Текст книги "Delayed Penalty"

Автор книги: Sophia Henry

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Chapter 3

I’m pretty sure there were only two ways Crazy Hair could have looked better than he had at O’Callaghan’s. The first was as he did right now: sitting on a bench in the locker room wearing nothing but the lower half of his uniform, including his skates, sweat rolling over his sinewy pecs and creating a happy trail all the way into his hockey pants.

The second way—I can only assume—would be if he were completely naked.

“Aleksandr, this is Auden Berezin. She will be your translator.”

“I don’t need a translator.”

I almost laughed, because he’d said he didn’t need a translator in Russian.

“You must talk with the media at some point, Sasha. They’re riding my ass to get better answers from you than ‘was good game.’ ”

Aleksandr Varenkov, hot Russian hockey god, laughed, showing the perfect set of white teeth I’d noticed at the bar.

“You have your teeth in, but you haven’t even showered yet?” Orlenko asked.

Was Orlenko a mind reader? I sure hope not, because I would be fired for thinking about my client naked.

“I wanted to look good for pictures.” Aleksandr winked at me. Then he stood, and drops of sweat raced down the hard planes of his chest.

I’d never been so envious of perspiration in my life.

“Sometimes I talk in the shower. Will she translate for me in there?”

My cheeks began to burn, so I averted my eyes, lowering them to the black Cyrillic script tattooed down his sides, then thought better of that line of sight and studied the soiled beige carpet below my feet.

“Aleks—” Orlenko sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Zhenya,” Aleksandr began. “You know I’m kidding, yes?” He shoved a towel onto the shelf above his nameplate and walked away without waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Orlenko hissed. He’d said it under his breath, but I heard him and wondered what my grandpa had gotten me into. “Well, that was Aleksandr Varenkov, your client. He’s a talented player and a good man. But he can be a little—”

“Douchey?” I offered in English. I shouldn’t have said it, considering Grandpa’s professional reputation was in my hands. Then again, Evgeny Orlenko was Grandpa’s friend first, so maybe he wouldn’t be too hard on me. Besides, Grandpa knew what kind of mouth I had, and he’d sent me for the job anyway.

Orlenko laughed, and continued in Russian. “Wild was the word I was looking for, but your adjective may not be that far off.”

“I’ve got it, Mr. Orlenko.”

“Are you sure?” He inspected me through thick black-rimmed glasses that were too small for his puffy face.

“As a college student with an active social life, I’ve learned how to handle arrogant douche bags.” This time I was being paid to handle one.

“I shouldn’t be having this conversation about one of my clients,” Mr. Orlenko said, his lips quirking up, then back into a tight line. At least he was trying to keep a straight face. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, Audushka. I hope you stay that way even with his off-ice antics.”

Off-ice antics? What the hell did that mean and why would I have to deal with them? “Will I have to hang out with him outside of the arena? I thought I was here to translate for media interviews after games and some practices.”

“Aleksandr speaks very little English. He’ll need your assistance in all aspects of his career; interviews, community service. At least, until he gets acclimated. Vitya said you were here for the month, is that correct?”

“Yep. All of winter break.”

“You’ll be putting in a lot of hours.”

“I’m a hard worker. And I need the cash. Got cut from the soccer team, and I have to replace the scholarship money I lost.” I was running my mouth again. Maybe I did need to tone it down.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. The being-cut part.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s my card. I wrote my cell number on the back. If you have any trouble or if Aleksandr makes you uncomfortable in any way, please give me a call.”

“Thanks.” I scanned the card wondering if I should try to memorize his number now, since I wasn’t sure how stable this client sounded.

After Orlenko left the locker room, I realized I hadn’t asked him what I should do next, and he hadn’t given me instructions as to where I should wait while Aleksandr showered. Since I wasn’t part of the media, I was extremely aware of being the intruder standing in a room of half-naked men. A shower shouldn’t take very long, so I dug my e-reader out of my messenger bag and sat down on the stool that Aleksandr had just vacated.

