Page 92 of Wicked Serve

I’m pretty sure that means she’s freezing, but she just raises an eyebrow, as if daring me to call the whole night off. I swallow around the block in my throat. When I promised her the truth, I didn’t think about how I would give it—and what it would feel like to be faced with it. I never envisioned sharing these pieces of myself with someone. Cricket and I have never spoken about it in depth. When I confided in John, I told him the barest details. But Isabelle deserves more, even if I don’t deserve her.

“But you’re cold,” I say, flicking her nose.

She doesn’t smile. “Who were you on the phone with? Your dad?”

I look at the water. “Yes.”

“He still lives in Russia, right?”

“Yeah. He coaches a hockey team in St. Petersburg. He’s been doing it since he retired from playing.”

“Is that where you grew up? Before you moved here?”

“No.” A wave laps in our direction gently. I look at it instead of Isabelle; I know the pain is showing on my face. “I grew up in Moscow.”

“But your dad played for the NHL.”

“For a few seasons.” Her hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together. I finally look over, steeling myself with a breath. The last time we were on a beach together, she convinced me to chase her into the waves. “It’s a long story.”

“I figured.” She squeezes my hand. “Talk to me, okay? Trust me, baby, please.”

I stretch out on the blanket, taking her with me. It’s a clear night, with a nearly full moon overhead. She curls against my side, a welcome warmth. Her fuzzy pink knit cap tickles my cheek.

I haven’t found many reasons to trust in my life, but I do trust her.

“My parents met in Europe,” I say, watching a cloud drift over the moon. “My mom took a gap year after high school. My dad was in the KHL farm system, playing some exhibition game in Sweden. Somehow, they ran into each other, and apparently it was... instantaneous, whatever connection they shared. Dad was interested in playing for the NHL, and Mom encouraged that. Even though my grandfather hated it, she brought him back to America with her, and he worked his way onto the Penguins.”

“Why did he hate it?”

“Pretty sure he thought my dad was a douche. Maybe he thought my dad wanted his money. I don’t know.” I laugh shortly. If Grandfather is anything, he’s a good judge of character. “My mom didn’t care. I haven’t spoken about it with her that much, but my dad was—is—this really charismatic guy. He’s funny, he’s confident, he’s easy to get along with when he’s in a good mood. She fell in love, and eloped with him when she got pregnant with me. But the NHL didn’t go well. He had a few rough injuries, and things never really took off. So when I was three, he went back to Russia.”

“And your mom went, too?”

“Yeah. We both did. Obviously, I don’t remember what it was like when they lived in Pittsburgh. But all my early memories are in Russia. I started hockey pretty soon after we moved, and my dad coached me personally.”

“That must have been intense for your mom. A huge difference in culture.”

“I’m sure she would have hated it even if my dad didn’t start hitting her.”

I say it without thinking, without filtering. A beat, and then Isabelle gasps. My heart stutters. Even though I meant to tell her, it’s one thing to think it, and another for it to leave my lips.

“I thought it would be something like that.” She’s quiet for a moment. “What you said earlier, I figured... Oh, Nik.”

I shut my eyes. My chest feels tight. Not as bad as earlier, but not comfortable, either. “Yeah.”

“Poor Katherine,” she whispers.

“I don’t know when it happened for the first time.” I drag my teeth over my lower lip. “We’ve never really spoken about it. But it was always there. Always a possibility. They’d be fine for months, and then something would happen, Dad would get drunk and lose his temper, and Mom would just... act like things were normal, after. She’d cover up the marks with makeup and bring me to school. They argued about me a lot. I figured that out early on. She didn’t like how hard he pushed me in hockey.”

“Like with your diet?”

I can hear the distaste in her voice. Small, needle-sharp memories flash through my mind. Skating laps when I messed up in practice. Hours and hours of ice time, working until I nearly puked. Picking over every mistake I made in a game. He couldn’t be the best, but I could be, and I wanted to be. For him, for myself, and for the future in the NHL that he always expected me to have.

“Stuff like that. But I didn’t care. I loved hockey, and I loved his approval.” My voice breaks. “Years went by, and I didn’t say anything. I didn’t protect her.”

“You were a child.”

“All the same.”

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