Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel (8 page)

“You’re going to get back at me by kicking my ass out there, aren’t you?” He nodded to the field.

“Scared?” I asked. I can’t be sure, but I think I puffed out my chest—chimpanzee-challenge style.

“Stand down, Berezin.” Aleksandr held his palms up in front of his chest. “I deserve whatever you give me.”

“It’s all in good fun,
Sasha,
” I said, rocketing the ball at him. He jumped, and the ball bounced off his broad chest and onto the ground near his feet.

I’d be using the Russian diminutive of his name in public from now on. If anyone noticed that
Audushka,
the diminutive he’d created from my name, sounded like a feminine care product, they could tease him because his sounded like a girl’s name.

Aleksandr kicked the ball. I followed it as it sailed over my head and dropped in front of Drew.

“Game on!” Drew yelled. He gave Aleksandr an evil-eye assessment. It reminded me of an overprotective father meeting his daughter’s date for the first time, just before telling the poor kid he had a shotgun.

“That’s English for,
I’m about to kick your ass out there,
” I said to Aleksandr, then turned my back and darted to the other side of the field.

I wondered if any of the guys knew he understood English. Not that it mattered. They probably just figured that even a foreigner could pick up curse words and soccer slang.

“Good luck!” Aleksandr called to my retreating figure.

“I’m not the one who’ll need it,” I sang over my shoulder. Confidence was so easy on the soccer field. Out here, I ignored the ridiculous way my heart pounded around him.

The group divided into teams in a quick, militaristic manner. I would be playing opposite both Aleksandr and Drew. In any other situation in my life, I would’ve been timid and nervous about not having a friend on my team, but this was soccer. On the field, I stepped out of my body and ignored my hypervigilant, overanalytical mind. On the field, I talked trash and kicked ass. If Aleksandr thought he could beat me at my own game, he’d better think again.

It was an intense and fast-paced match. I played center midfield for the first half, setting up one goal and scoring another. I’d railed through the defense without having to throw any elbows, as I’d expected. This group played no-referee soccer. No red or yellow penalty cards. The boys never took it easy on me, which I learned the hard way the first time I’d played with them and left the field with a set of bruised ribs. The injury taught me to defend myself better and I learned a few dirty tricks.

In the second half of the game, I moved back to play defense. Despite both of my team’s goals in the first half, Aleksandr’s team had scored three against mine. The score held at 3–2 through most of the second half. We didn’t have a time keeper, so the game would end when both teams decided we’d played long enough. And my teammates weren’t finished yet.

Jason, the dirty blond that Aleksandr had called my twin, had taken my place at center mid. He booted the ball up the field to catch one of our forwards on the fly. Drew sprinted between the forwards, intercepting the pass, and soon he was in our zone, dribbling the ball down the field with a burst of speed and intensity. He passed the ball to a teammate on his left without even a side glance. The ball went out-of-bounds off the foot of our defender.

As I walked backward toward the goal, I noticed Aleksandr was my man to cover. We jostled for position as his teammate got ready to throw the ball inbounds. If I did nothing else the rest of the game, I would not let Aleksandr beat me. It didn’t look as if Aleksandr would let me win either. Fair enough.

When the ball came sailing inbounds, both Aleksandr and I jumped up to head it. I planted my hands on his shoulders, hoisting myself higher since my five-foot-four frame couldn’t beat a six-foot-tall man to the ball. After smacking the ball away with a brutal flick of my head, it sailed up the field and into the possession of one of my teammates. He was gone with a breakaway.

“That was bullshit,” Aleksandr said between labored breaths, as we jogged together up the field.

“All’s fair in love and war.”

“Which one is this?” he asked, lips tilting upward.

“War,” I growled, watching the play develop at the other end of the field.

“I disagree.” Aleksandr raced up the field, leaving me in the dust. Literally. He’d kicked up so much dry dirt as he sprinted, I felt like Pig-Pen.

My teammate missed the breakaway, at which point many of the guys started calling for the end of the game. Aleksandr and I walked to the side of the field together. I took a long swig out of my water bottle and offered it to him. Drew and a few other guys came over as well, teasing and congratulating one another. A few guys slapped me on the back or rustled my hair, welcoming me back and telling me they missed me.

