open in disbelief. “What, does he hate hockey or something?”

“Something like that.”

“Can’t you just tell him to fuck off?”

“I’m fine with it.”

“Like hell you are.” He leans in, lowering his voice, his expression open and earnest. “I don’t know what moment it was for you, but the instant I understood what hockey was—what it felt like to play it—I knew I wasn’t doing anything else.”

I wish I had something stronger to knock back. “I was three. First real memory.”

The curve of my father’s smile, his taped fingers lacing up my tiny skates. When he taught me to skate, he pushed me onto the ice and let me figure it out. Then he put a hockey stick in my hand, dumped a bunch of pucks around, and let me figure that out, too.

“Your dad, yeah?”

I shrug. “He wanted his son to play hockey.”

“Is he okay with you giving it up?”

“He doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice clipped enough that Cooper puts his hands up.

“Okay,” he says. “I’m just saying, I know you love it as much as me.”

I glance around the bar. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so it’s not too crowded. Other than a few solo drinkers, we’re alone.

I assumed that when I told Isabelle everything, that would be the end of it. It took everything I had to force the words out. But with Cooper... I don’t know. I want him to understand the whole story. Maybe talking to Isabelle loosened whatever lock and key I’ve kept the past under even more than I realized.

“Look,” I say. “Isabelle already knows this. And I’ll tell her about the hockey, I will, just... give me some time to do it.”

“Okay,” he says warily. “What is it?”

Fuck it. I signal the bartender again. Even if alcohol sometimes makes me nauseated—a holdover, no doubt, from seeing Dad abuse it—I could use a stiff drink for this. I pick up my shot of vodka, clinking it gently against Cooper’s as I toast to us in Russian.

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