Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"

Автор книги: Sophia Henry

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Epilogue

“Show me your school, Audushka.” Aleksandr opened the passenger door of his Jeep and took a step back so I had room to exit.

“Really?” I glanced at him to make sure he wasn’t teasing me before I jumped out.

He nodded. “I’ve never been to college.”

“I’ll take you to my favorite place.” After he’d helped me climb out of the Jeep, I laced my fingers with his and led him up the path toward Wagner Hall, my favorite building on campus. It felt surreal to have him walking around campus with me, as if we were in a parallel universe. A perfect universe.

“It’s beautiful here,” Aleksandr said as we followed the concrete trail among the perfectly manicured grass.

“It is, yeah. I love it.” I loved every inch of Central State’s campus. The charming brick buildings, the massive, mature trees, the meticulous maroon and gold flowers outside every building.

I was lost in thought of the understated beauty I took for granted every day, when Aleksandr suddenly yanked me toward a tree in front of Wagner Hall. Squeezing my hand, he dropped to one knee and dug in his pocket with his free hand. I glanced around, then back at him.

He wasn’t.

No.

He couldn’t.

“Auden Catherine Berezin, will you marry me?” The cool, confident man formerly known as “Douche Bag, King of All Douches,” shook as he thrust an open black box at me. When I peered into it, I saw not one but two rings: a silver ring with a single diamond twinkling up at me and a gold band.

Everything stopped. People stopped walking, birds stopped singing, cars stopped whizzing by on the road. The world stopped turning with Aleksandr on his knee, holding his life out to me.

“I, no, I still have a year of school and I’m already planning my master’s degree…and…and you’re in Charlotte,” I stammered, wiping sweat off an eyebrow, though the temperature had barely reached sixty-five degrees.

Aleksandr squeezed my hand, a jolt of electricity zapping through my veins from his simple touch. “I’m not rushing you, Audushka. You can finish school here and find a master’s program in Charlotte. Or stay here for your program. It doesn’t matter. We’ll make it work. You and me forever. I want this. No excuses. No pushing me away. No more walls.”

No excuses. No walls? That I couldn’t guarantee. We’d only known each other for six months. That was scary. That was barely out of the honeymoon stage. But I guess we never had a honeymoon stage with both of us laying all our cards on the table from day one.

When I was a little girl, I never yearned for the fairy tale love of the Cinderellas and Snow Whites. I craved the flawed, consuming, passionate, obsessive, can’t-live-without-you, eternal love of poets and playwrights. I wanted the Karenina and Vronsky kind of love. Because life isn’t glass slippers and balls. It’s jealousy and imperfection and forgiveness. Despite everything in my past, or maybe because of everything, I truly believed Aleksandr loved me.

“I think Charlotte needs a Central Club branch, don’t you?” Aleksandr’s voice filled the air, and I met his eyes. He always knew exactly what to say.

The world started again as I pushed negative thoughts away with a shake of my head.

“Yeah. Yes. Of course I will,” I told him, pulling him up. I brushed my lips against his lips.

He wrapped his arms around me, and I nuzzled into his chest. When he pulled back, his eyes were glassy. Or maybe they only looked that way because I was seeing him through the tears in my own eyes. His hands shook as he pushed the diamond ring up my left ring finger.

Aleksandr and I were engaged.

“What’s that one for?” I pointed to the thin gold band in the box. “Not trying to be greedy, just wondering.”

“We don’t give engagement rings in Russia. We wear bands on our right hands. This one was Mama’s. I, um, I wanted you to have it.” Tears slipped down Aleksandr’s cheeks, and my eyes widened. I burrowed myself into his chest.

“Sasha,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

“It sucks not to share this with them. I wish they could’ve known you.” He pulled away, wiping the wetness on his cheeks with his fingers.

“I know.”