“Ewww.” I jumped up and skimmed my palm against my damp backside. Hadn’t even thought about any runaway sweat that might’ve dripped from Aleksandr’s lean, hard body onto the stool.

Stop. Just stop thinking about the shiny, wet flesh covering his impeccably carved frame.

As I didn’t see a cleaner choice within reach, I pinched the funky-smelling towel Aleksandr had shoved into his locker with my thumb and index finger and removed it with caution. Then I batted at any remaining sweat drops on the seat, though I was sure my skirt had absorbed most of the moisture.

I’d always been under the impression that guys were fast at showering, but Aleksandr took forever. Forty-five minutes had passed according to the clock on my tablet. I couldn’t help but scan the room a few times, catching odd looks from some of the guys. I ignored their questioning eyes and kept my head down.

When Aleksandr finally came out, an hour and a half later, the locker room had cleared significantly.

“Couldn’t find your lipstick?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” Aleksandr readjusted the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, in a gray, high-neck military-style peacoat; a crisp, white button-down; and dark blue jeans.

Though I’d asked my original question in Russian, I clarified with my next sentence. “You took so long. I thought you were putting on your face.”

“Funny,” he said without a smile. “I always ride the bike after the game.” He reached over me and shoved something onto the shelf above my head. “What are you doing?”

“Reading.” I held up my e-reader as proof.

“At my stall?”

“Well, neither you nor Mr. Orlenko told me where to go, so I waited for you. Right here, where you both left me.”

This time Aleksandr laughed. “I’m glad Zhenya got me a devoted translator.”

“So, what now? Looks like all the media is gone. Should I come back tomorrow?”

“No. Now, we get to know each other.”

“Do we have to?” I knew all I needed to about the jerk who left me sitting in this smelly locker room for over an hour while he “rode the bike” and showered. Like I was supposed to know he rode the bike after games.

Aleksandr cocked his head, the skin around his eyes wrinkling like he wasn’t sure if he believed I’d said no. He must’ve been used to women falling all over him. Well, I’d met a hundred like him, and though he was the best looking, I’d never give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’d affected me.

“Yes, we have to.” He turned, taking long strides toward the door. I followed, since there was only one way out of the locker room. I could bolt when we got to the arena doors.

Aleksandr didn’t speak as we navigated our way down the concrete hallways. He pushed open the same doors I had come through earlier that day and started descending the stairs. I continued to follow him.

“Do you park out here, too?” I asked. I thought players would have a secret parking lot, or at least gated. Sure, most of them just made a decent wage, but a few of the guys had NHL contracts, and the paycheck that accompanies it.

“I’m walking you to your car,” Aleksandr said without turning to look at me.

“Oh, well, thanks,” I stammered. An arrogant douche bag who walked women to their cars. In the middle of the day. Never had one of those, but I could roll with it.

Since he didn’t know where I’d parked, I hurried to match his long strides, which was a bit difficult in my skirt. Once we arrived at my old black Taurus, he stood by the passenger side with his hand on the dull, silver handle. He shook it up and down a few times as he stared at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Waiting for you to unlock the door so I can get in.”

I pressed the button on my key fob twice, and the doors unlocked. “Do you need me to drive you to your car?”

“No. I need you to drive me home.” He set his bag on the floor before sliding in to the passenger seat.

I paused before getting in, counting to ten in my head. The nerve of this guy. Leaving me at his locker. Making me drive him home.

“I wasn’t aware chauffeur was part of the job,” I said, slamming my door shut.

“Your eyebrows are almost one.” Aleksandr pointed to my forehead.

I rubbed the skin above my nose. Couldn’t be. I’d had them waxed last week.

“You were so mad, they were like one line.” He wiggled his index finger in front of my eyes.

