“Really,” Troy says, sliding on his goalie mask.
I stare at him. “I-I knew Oskar liked him.”
It’s an understatement. Oskar had a super huge crush on him. The man had stars shooting out of his eyes whenever Dmitri was in his presence.
“Dmitri always had a soft spot for him,” Axel says. “He fell for him.”
“Not so fake, huh?” Finn is too nice to sneer, but his comment lands like a punch anyway.
Evan and Vinnie enter the locker room, and the other guys straighten. Evan is the captain, and Vinnie is his super scary boyfriend.
They flash me disgruntled looks too.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t think.”
The others turn away.
It’s fine.
I’ve never been the most social guy. When I party with my teammates, it’s usually at a sports bar, usually with alcohol.
So it definitely doesn’t matter if none of them act like bosom buddies.
We don’t have that kind of relationship.
They have those relationships with one another, but not with me, and it’s fine.
Because I don’t care. I care about hockey.
This is a job. I’m sure some people say you’re not supposed to mix work with friendships anyway.
So, you could say I’m ultra professional.
I quickly dress because locker rooms aren’t my favorite places. It’s weird a team with so much money can’t afford, well, actual walls. I throw in my AirPods, because maybe focusing on music will keep my eyes from wandering where they shouldn’t. I wouldn’t want to give people the wrong impression about me.
I’m the first person on the ice.
Unfortunately, that also means I’m the first person to see Coach Holberg, our stoic, stern and Swedish head coach whose son Oskar’s life got upended because of me.
Coach’s thin lips are already in a straight line when he sees me, and his eyes go vaguely shark-like even though he’s chatting with Daniela, the publicity manager who normally doesn’t attend practice. Her crisp crimson skirt suit looks out ofplace in the arena, as are her shiny heels. A few guys send her appreciative glances, but the only sensation I feel is the clench in my gut.
When all the guys arrive from the tunnel, and the sound of skates shuffling and squeaking no longer fill the arena, Daniela clears her throat. “Some of you may already know that Dmitri Volkov and Oskar Holberg are no longer with us.”
A few people bow their heads.
They’re not fucking dead.
But I can’t imagine being forced to leave this team. I can’t imagine what Dmitri is going through. He loved the US. He loved us.
“I am going to find someone to replace Dmitri,” Coach says. “I received an interesting call this morning. I hope to secure an excellent replacement.”
We all nod awkwardly. Nobody wanted Dmitri to leave, but nobody wants him to be replaced by a player who sucks either.
“Oskar is accompanying his husband to Turkey while they wait for a visa from Sweden. I’m going to be handling room arrangements and bookings until we can rehire for his position.” Daniela gives a brisk nod, then marches from the arena.
Coach Holberg claps his hands. “Everyone, line up for stick practice. Larvik, we need to have a major discussion.”
I skate toward him, conscious of the heavy gazes of twenty-other players.
