“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.