He didn’t need to explain. I didn’t need to explain. It was Aleksandr and me. We already knew it all. His parents and my mom would miss every monumental occasion in our lives. Both of us had already figured that out, but it didn’t mean it hurt any less. Every time a huge event comes up, Aleksandr and I will both grieve for our parents again. Only now we wouldn’t be grieving alone, trying to hide it from others who didn’t understand. We had each other.

I held out my right hand, and he slid his mother’s ring onto my finger, rubbing the gold band with his thumb.

“I don’t want you to think we should do it like in Russia. I know traditions are different here. I just wanted you to have it.” He sniffed and wiped his face again. Had he ever looked so handsome as he did baring himself to me with watery eyes?

“What is it like there?”

“Go to the registry office, say yes to a couple of questions, and walk out married.”

“Well, I think we do that here, too.” I laughed. “At the courthouse. But we’d have to get a marriage license first.” I caught his eyes.

Did I just ask him to go to the courthouse with me?

“How do we do that?”

“Wanna run by the county clerk’s office and find out?”

Yep, definitely just asked him to go to the courthouse.

–

“Do you have your birth certificate?” I asked Aleksandr when the woman at the clerk’s desk told us we would both need them.

“Back at the hotel.”

“Translated?”

“I have been playing hockey outside of Russia for years, Audushka. I’ve needed it many times.”

Maybe it was the thrill of the moment, or maybe it was the realization of being with Aleksandr for the rest of my life, but requesting a marriage application felt as normal as walking up to the counter at a fast food restaurant and ordering a burger. The clerk told us there was a three-day waiting period after handing it in before we could get married. We thanked her, and took an application with us.

“Three days to change your mind,” I told Aleksandr as we walked back to the car.

What if we got into a huge fight and he got mad and wanted to run away? What if I freaked out about him leaving for a road trip?

“I knew I would marry you when you checked out my package in a bar in Canada six months ago. What’s three more days?” He pulled me in for a kiss.

I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped my lips, because my fiancé always knew what to say to calm my fears. And that’s how I knew it was real.

No more walls.

No more walking dead through another twenty years of life.

Just accepting people for who they are and what they have to give. And being grateful for the family and friends who finally made me realize I didn’t have to go through it alone.

To all the Motherless Daughters out there,

especially Chuck, the one I love the most.

Acknowledgments

Writing a book is not a solitary project. There are so many wonderful people involved and I hope I can do all of them justice in this note.

To everyone who read and critiqued Delayed Penalty. Laeken, Janette, Rebekah, Kim, Kristalyn, JA, Rebecca, Caroline, Sarah, Jamie (x2), Kerri, and Julie at True Blue edits. #TZWNDUBC and #TeamKilt for your unwavering support, friendship, and so much fun! My RT girls who gave me the confidence and encouragement to start this crazy ride. CRW, the NAC, and every author, reader, blogger, and friend I’ve connected with in the writing world for the ongoing encouragement.

To my amazing editor, Sue Grimshaw, and the entire team at Random House. Thank you so much for your belief in me and the Pilots series. A special thank you to every single person who had a hand in making this book the best it could be. The talent at Random House is amazing. To my kick-ass agent, Jessica Watterson, and the Sandra Dijkstra Literary team, for taking a chance on my writing and being my guide and support system.

My inspirations: Sergei Fedorov, Alexander Mogilny, Slava Kozlov, Steve Yzerman, Gerard Gallant, and countless other hockey players who captivated my world as a child and made me a ridiculously crazy fan of hockey—the best sport in the world!

My entire family, because my family is my world and they have always supported me in everything I’ve chosen to pursue. Special thanks to my grandfather, Henry, who stepped up to be the father I didn’t have—and let me use his name. My sister, Chuck, who understands everything about me and loves me anyway. My cousins, Katie and Maureen, better described as sisters and my biggest cheerleaders. And to the family I married into, whom I love like blood.

To Boo Boo and Cha Chi. You are my sunshine. You are my heart. I hope you are proud of me even if you can’t tell your friends what kind of books I write (yet).