“I’m not mad,” I snapped. I knew I didn’t have a unibrow. And why would I care if I did? I didn’t need to impress him. One month and this assignment would be over. “Where to?” I asked as I turned the key in the ignition and the radio came on.

“Coney Island on Seven Mile and Mack.” He sat up straighter, digging into the inside front pocket of his coat and pulling out his cell phone. As he leaned over to turn down the volume on my radio with one hand, he swiped his thumb over the front of his phone.

“You live at the Coney Island on Seven Mile and Mack?”

Aleksandr caught my eyes, shaking his head as if my question had been serious. “I’m hungry.”

I was a bit perturbed that I wasn’t taking him straight home, but if the man had to eat, I was glad he chose Coney Island. It was my favorite place.

As I navigated Mack Avenue toward our destination, Aleksandr made a phone call. While I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I did hear most of the conversation. He was telling the person on the other end about last night’s game, where he’d had two assists, but “Couldn’t get the fucking rubber between the motherfucking pipes.” When I heard “Not as annoying as the last bunny,” I cranked the volume on the radio. He looked at me with one raised eyebrow.

Sorry, I mouthed but didn’t turn the radio down. I wasn’t trying to be rude. Cranking the volume for an Arctic Monkeys song was mandatory.

Once we arrived at Coney Island, my annoyance grew as I circled around the block, unable to find a parking spot on the street in front of the restaurant or in the dedicated lot around back.

“Park there.” Aleksandr reached across me, his arm brushing against my chest as he pointed out the driver’s side window.

Ignoring the unsettling contact, I slammed on the brake and the car screeched to a halt. When I looked out the window, the only parking spot I saw was between two other cars.

“Yeah, right. I can’t parallel park,” I said, glancing over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming up behind me before I pulled back into traffic.

“Stop!” he commanded. I stomped on the brake pedal again, sending us both jerking forward.

“I’ll do it.” Aleksandr threw his door open and walked around to my side. I didn’t move, keeping my hands on the wheel, foot on the brake.

“Are you kidding me? Get back in the car,” I pleaded.

“Move over,” he ordered, scooting into the driver’s seat. I had no choice but to throw the car into park and climb over the console to the passenger side.

Aleksandr reached underneath the seat, fumbling with the lever that slid the seat back. Then he maneuvered my car into a tight space between a Sebring and a Tahoe. Welcome to Detroit: Home of the Big Three. Despite being put off by his tactics, I was impressed with his skills. I hadn’t parallel parked since my driving test.

Aleksandr jumped out of the car and came around to my side to open the door.

“Thanks,” I said as I climbed out.

“Didn’t want to park in the next city. I’m hungry.” Aleksandr slammed the door.

I grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at me. “Is this how it’s gonna be for a month? Pissy with me because I didn’t fall for your stupid-ass pickup line at the bar?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart,” Aleksandr said in perfect but heavily accented English. “I could have a puck bunny every night of the week.”

I released his arm like it was covered in thorns, looking around to see if anyone else heard the stream of perfect English coming out of his mouth. “Excuse me?”

“I said, don’t flatter—”

“You speak English?” My squeaky pitch sounded accusatory rather than questioning.

“I do. And you are the only person who knows that.”

“Why?”

He walked away as if that was the end of the conversation. I hurried after him, pulling open the heavy glass door he hadn’t bothered to hold for me. Guess he lost his manners when he got pissed off.

I scanned the restaurant as I slid into the tattered, green vinyl booth across from Aleksandr. Instead of wallpaper or paint, mirrored tiles covered the wall behind the booths.

Neither Aleksandr nor I picked up a menu. I raised an eyebrow. “No menu?”

“Menu? Who needs a menu here?”

I chuckled because he was right. The art of ordering a Coney Dog is well known to Detroiters—one (or two or five) with everything, says it all. Everything meant chili, mustard, and onions, the makeup of the classic Coney.

When our server stopped at our booth, Aleksandr asked me to order him three with everything. Just one for me. We both got fries.

