Chapter 2 The ice isn't the only thing that's hard
Dima's pov
Holy shit.
What the fuck?
In all my years of working this job, I have never had a caller like that. Fuck! I was hard.
I wasn't supposed to be hard. It was against professional ethics or whatever. But then again, this isn't actually my job. I only do it for fun.
Yet still, I have never been tempted to jerk off to a caller this bad.
Something he said keeps coming back to me. Right at the end, he blurted out something in Russian.
Fuck my life. Of course one of the most enthusiastic callers I get turns out to be an arrogant, homophobic Russian.
Fuck, I wish I had known earlier. I wouldn't have done... all that. No wonder he acted like he was committing a felony. Maybe because he was. It is practically illegal to be gay in Russia.
I shudder at the thought of the country. The bane of my existence. I feel so disgusted with myself.
“Ughhhh.” I groan loudly. Well, too late for groveling now. Maybe I just need to say goodbye to Whisper for good.
The Bruins have a game against the Rangers tonight at Madison Square Garden, and I have a plane to catch by 1 pm sharp.
My Rolex reads 10:32 when I finally step out of the hotel. The bite in the air is chilling. The weather around here is always unpredictable.
It is said that if you don't like the weather in Boston, wait five minutes.
I don't have five minutes. My driver is already here. Shakira's “Waka Waka” booms from the stereo of the Beamer.
I wonder when we will start having World Cup songs for hockey.
We pull up at Logan International Airport and the team greets me immediately.
It is an honor playing as captain for the Bruins, but I cannot help thinking about how I will be playing for my country at this year’s championship.
Ukraine's hockey team has been vastly depleted since the war with Russia. Rinks destroyed. Facilities demolished.
I am their best bet if they want to bring the cup home.
“Hey man, the plane's about to depart. Where have you been?” Jayden, my assistant captain, slaps me on the back.
I scratch the back of my neck. “Was up all night. Sorry.”
“Doing what?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, grinning smugly.
“I was busy with...” Dominating a man with a praise kink at exactly 2 am. “Just busy.”
Jayden forms a fist over his mouth. “Shit. Was it that good?”
I smack the back of his head and swerve around him to my seat.
Coach counts heads twice, the way he always does. Present. Present. Present. Jayden is still rubbing his skull when we take off.
I sleep for most of the ride and only wake when the plane lands.
The bus crawls down Eighth Avenue with the whole team half-asleep in their headphones, and then I see it.
A billboard the height of a building. A jaw I could draw from memory. Green eyes. A Rangers jersey. And across the bottom, in letters taller than I am: THE TSAR.
Volkov.
He wears a smug smile on his face, left canine peeking out slightly. I don't know who decided that he should be the face of his team. He is not even captain.
I put my headphones on and watch the city slide past. I do not look at the billboard again. Much.
By the second period, I have worked out that I'm watching Volkov more than the puck.
It's scouting. That's all it is. You study the biggest threat on the ice. I've been watching him for three seasons.
Left shot. Six-three of Russian arrogance in a jersey that's too tight for him. He always cuts right at the blue line. Never passes back.
Arrogant, with no idea what team spirit means.
He skates with his chin up like the crowd is doing him a personal favor, and tonight the crowd is giving it to him in full.
But not tonight.
Tonight, he cuts left and loses the puck. Twice. He still doesn't pass to his teammates, but his chin is down.
The crowd chants anyway. Ts-ar! Ts-ar! He doesn't look up.
Every time they chant, my jaw gets a little tighter.
I try not to notice how his thighs flex on the crossover, but it's nearly impossible not to.
For a moment, I wonder if the caller from the previous night and Volkov are the same people. I mean, they’re both Russian, so its possible. But nah, it can’t be.
Or is that just what I’m telling myself?
Late in the second, he takes a slashing penalty for nothing. Nobody was even near him. He drops into the box and doesn't watch the kill. He stares at the ice afterward.
It makes me giddy. Volkov at his worst is the best thing that could happen to us. But I'm also curious about what's making him lose his focus.
Coach has kept our lines apart all night. Not one shift against him. Lucky for Volkov.
So I watch him from the bench. He chirps at a linesman in Russian and is issued two minutes in the box.
He comes off at the end of a shift breathing hard and doesn't look at anyone. Not his captain. Not his Coach. Not the teammate who slaps his shoulder pad.
Alone. Even with twenty thousand people screaming his name.
I don't know why that bothers me. It shouldn't bother me. I hate him.
Besides, he deserves it. You don't win most problematic player of the year and expect friendly treatment.
I score off a rebound in the third, an ugly one off the post. 2–2. Jayden crashes into me against the glass and I let him.
It lasts four minutes.
Johnson, their captain, winds up from the point and the puck goes in off a screen. 3–2 Rangers. The Garden goes wild.
Volkov doesn't move. His teammates pile onto Johnson and he stays on the bench with his stick across his knees. His team won but he looks like he's the one who lost.
When the horn sounds, he turns and looks straight at me. Green eyes. No expression. I skate over to him and stretch my hand out. “Good game.” Up close, I can see the dark circles around the rim of his eyes.
He stares at my hand for a beat and drags his gaze up to my face. His mouth has twisted into a scowl. He rises from the seat and skates around me, bumping me in the shoulder. Hard.
I nearly fall. What the fuck are they feeding him?
“You don't have to be a dick all the time,” I yell from behind him.
He freezes and turns, slowly, making his way to me. “What you just say to me?”
We almost never speak during games. And he almost never speaks during interviews. Which is why I never noticed how strong his accent was.
And if I ever thought Volkov was the caller, this clears my doubt. They don’t sound alike in any way.
I square my shoulders. He has an inch or two over me, but I don't back down. “I said, you don't have to be a dick all the time.”
He grabs me by the collar and pushes me to the barricade. My back collides with the glass. His teeth pull back as he glowers at me. “Who you think you are talking to? Eh, Golden boy?”
Golden Boy. The nickname everyone calls me. It sounds like a slur coming from him.
A whistle is blown and a few linesmen, accompanied by some players, skate over to us. They pull Volkov by his jersey and drag him away.
“You talk to me when you can win,” he spits, before knocking off the linesman's hand and skating away.
My chest is heaving when I watch his back disappear. The retort I had ready dies in my throat. Not because I'm scared of Volkov.
But because it's pointless arguing with a brute. And because I'm terrifyingly and unmistakably hard.