To Jeff. Without your unwavering love, support, and confidence, I never would’ve pursued my lifelong dream of sharing my work with the world. Despite all the emotional highs and lows, everything I do, everything I accomplish, everything I am—is for you and our two boys.

You. Thank you for reading this.

I know how difficult it is to be a grieving child. I have a spot in my heart for the people who dedicate their careers to helping grieving kids. The St. John Providence Hospital Open Arms program, based in Detroit, Michigan, is “a support program that helps children ages three to seventeen years, and their family members, find healthy ways to cope with their feelings of sadness, anger or frustration, and be able to return to their day-to-day activities.”

For more information, please visit: http://www.stjohnprovidence.org/OpenArms/.

BY SOPHIA HENRY

Delayed Penalty

Power Play (coming soon)

PHOTO: JEFF BENNETT

SOPHIA HENRY, a proud Detroit native, fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. She did not, however, fall in love with snow. So after graduating with an English degree from Central Michigan University, she moved to the warmth of North Carolina for the remainder of her winters.

She spends her days writing books featuring hot hockey-playing heroes. When she’s not writing, she’s chasing her two high-energy sons, reading, watching her beloved Detroit Red Wings, and rocking out at concerts with her husband.

SophiaHenry.com

Facebook.com/sophiahenryauthor

@sophiahenry313

Read on for an excerpt from

Power Play

by Sophia Henry

Available from Flirt

Chapter 1

Rule One: There’s no such thing as love at first sight.

Lust at first sight, sure, but not love. Don’t get me wrong. I love love. I love love so much, I’ve dressed up as Cupid for Halloween. But real love takes time.

Just some unsolicited advice from Gabriella Bertucci, Queen of Having It All Figured Out, except my own life, of course. It’s easy to give advice and boast lofty ideals when no one pays attention to you.

“Hey!”

I knew the voice, but I had to do a double take after looking up from the LIONS AND TIGERS AND RED WINGS, OH MI T-shirt I’d been folding. “You got your haircut.”

Landon Taylor ran a hand over his short blond faux-hawk and grinned. “Yeah. It was time to lose the mop top.”

“Looks nice.” I grabbed another shirt out of the cardboard box filled with our most recent shipment of T-shirts from Totally Detroit, a local screen printer. If I folded the shirt in front of my face, Landon might not notice my annoying habit of hyperventilating whenever I talked to him.

Though Landon and his family had been clients at my family’s produce stores for years, my palms still broke out in a sweat whenever he walked through the door.

“Do you guys have any more of the Tigers Legos?” Landon asked as he dug through a tiny box of toys next to the register. “My brothers are obsessed with them.”

“Yeah, I know. Your mom was in here last week and bought us out.”

“Damn.” His dark blond eyebrows knit in defeat and he turned his attention to a rack of kids’ T-shirts.

“You could buy him an actual tiger,” I suggested.

“Animal or baseball player?” Landon glanced up to shoot me a wink, then resumed pushing the hangers aside quickly, obviously not impressed with our selection.

I grabbed a stuffed tiger with the state of Michigan embroidered in pink across its chest from a nearby table and threw it at Landon. “RAWWR!” It bounced off his freshly shorn head and landed on the floor.

“Geez, Gaby! You’ve gotta tell a guy when you throw a damn tiger at him.”

“Now I see why you play hockey,” I joked before rushing behind the register to help another customer. He couldn’t retaliate while I rang up someone’s purchase, but I’d have to remember to take cover after.

The Taylor family—Charlie, Sharon, Jason, and Landon—had shopped at Eastern Market religiously every Saturday morning for as long as I can remember. They always bought a bushel of apples from our stand and ate them as they walked around the market.

That was back when Bertucci Produce was just a small, but thriving, stand in Shed One at Eastern Market. Years before my mom and dad decided they wanted to open 313 Artisans, the small store I currently ran, which began as a way to feature local artists as well as their own artistic creations.