“I take it you’ve been here before?” I asked, pulling a napkin from the holder on the table.

“It’s my favorite.” Aleksandr slid out of the booth. “Be right back.”

“Okaaay.”

He walked to the back of the restaurant, down the hallway toward the bathrooms and the back door. I scanned the menu until he came back, despite already knowing my order. When he slid back in the booth, the scent of cloves comforted me.

I leaned over the table and inhaled the air around him. I couldn’t hold back my smile. Definitely cloves.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“I like the smell of cloves. Reminds me of my grandma.”

“That’s exactly what every man wants a woman to say after inhaling him.” He winked.

I fumbled with my necklace, then dropped it realizing he might take it as a coy sign that his charm affected me. It did affect me, but I wouldn’t let him know that.

“Tell me about you.”

“What you see is what you get. Blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian translator to the stars.”

“Start with the Russian-translator part. How did that happen?” Aleksandr inquired, looking me straight in the eye.

I stared back, swept out to sea by the tiny matching oceans above his cheekbones.

“Auden?” he asked, waving a hand in front of my face.

“Sorry,” I said, blinking a few times as I came back to shore. Nice work, Auden. Because staring into his gorgeous blue eyes is a convincing way to let him know you aren’t seduced by his looks. “What was the question?”

“You left me.” Aleksandr raised his hand to touch his temple then swept it across the air as if saluting goodbye to my brain. How did he know me so well already?

“I do that sometimes,” I said, spinning my index finger around one of my ears. “Always turning.” Really? I asked myself. Did you really just describe yourself with the universal sign for crazy within the first two minutes?

“How. Did you. Become. A Russian translator?”

I let out a breath, happy he didn’t seem to recognize the sign. I refrained from my first instinct to tell him that he was an ass, which seemed like a good idea since he’d let the crazy thing go.

“My grandpa has been teaching me since I was a kid. He was born just outside of Moscow, so it’s all his parents spoke. He taught Russian Language and Literature classes at Michigan University for, like, forty years,” I explained, as Aleksandr checked out my chest. “Being a translator is a side job, hobby-type thing for him. But it keeps him busy in retirement. I help him translate documents sometimes. This is the first time he’s assigned me to a client. Hey! Eyes up here.” I waved my hand in front of my cleavage and pointed to my face.

“I was looking at your necklace,” he said, raising his eyes to mine and flashing me his sexy smirk.

I put my hand to my neck, fingering the gold chain and charm that belonged to my mother. It’s a delicate owl with two tiny amber stones for eyes. I caught myself drawing his attention back to my chest, so I changed the subject. “Speaking of languages, if you know English, why am I here?”

Aleksandr pushed back against the booth and stretched his arms above his head. “The media wants us to give interviews on the bench. They want us to mike up during the game. Then we curse or chirp, and they blast us in the papers or on TV. What do they expect to hear in the middle of a game?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “When Frank started standing between the benches, it became my least favorite thing in the history of hockey broadcasting.”

Frank LaRue, a former hockey coach who now worked as a TV analyst, broadcasted from between the two teams’ benches during hockey games. During the games! It annoyed me. Players and coaches were paid to worry about the game. They could answer questions after the game.

“Yes.” Aleksandr chuckled. “How are we supposed to think politically correct when we’re in the heat of battle?”

When Aleksandr’s smile was genuine, his bottom lip dipped ever so slightly on the left side, like a kink in a hose. It didn’t dip when he flashed his teasing smirk. The no-holds-barred dip-lip smile was a million times hotter than the sexy smirks. But before I slipped up and told him he had a great smile, I managed to catch myself. Didn’t want to give him the impression I was interested.

“I get it,” I told him in English. Technically, I did. But he needed to suck it up because talking to the media was part of the job.

“Russian,” he corrected. “Always Russian between the two of us.”

I nodded to confirm his request. “So tell me more about hockey. How’d you get so good?”