It was irritating how little they cared about messing up my ponytail. I patted my hair down as if my palms held magical smoothing powers.

“Are you getting a ride home with your friend?” Aleksandr asked.

“Yep.” I pulled on my warm-up pants.

“Hang out with me. I’ll drive you home.” Aleksandr dragged a tattered gray hooded sweatshirt over his head. On the upper-left chest, there was a small red flag with a yellow hammer and sickle below a star in the left corner.

“You know the Soviet Union is no longer, right?” I joked, rubbing the goose bumps on my arms beneath my warm-up jacket.

He looked down at his chest and laughed. “It was my father’s.”

“Daddy-o still stuck in the Soviet era?”

“No. He’s dead.”

“Oh my gosh, Sasha, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make fun of it.” The silly smile slipped from my lips—it had to, so my foot would fit in.

“It’s okay.” He grabbed both of my hands and tugged me to my feet. “It’s the most comfortable sweatshirt and it makes me think of Papa.”

“I understand,” I said. “I have an old softball shirt of my mom’s. The fabric is so thin, you can see straight through it now, but I love it.”

“Can you wear it to the next game?” The skin around Aleksandr’s eyes wrinkled with his smile.

“With anyone else I would be totally embarrassed right now,” I admitted. My brain jotted a mental note to wear the shirt next time I’d be around Aleksandr outside of the arena. Then I mentally smacked my brain upside the head.

“But not with me? Why not?”

“I’m used to your sense of humor.”

“Are you sure that’s it? Maybe you just want to parade around me in a skimpy top.”

His teasing, but true, comment struck a major embarrassment geyser, because I felt a burst of fire to my face. Drew interrupted our conversation before I mustered a weak verbal protest that Aleksandr would have never believed.

“Ready, Aud?” Drew asked. He jumped up and down to keep warm, and just looking at him in his sweat-soaked gray T-shirt and blue soccer shorts sent shivers through my warm, covered limbs.

I knew I should catch a ride with him, because staying with Aleksandr would get me into trouble.

“I’m gonna hang with Aleksandr,” I said. “He’ll give me a ride home.”

“Auden?” Drew’s voice lifted, scolding me like I was a child.

I shooed him away with a wave of my hand.

“Fine.” Drew shook his head and knocked into Aleksandr’s shoulder as he blew past him.

“Should I let that go?” Then, without waiting for an answer, Aleksandr nodded to himself. “Yes, I’m just gonna let that go.” He watched Drew jump into his Explorer and slam the door.

“I have protective friends,” I said as if that was an explanation for Drew’s rude behavior.

“He’s just a friend?”

“So, you guys won last night.” I ignored his question.

Aleksandr chuckled. “How did you know?”

“Read it in the paper.”

“I like that you keep track of me when I’m on the road.”

“All part of the job,” I assured him.

We traded the grass of the soccer field for a wood-chip-covered playground. A tall metal slide loomed in front of us. A swing set with six black U-shaped seats swaying in the wind sat empty a few feet away from the slide. I dropped my duffel bag on the dirt and claimed one of swings. I took a few steps backward to push myself off, but I didn’t get a good start. Strong hands on my back propelled me forward. Aleksandr gave me a few more pushes so I could get moving.

Sailing through the air with the wind against my face was magical. No matter how long I lived and how jaded I became, I hoped I could always appreciate a good swing. Forcing myself higher and higher by using the pumping power of my own legs was liberating.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you the other night. I thought I was being funny.” Aleksandr’s voice interrupted my childlike euphoria.

“It’s fine.” I dragged a foot in the wood chips to slow me down. “I blew it out of proportion. Sorry for yelling at you in front of your team.”

“I deserved it.”

“No you didn’t. What I did was totally unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional, of course,” he said, a wry smile on his lips.

“This is the first time I’ve ever gotten to work with a real person. Grandpa always had me translating documents before. I just want to prove I’m good enough.”

“Good enough? You speak Russian better than Gribov.” Aleksandr laughed.

“Don’t even talk about that guy.” I shuddered at the memory of Aleksandr’s teammate’s toothless sneer and rude gesture.

