Page 78 of The Nanny Goal

ALEXEI

The next morning I have a practice and team meeting at the arena.

When I get there, I pass two local reporters in the hall. They give me friendly nods but don’t try to talk. That’s been the routine since I arrived.

The first time I spoke to the Hamilton press, I was shellshocked—fresh off the plane, just traded, translating every thought and emotion into a second language. I stumbled over my words, and they decided I didn’t speak English well. I’ve done nothing to correct that impression in six months.

Some assumptions are useful.

I do my turns pre- and post-game as the team asks me to, but the questions are always pretty simple and I give canned answers.

Every win I can get the team is a good one.

Is six wins in a row a good streak? Nice. Is it the season record? Not yet? Not good enough.

And if they ask me about something I don’t want to talk about, which isn’t often, I fall back on the language barrier.What do you mean? Sorry, can you say again?

This is my first time playing on a team without any other Russian players, which means that behind the scenes, I can’t rely on a buddy to translate. So my teammates know the truth. I speak English just fine. I contribute in meetings, on the bench, on the ice. But even with them, sometimes it’s easier to pretend I don’t catch every joke, every barb, every invitation to open up.

Sometimes I need the space that silence gives me.

Today, I’m grateful for it, because I didn’t get even a second alone with Emery this morning, and it’s put me on edge.

She’s very good at putting distance between us, especially after an unexpected bit of closeness.

Yeah, you dummy. She doesn’t want to get in deep with the guy who hurt her. Not breaking news.

I don’t know how to reconcile that with the way she clings to me when we kiss. But that’s a problem best solved later. After dinner with her family. After I play her brother on the ice tomorrow. After the Grangers all leave town again, and we can have some breathing space to get back to figuring out who we are to each other now, instead of rehashing what we were two years ago.

I stride into the locker room, change quickly, and head to the lounge room where we eat our team meals. Hayden “Hooner” Calhoun spots me from across the buffet. “Arty! How’s your mom?”

“Yeah, good. She came home yesterday.” I duck my head as a cheer goes up around the room.

Roan “Smash” Dodaj comes out of nowhere to wrap a big, heavy arm around my shoulders. “Buddy, that’s amazing.”

“Thanks, man.”

Hayden gets a text message on his phone that makes him put his plate down and head around the corner for privacy, leaving Smash to guide me to the food. “You ready for tomorrow night? What can we get you to fuel you? Gotta keep that winning streak alive.”

I shove him away and grab a plate.

Undeterred, he narrates what I select. “Veggie hash, turkey sausage, and oatmeal. Good choices.”

Kieran Marsh, one of the players I look up to the most on the team, joins us and grabs a plate. “Arty, good to see you. How’s your morning going?”

I can hardly tell him the truth, which is that I woke up early to jerk off thinking about Emery’s hot, wet mouth. And now I’m annoyed by my teammates.

What I say instead is, “It’s going.”

It’s one of those English phrases I picked up early, one that always sounds casual and natural, but doesn’t invite further discussion.

Dodaj looks back and forth between us, but Marsh isn’t a huge talker—one of the reasons I like him so much—and that’s the end of the conversation.

Sighing, I give the oversized puppy D-man my full attention. “Do you need something, Smash?”

“Just a win tomorrow night against your former team.”

“Yep.” As I hear myself say it, popping the p the way Emery does, I grin.

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