“How do you know I’m good?” he asked.

“I Googled you while I waited for you to shower,” I admitted. “Seems you’re one of the Pilots’ best players. Spill your secrets.” It was the truth, not just me trying to stroke his ego.

“Years of practice.” He reached over his shoulder and knocked three times on top of our booth’s wooden frame. “I joined the Red Army youth program when I was six. Since then it’s been all hockey all the time. It’s an intense program. Very strict. Very disciplined.”

When our waitress interrupted our conversation by sliding plates in front of us, I was thankful for the break from Aleksandr’s voice. I’d always loved the Russian language, but I’d never been turned on by hearing it. A manual on how to install a garbage disposal would sound hot coming from Aleksandr’s deep, guttural voice.

The glorious aroma of the Coney dogs and fries on the table transitioned my brain from one sensory stupor to another. I’d have to keep up my workouts if I was going to eat more Coney dogs during winter break. Soccer had given me the freedom to eat whatever I wanted.

Our waitress was attractive. Smooth olive skin, pink lips, big brown eyes, and a long, brown ponytail. I lifted my eyes, positive that Aleksandr’s sexy smile would be on full display. It wasn’t.

“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

“Nyet,” he answered, his eyes planted on me.

“No, thanks.” I pulled my plate closer, grabbing the ketchup. “That’s a hard-core schedule,” I said, revisiting our conversation before the waitress’s interruption.

“Very,” he agreed.

“Do you have any family here?”

“No, everybody’s back in Russia. Aunts and uncles, cousins. Some of the older guys here let me hang with their families if I’m feeling homesick.”

“If you ever want to hang out with an old Russian guy, come on over to my house.” I just invited him to my house. Where the hell had that sudden hospitality come from?

“First I smell like your grandmother, now you want to set me up with your grandfather. You flatter me.” Aleksandr put a hand to his heart, then glanced down at his watch and flinched as if he’d just remembered time existed. “Shit, I need to hurry.”

“It’s always time to go when girls start trying to set you up with their grandfathers.” I grinned. Banter was so easy with him. Too bad he was a client. And a jerk.

We finished our lunches in record time, which was fine with me, because once you start eating a Coney, you have to finish fast. Cold chili dogs don’t taste good.

Aleksandr snatched the bill off the table and stood. I slid out of the booth and grabbed my bag, surprised at my reluctance to leave.

When I opened my purse to get money to pay for my meal, Aleksandr clasped his hand over mine. I pulled my hand away so fast, you’d think he’d slapped me. Instead of reacting, he dropped a five on the table then walked to the cash register. He grabbed two red-and-white mints from the bowl on the counter, handing me one and untwisting the wrapper on the other before popping it into his mouth.

We stepped outside, and I pretzeled my arms across my chest, bracing myself from the brisk air whipping around us. I jumped when Aleksandr swept his arm across my back, cradling me to his side as we hurried to my car. It was totally inappropriate, but I appreciated the extra warmth so I kept my mouth closed.

We scrambled into my car to escape the chill. I handed my keys to Aleksandr, because I’d never be able to get out of the parking spot he’d chosen. He paused before he turned the key. The hesitation was so slight that I can’t explain why I noticed. When the engine purred to life, he switched on the heat. Then he sat, not moving for a moment, letting the rush of frigid air blast his face.

At first I thought he might be waiting for the air to warm up. When he was still sitting there a few minutes later, I thought he was contemplating how to get out of the parking space. That thought made me laugh. Out loud.

“What?” he asked.

“Can’t get out of this spot, can you?”

“You think I’m waiting because I can’t move the car?” he asked, amusement sparkling in his eyes.

I shrugged. “Why else would you be waiting?”

Aleksandr leaned in, placed a hand on each of my cheeks, and pulled my mouth toward his.

What the…

“Dude, get off!” I pushed him back, avoiding the lip collision. “I’m not one of your bunnies.”

