Page 69 of Breakaway

I’m fucking furious.

“Were you trying to break the record for most minutes in the sin-bin?” Drake asks me as we finish getting dressed.

I ignore him. It’s better if I keep my thoughts to myself. No one is going to like it if I run my mouth and say things I’ll regret later. It’s not the first game we’ve lost. Not the first loss in my whole damn career. It’s just that some hit harder than others, and this one hit hard.

In Minsk time, it’s already my father’s birthday, and I desperately wanted to win tonight. To prove to him that he was wrong about me. Wherever he is, I wanted him to knowthat I was a talented player after all. Someone he always underestimated. The feeling of anxiety he induced in me, constantly pitting me and Maks against each other, never leaves my fucking head. Even though he’s dead.

A dead man plays on my nerves. His memory makes me doubt myself. A fucking ghost has power over my emotions, and the only feeling I have for him now is hate.

Grief, guilt, and self-loathing. The pillars my whole personality is built upon.

“You busted Karlsson’s lip pretty good.” Drake tries again, stepping closer to me. “He deserved it for checking Crawford into the board.”

“Ya znayu?1,” I grit through my teeth, buttoning my shirt.

“Benson.” Colton’s voice sounds stern. “Leave him alone.”

I glance to my right and meet Thompson’s eyes. He’s watching me with his eyebrows pulled together. I mouththanks, and he nods. We’re different, but we’re so alike in some ways it’s scary. Broken people always see each other in a crowd. It’s like a sign we wear on our foreheads.Come and say hi; I’m fucked up just like you are. A sign I would love to ditch, to find something constant that would mend my heart and ease my pain. Someone who will embrace my chaos and bring peace to my exhausted soul, just like Ava did for Colt.

Just like Nevaeh does for me.

Her name flashes in my brain, and I ball my fists. I didn’t tell her about my father’s birthday and what this game means to me…and she fucking came dressed in Benson’s jersey. I have no right to be angry with her for that, but damn if it didn’t make my blood boil even more.

“It was still a great game.” A voice from my left reaches my ears, and I turn my head to look at Clay. He’s sitting on the bench, fully dressed and juggling a bottle of water. “And you played really well, Roman.”

Am I suddenly in some sort of support group?

“Thanks,” I reply curtly. I close my eyes, cringing at how bitter I sound.

Hockey is a team sport, and I shouldn’t act like a sore loser. I don’t blame my teammates, because Clay is right—we did our best. It just so happened that our opponent was a bit stronger and a bit luckier. And we can all act like crybabies, like I am now, or we can suck it up, let our loss soak in, and do better next time. It’s not the end of the world.

I turn around and look at my teammates. The corner of my mouth lifts into a crooked grin. “Sorry, guys; I’m acting like an asshole.” Chuckles of approval follow my words, and my lips ease into an open smile. “We played well tonight no matter what.”

“True,” Coach says as he steps into the room. He looks worn out, and I feel sympathetic toward him. Doing the postgame interview after the team lost at home isn’t pleasant. “We did a great job. Vegas used their opportunities in some key moments, and that’s something we will work on.” His gaze drifts to me, and his crystal blue eyes bore into mine. “And maybe keep our tempers under control, eh?”

With a jerk of my head, I hide my hands in my pants pockets. “Sure…”

“What was that, Pashkevich? It was like you nodded in agreement but also shook your head no.”

“Kinda.” I shrug.

Coach rolls his eyes. “At least you’re honest,da?2?”

“Da,” I confirm, and the locker room erupts into laughter.

Coach keeps talking about the team’s performance tonight, about his expectations for our next game, and also what he wants us to work on during practice. I fold my arms over my chest and listen absentmindedly. Looks like I still know how topretend to be okay. My teammates and coach don’t even realize I’m hiding demons behind this carefree demeanor.

It’s better this way. My problems are mine alone; no one else needs to deal with them.

I getin the car and turn the volume up, and my brother’s playlist starts playing. I haven’t listened to it a lot since I moved to the US, mostly because sometimes it’s harder for me to remember English words if I spend hours with Russian music in the background. But today it’s the only thing I can count on to bring me some solace.

Max Korzh’s “Optimist” blasts through the speakers, and I smile involuntarily. This was Maksim’s favorite song, and the reason for my tattoo. Another dedication to my twin.

God, our father hated that we’d watchSpongeBob SquarePants. He’d tell us that it was the stupidest cartoon he’d ever seen, and that we would be just like its characters if we continued wasting our time on it. Little did he know how much that show helped us, relaxing our brains after practice and keeping us from worrying about anything. It was fun, light, and really ridiculous, but I think that was exactly why Maks and I loved it. We only stopped watching it when Alisa came into his life.

A wave of memories unexpectedly smacks me in the face. Horrid memories, ones I’ve tried to keep under wraps, are flooding my brain. It’s like one second there’s a light rain, but then it turns into a thunderstorm, flooding everything in its wake. My brother’s image pops into my head, and my chest constricts. I see him so clearly, it’s like he’s right beside me in thecar. My words from that night zip through my mind, and I clutch the steering wheel tighter.

“Maks, it’s not worth it. Why can’t you wait? If she’s gonna spread her legs for him again, what can you possibly do about it? Just talk to her tomorrow.”

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