“A woman who doesn’t want to talk about Pavel Gribov? Can’t wait to tell him.”

“He was mean to me for no reason. I don’t even know what I did to piss him off.”

“Maybe because you don’t stare at him in the locker room. Most women want to see Gribov naked. He gets fan mail about it.”

“I don’t stare at anyone.” I didn’t want him to think I was a perv.

“Not true.”

“Who, I—” I started, but realized he was talking about himself and chuckled. “When he has his teeth in, Gribov is hot. But I know some hot guys who aren’t nice people. Now all I see is the ugly. It works the opposite way, too.”

“Which one am I?”

“Attractive. Inside and out.” I couldn’t lie to him.

“Whoa!” Aleksandr sat up straight on his swing. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“Yeah, but I still have to figure out how to get back at you,” I teased.

“Wasn’t wearing that black dress punishment enough? I need to keep my pants on when you’re around.”

Just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, I dropped my eyes to his legs, which were covered in a pair of gray fleece warm-up pants.

“My hockey pants, I meant. I’m not usually excited by things in the locker room, you know? And my hockey pants keep, uh, things hidden.” He must’ve noticed my eyes widen after his unconventional compliment, because he kept talking. “Did you ever audition with that band?”

A flustered subject change from the cocky jock. Any other time, I’d take that as a win, but knowing I’d gotten him hot and bothered in the locker room was having a similar effect on me right now.

“I did. And I made it.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Thanks.” I took a deep breath and caught his eyes. It was my turn to apologize. “I’m sorry I made fun of your sweatshirt. I didn’t know about your dad.”

“No worries, Audushka. How could you know?” He smiled, but his eyes lost their shine. “What about you? What happened to
your
parents?”

“What about them?” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. Talking to guys about my parents was unchartered territory. I’d never felt comfortable enough with anyone I’d dated to tell them that my grandparents raised me. Hell, I’d never dated anyone long enough for that conversation to come up.

“You live with your grandparents and you said something earlier about having an old shirt of your mom’s. ‘Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in their own way.’ ”

“Could you be any more stereotypically Russian? Quoting Tolstoy, drinking vodka, playing hockey.”

He laughed. “Don’t be jealous because Americans can’t quote great literature like Russians can.”

“My dad ditched me before I was born and my mom was killed in a robbery when I was six,” I blurted. Dropping the traumatic bomb of my childhood would push him off his high horse and get him off my tail. Except, I wasn’t sure that’s what I wanted.

“Shit! I’m sorry, Audushka.” Aleksandr’s expression softened.

I was used to the look his face held: a crease between his eyebrows, droopy puppy-dog eyes, lips in a solemn line. I hated pity.

“Don’t worry about it.” I shrugged. “It’s been a long time.”

“Did they find the person who killed her?” Aleksandr asked.

I locked eyes with Aleksandr. You’d think the question would be routine, but it wasn’t. Most of my friends would shut up and change the subject when I talked about my mom’s death. After years of fielding the “Why do you live with your grandparents?” question, I usually felt so desensitized when I told the story that most conversations sounded as if I was reciting a rehearsed script.

“I don’t think so. I doubt anyone is even working on it anymore.” Murders were a dime a dozen in Detroit. My mom’s was a freezing cold case by now.

“Never having any justice, any closure, has to be frustrating for you.”

“I used to believe that the police would find her killer and my life would go back to normal, but that’s not how it works. The damage has been done.” I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment. “I have to live with a bad decision someone else made and hope karma really does exist.” An empty, bitter, and completely inappropriate laugh escaped my lips.

“My parents were killed,” Aleksandr murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of my eyes and tuck it behind my ear. “I wish I could believe some force in the world will provide justice.”

“They were?” I bolted upright, backing out of his reach. “I’m, geez, I’m so sorry.”

“It was a car accident,” he clarified. “The traffic in Moscow is bad, um, heavy, yes? They were taking back roads trying to get somewhere faster. A bus turned onto the side street they’d taken and hit them head-on. They had no chance.”

I didn’t know what to say, since I’d never been around another person who’d lost both of their parents in such a tragic way. So I followed his lead. “You didn’t get closure either. You never got to say goodbye.”