Standing my ground was important, even though his voice alone made me want to lift my skirt and straddle him. But that was not an option. If I’d have touched the Mohawk, I’d have been done for.

“You aren’t a bunny. I don’t buy bunnies lunch.” He smirked. “Breakfast maybe.”

I’m not a violent person, but I felt an overwhelming urge to smack that smirk off his face. “That’s the other reason nothing’s going to happen. You’re an ass.”

“I’m joking, Auden.”

“Yeah, right. I’m on to you, Varenkov.”

“I wish,” he mumbled as he checked the mirrors for traffic, flicked on the turn signal, and pulled onto the road.

“Where do you live?” I asked, ignoring the comment. I’d be smart to ignore his comments for the rest of this assignment.

“Landon and I share a condo in the Westin Book Cadillac.”

“Excuse me?” My chest tightened.

“The Westin Book Cadillac.”

“You live downtown—where we just came from—in the building around the corner from the best Coney Island in the city, yet I drove us all the way up here for lunch?”

“I go to Lafayette most of the time, but I knew it would be busy now. This National is the next best place.” He shrugged as if he didn’t notice the smoke coming out of my ears.

Though I was seething, he had a point. A very good point.

I took a deep breath and let it out audibly. I refused to think about the fact that, despite his time crunch, he lengthened the time we spent together on purpose. I needed to keep the flare of anger toward him. Otherwise I might soften, and fall for his atypical hair, Adonis body, and adorable personality. “Fine.”

We drove in silence, which allowed me to calm down about that issue while getting worked up about another as I gazed out the window.

Detroit had been deteriorating since before I was born, it was all I had ever known, and I had never noticed it through a visitor’s eye. As a proud local, heart wrenching were the only words I could think of to describe the ride down Mack Avenue to downtown. Despite driving for miles, the view barely changed. Businesses that had once thrived were razed to piles of rubble. The few churches or liquor stores still standing had large areas of paint chipping off the sides, or they had been sprayed with gang graffiti. The buildings that weren’t completely gone were boarded up, hollowed-out shells of their former glory. Stolen doors and windows allowed an unobstructed view of the inside, where oftentimes remains lay singed from burned-out fires.

Maybe that was a candid description of the city itself: a once-blazing fire that had long ago burned out. I hoped to see the day that the majority of the city was revitalized, not just certain downtown areas. But change has to start somewhere, and I appreciated the people using their own funds to revive my home.

“Are you with the hippie guy from the bar?” Aleksandr asked, breaking the silence and my train of thought.

“Um, no.” I tore my eyes away from the unmanaged weeds growing up from the jagged sidewalks that went on for miles.

“You and your friends sat at that table right up front near him.” His eyes found mine as if gauging my reaction. “Why did you talk to him so long?”

“He wants me to sing in his band.” A laugh escaped as I studied my French-manicured fingernails. “Which is ridiculous.”

“You have a great voice. You should do it.”

I ignored his compliment and unsolicited advice. “I’m not seeing anyone right now. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Just checking out the competition.”

“You have no competition because you aren’t in the running. We have to work together. We can’t be involved. Simple as that.”

It was true, but it wasn’t my only reason for rejecting him.

“Nothing is ever simple, Auden.”

Judging by the I-just-scored gleam in Aleksandr’s eyes, he thought he’d won the argument. Part of me expected to see the familiar flashes of red across his face from the light behind the goal at Robinson Arena that blinks and spins after someone scores in a hockey game.

Aleksandr didn’t realize who he was hitting on, because no matter how attracted we were to each other, I’d never give him a chance. An entirely different flashing red light ran through my mind when I looked at him. The kind that’s accompanied by a deafening buzz alerting people to evacuate in an emergency. And the way my stomach bubbled with excitement every time I was around him was reason enough for my emotions to make an emergency evacuation. Having been abandoned by both parents before age seven, the last person I needed to get involved with was a professional athlete whose job required him to leave.

Sad, but simple.