“I hear about last night,” Kurmazov says, and David swallows, can’t look at anything except the swirl of colour on the hotel carpet.

“Hockey is not everything,” Kurmazov says. “Family and friends are important. You need to learn that before hockey is all that you have left.”

David looks up. “Excuse me?”

“You are very good,” Kurmazov says. “You are better than I was at your age. But where is your family, David? Where are your friends?”

David’s hands curl into fists at his sides. “That’s none of your business,” he gets out.

“No?” Kurmazov says. “I am your captain, and if you are going to have fights in front of the team, you make it my business.”

“I’ll keep it away from the rink,” David says through gritted teeth. “Is that all?”

“That was not what I was—” Kurmazov starts, then sighs. “Fine,” he says. “Go pack.”

David already did. It isn’t worth mentioning, not if he can use it as an excuse to walk away.

*

They drop the game in Tampa, go home with no more points than they left with. David’s phone is silent. His apartment echoes. He doesn’t notice.

The Islanders host the Panthers two weeks later, and it’s as uneventful a game as they come, forgettable, the scattered fans practically yawning down from their seats. David gets a point on a Kurmazov goal, and Jake gets none because the Panthers get none, the Islanders taking it in a 1-0 win that doesn’t excite anyone.

Jake doesn’t show up after the game, all broad shoulders, lopsided grin, too long hair, and it isn’t that David was expecting him to or anything, not like he’s disappointed. David made himself clear, and Jake listened for once, and that’s good.

That’s exactly what he wanted.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The weeks pass, uneventful. They win some games and they lose some games. Sometimes David plays well and sometimes he’s not proud of his play. He goes home and he goes to bed, and he doesn’t think of much of anything at all when he’s falling asleep.

Kurmazov tries to take him aside again when David gets dragged out after a good win. It’s a night that even the husbands and fathers — and Kurmazov’s both — are all there, not just the young guys, so David didn’t have much of a choice. Kurmazov finds David at the end of the bar, where he’s secured himself a mostly quiet spot, asks how he’s been doing.

David tells him he wants to work more on passing drills, because he knows he’s been missing the mark more than he should, especially with experienced linemates, and feels panic, low in his stomach, when Kurmazov looks more and more dissatisfied as he talks.

He’s never been more grateful to Benson in his life than when he butts into the conversation, wheedling Kurmazov for permission to buy one of the rookies drinks, because someone’s first goal in the NHL deserves shots, twenty-one or not. Kurmazov turns to talk to him, okaying it. Benson probably knew he would, knew he didn’t even have to ask.