Back when Landon was just a kid named Landon, not Landon Taylor, superstar defenseman for the Detroit Pilots. Detroit’s next NHL-bound player.

Rule Two: Real love is between two people. If it’s one-sided, it’s just infatuation; a crush.

Which is why I couldn’t call my feelings for Landon Taylor love. Sure, my forehead broke out in a cold sweat and my heart pumped and thumped like a rock ’n’ roll drumbeat every time I watched him walk through the door. But since I didn’t seem to have the same effect on him, it couldn’t be love.

In defense of my hormonally charged reaction, every time I saw him now he looked like a fitness model who’d just left a photo shoot. Today, for instance, a teal Detroit Pilots Under Armor shirt skimmed the curves of his chiseled chest, and black basketball shorts swished against his muscular thighs. I even knew he had on little white ankle socks under his gray and blue Brooks running shoes.

Because I’m that obsessed observant.

The only other times I saw him was during games, while decked out in the teal, black, and silver of his Detroit Pilots’ hockey uniform. Landon was a defenseman for the Pilots, the American Hockey League (AHL) team that had relocated from Raleigh, North Carolina, to Detroit a few years ago.

I doubt Landon noticed anything about me, except that I could sling a stuffed tiger with NFL quarterback–like precision. As the only girl in my family, getting overlooked had become as regular as the sun setting in the west. My brothers would argue that I was the princess, and I may have been when I was younger, but that was far from the truth anymore. If my dad had his way—and I’m sure he will—my brothers would be the heirs to the Bertucci Produce legacy. Even though I’m the only one who’d consistently worked at the stores.

“You guys gonna win the Calder this year?” Papa’s voice boomed from the other side of the store. Papa’s voice always boomed, but it was exceptionally loud in a large retail space with one customer.

“Hope so, sir. This city needs another championship right about now,” Landon answered.

“You’ve got a lot of work to do with Varenkov and Gribov gone.” Papa weaved through the narrow space between product displays to stand beside Landon.

Landon set the stuffed tiger I’d thrown at him on the counter to shake the outstretched hand Papa offered him. “Charlotte just drafted Blake Girard. He’s a sick left wing. So we’re hoping he makes up for Varenkov. And Gribov got sent back down.”

Papa grumbled. “When are they calling you up?”

“Charlotte’s D is pretty young, so I’m hoping I get my chance soon.” He moved his hand to the top of his head and rubbed it.

“Stick to your game and you’ll get there.” Papa slapped Landon on the back before moving to the other side of the counter. He tapped a few keys on the register, generating the buzz of a report printing on receipt paper.

I knew the reports he was printing: sales, daily sales, weekly sales, sales since he’d opened this store six months ago. He poured daily over them in silence. The stress from a stupid piece of paper was going to kill him.

I scanned the back wall of the store, contemplating where I could hang the rest of the T-shirts that wouldn’t fit on the shelf. We needed one of those torso-only mannequins to show off the T-shirts.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Landon move toward the door and my heart sank. He had no reason to stay longer since we didn’t have the gift he wanted, but I wanted him to stay anyway. If only I were well-versed in small talk like Papa.

What if I picked up the box of T-shirts at my feet and “accidentally” fell? Would big, strong Landon Taylor run to my rescue?

Better yet: Landon could stay and use his fitness-model good looks and physique to model for our store. Instead of a weird, headless, legless mannequin on display, we could pop a shirt on Landon and have him walk around the store. If customers could see his real-life muscles expanding and contracting under the fitted T-shirt, it would cause a Call-911-this-store’s-on-fire sellout of our stock.

Rule Three: If you’re infatuated with someone, it’s super creepy to come up with ways to make him stay longer in your presence.

Super creepy, Gaby.

“See you soon, Joe! Later, Gaby!” Landon called. He pushed the door open with one arm, while he raised the other in a farewell gesture.

