Sad, but simple.

Chapter 4

I’ve had crushes on guys before. I obsessed over my best friend, Drew Bertucci, throughout high school. Since he was the first boy to pay me any attention, my warped mind assumed he liked me as well. When Drew made it clear that I was more like a sister to him, it crushed me (pun intended).

After my first real-life crush didn’t work out, I resumed my infatuation with fictional characters and unattainable men. It was easier knowing that I had zero chance from day one.

That’s how I was brushing off the tingles coursing under my skin that Aleksandr Varenkov had caused. A little crush. A silly infatuation with an untouchable man.

The only problem was that this wasn’t an untouchable man on a TV screen or over the radio waves. This was a man with whom I had to interact almost every day. A man who’d just flicked the puck into the opposing team’s goal and was being mobbed by his teammates against the glass in front of me. A man who, as he broke free from the group, pounded on the glass, pointed his thick glove at me, and flashed me a radiant, though semi-toothless, smile.

Aleksandr was an untouchable man I wanted to touch so badly.

I was convinced that Evgeny Orlenko could see my shaking hands and hear my racing heart, so I straightened in my seat and watched Aleksandr skate to the bench as I would any other player on the ice. Though I tried to keep an aloof appearance, I knew the flush of color spreading across my pale cheeks gave me away.

Call it paranoia, but every time Orlenko looked my way I squirmed in my seat, feeling scrutinized by his judging eyes. Of course I paid close attention to Aleksandr. As his translator, I had to be ready for the question-and-answer session with the media afterward. Technically, the job required me to translate Aleksandr’s words, and that’s it. But I was going the extra mile, digging into this assignment to get it right. At least that’s how I justified keeping my eyes on him.

Who wouldn’t want to watch Aleksandr Varenkov’s deft body sail across the ice and label it “research”?

“Do you go to all of Aleksandr’s games?” I asked Orlenko, diverting my eyes from Aleksandr’s limber leg stretching to climb over the boards.

“No. I need to talk to him about some community projects after he showers. Then I’m back on the road. I have a client in Vancouver to touch base with.” He patted his chest a few times before pulling his cell phone out of the inside pocket of his navy blue suit jacket.

Come on, Orlenko, don’t talk about him showering, I thought. As a lifelong hockey-player appreciator, my brief encounters with a semi-dressed Aleksandr already had my below-the-belly-button areas buzzing like bees on speed. Thinking about him showering could push me over the edge. Or into his arms.

I glanced at Aleksandr, who was sitting on the bench talking to the guy on his left. His shoulders rose and fell and sweat trickled down his nose. He leaned over and banged his gloved hand against the boards. Just watching him made my breathing increase and my stomach tighten.

I was in way over my head, if watching him sit on a bench and breathe made my heart rate soar.

Out of all the types of Russian men that Grandpa could have assigned me to, why did it have to be a hockey player? Must remember to keep the emphasis on the player part.

Despite my prayers to no one in particular, time flew by so fast that it felt like someone was tapping my personal hourglass. When the scoreboard clock glowed with orange zeros, the Pilots had won 5–2. Aleksandr had scored two more goals in the game, acknowledging me after each. I’d wanted to crawl under the stiff blue stadium seat and blow him kisses at the same time.

—

After the game, I headed down to the locker room, happy to have Orlenko there for moral support. Aleksandr wouldn’t flirt relentlessly if his agent was there.

When we reached Aleksandr, my knees almost buckled. He’d stripped off his jersey, pads, and the blue shirt he wore underneath all that. He’d also removed his hockey pants, socks and skates, and the pads from the lower half of his body. He sat at his locker in nothing but sweat-soaked, black compression shorts clinging to his thick thighs.

Was he trying to get a rise out of me? Gauging how much sex-charged flirtation I could take? When I stopped in front of him and caught his eyes, however, I saw exhaustion.

It wasn’t about me. He’d just finished a game. I had to stop the obsessive thoughts and do the job I was here to do: Translate for a hot Russian hockey god.

“Zhenya. Auden.” He nodded at each of us before wiping his face with a thin, white towel.

“Great game, Sasha. I need to talk to you about community service before I leave for the airport. I’ll check back in an hour.” Orlenko stopped to shake hands with the guy standing at the locker to Aleksandr’s right, whom I recognized as Landon Taylor, one of the Pilots defensemen, before leaving the locker room.

“You ready for this?” Aleksandr asked, nodding his head toward the reporters flooding the locker room.

“Yep.” I threw my shoulders back and took my place next to him.

When six reporters fired off questions at once, my eyes darted from face to face, unsure of whose question I should translate first. Aleksandr nudged my arm, then pointed to a short, stocky white-haired man with circular wire-framed glasses. I exhaled a breath of relief, thankful that my client was in a helpful, rather than a snarky, mood.

“You had three goals tonight. Did you feel like you had to take control to make something happen out there?”

I translated and waited for Aleksandr to respond.

“Those glasses should have gone to the grave with that guy from the Beatles,” he said in Russian, biceps flexing as he squeezed both ends of the towel hanging around his neck.

With my gaze locked on his arms, I started translating his words without thinking, then suddenly stopped, stunned into silence when I processed what he’d said.

How could he do that to me?

I pressed my lips together, racking my brain for something generic and cliché; aka, PR acceptable.

“Everyone is doing what they can to help the team win. You want to do well because you want the team to do well,” I said, recovering well. Very well.

Aleksandr moved a hand to his mouth and coughed into his fist. The bastard was hiding a laugh.

I wanted to kick him. In the junk.

Instead, I pointed to the next reporter myself, trying to establish some sort of control. I could identify people only by their heads, since I couldn’t see their bodies in the crowd. This guy had a brown comb-over and floppy ears. I focused on the question, preparing myself in case my jackass client didn’t know when to stop his little game.

“You seemed a bit frustrated with Penner’s goal in the second. Looked like you wanted the ref to make a call.”

“You have the nicest ass I have ever seen in my life,” Aleksandr responded to my translated question, his gaze on a body part much lower than my eyes.

I glared at him before responding to the reporter. “It was a nice goal. The ref was right there. If there was a call, he would’ve made it.”

I’d never been so relieved I’d paid attention to a hockey game and was well-versed in the sport.

An older blonde woman with way too many buttons undone on her blouse to be interviewing in a locker room full of men raised her hand, and I pointed to her.

“How did you feel about having Gribov switched to your line?” she asked.

Instead of translating, I said, “Answer the fucking question or I will kick you in the balls. Then you’ll have no way to fuck her or anyone else tonight.”

When I looked up, I caught his Russian line mate, Pavel Gribov, watching me. The scowl and shake of his sweaty head gave me all the validation I needed. But I’m sure he was in on these stupid shenanigans, so I ignored him.