Papa lifted his left arm, but instead of returning Landon’s wave, he clutched his right bicep. His head dropped, his chin hit his clavicle, and his shoulders slumped over the register.

“Papa?” I asked, unable to conceal the screech in my voice. “Papa?”

My heart stopped. Dropped. Imploded.

I knocked over the display table and tipped a mountain of freshly folded T-shirts onto the floor in my haste. “Papa!”

Papa lifted his head and tried to speak, but no words came out. I could hear his quick, sharp intake of breath from across the room. As I got closer, I saw drops of perspiration beaded across his forehead. When I reached him, I swung my arm across his shoulders.

“I’m calling 911, Gaby.” Landon appeared next to me, cell phone already against his ear. I hadn’t even noticed he’d come back in the store.

“Papa!” I whispered. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I held my dad. “Maybe I shouldn’t touch him. Landon? Landon, what do I do?”

“I don’t know. I think he’s having a heart attack. I don’t know. Um, Eastern Market.” Landon was talking to the operator. “Gaby, what’s the address?”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell.”

“Twenty-five-oh-eight Russell,” Landon repeated. “It’s a store in Eastern Market called 313 Artisans. Male, probably fifties, six-foot-something. I don’t know, he’s not overweight or anything.”

“The ambulance is on the way, Papa. Stay with me,” I whispered to my father. Papa nodded. It was slight, but at least he was responsive.

Landon stayed on the line with the 911 operator, and I held on to Papa until the ambulance arrived. The emergency technicians charged through the door wheeling an empty stretcher, and other nonmedical people followed. It made me sick to think people would come in just to get a glimpse of the “action.”

Strong arms pulled me away from Papa to allow the EMTs access to him. I collapsed against Landon’s chest and he wrapped me in his arms. He smelled like too much cologne and stale beer, which wasn’t what I’d expected.

Though staying in Landon’s arms was the easy response, I wiggled free of his grasp and spun around, knowing I’d be upset with myself if I didn’t watch the two EMTs lift my dad onto the stretcher.

My stomach rolled and I swayed forward. Landon gripped my arms, holding me still, strong. “Pretend it’s a random customer, not your dad,” he whispered.

I nodded, trying to analyze every action the EMTs performed with a nurse’s clinical eye, rather than a daughter’s frightened one. The many types of situations that they needed to be prepared and properly trained for boggled my mind. They had to know a bit of everything. The difference between life and death revolved around each tech knowing exactly what to do for a heart attack, a burn victim, a gunshot wound. The list was endless because they could be called to any scene. They saved lives every day, and I’d bet they didn’t make one third of what a doctor made.

“You coming with him?” The shorter, smaller tech nodded at Landon.

“I am.” I spoke up. “No, wait, the store. I—” I surveyed the store. “I can’t leave.”

“I’ll stay,” Landon said.

I whipped my head around to look at him. “What?”

“I’ll stay. I mean, if that’s okay with you. I can hold down the fort.”

Make a decision, Gaby.

I watched the EMTs glide the stretcher through the open door. I had to get going.

“Are you sure?” I asked. Wasted words. Wasted time. Time to go.

“Yes.” Landon squared his shoulders before he took both of my hands and looked me straight in the eyes. “Gabriella, go with your dad.”

“Okay.” I slumped in his grip, before finding the strength to straighten again. “I’m going to call my uncle Sal. I hope he can get here soon.”

“Just go. Everything will be fine.” Landon spun me around and guided me toward the door.

I knew Landon could handle the store. I’d be surprised if any browsers came in, let alone customers who’d make him try to figure out the register.

Before I followed the EMTs to the ambulance, I remembered my purse hidden away in the cubby under the register. As I retrieved it, I fumbled for words. “Thank you, Landon. I don’t even know what to say.”

“Gabriella. Go.”

I nodded and pushed through the doors.