face. The server who brought him vanishes into the background. I start to stand up to greet him, then freeze, unsure what to do. Hug him? Kiss him? Shake his hand?
Fortunately, he decides for me, and cups my face in both his hands. “You look incredible. Velvety as the night.”
My face burns bright red. He leans in and kisses me on the tip of my freckled nose, then releases me, and starts peeling out of his disguise. Underneath the hoodie, he’s dressed incredibly—a tight button-down shirt and those jeans that drape against his muscular legs just so. I catch myself straining to view his backside and slump back onto the bench with an embarrassed grin.
Sergei sits down beside me, so we’re both facing out into the Washington night sky. “Sorry for the big production. I had a feeling you’d know, though, what name to give.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t ask for Lermontov.” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. Oh. My. I’d forgotten about the ridges of muscle on those ribs. I feel my skin burning all over again. “Have the tabloids been that relentless?”
“Like you wouldn’t even believe.” He groans. “First they wouldn’t stop asking me about what happened to my lip, then, after I punched that Winnipeg guy, they can’t talk about anything else.”
“Well, it was a magnificent punch, worthy of a Dostoevsky novel.” I grin. “Did he seriously call Wright the n-word?”
“It happens all the time on the ice. Guys will say anything to get inside your head. You don’t want to know what they say about me.” Sergei shrugs, though his smile has faded. “That’s why I don’t like to let them see the real me. Because then, no matter what they say, it’s like it’s not even really me they’re attacking. It’s someone else entirely.”
In spite of myself, I’m reaching for his face, brushing my fingers against his still-swollen lower lip. I’d heard what he said in the interview—that he got injured in practice. Yet he hadn’t explained it any further than that. None of his teammates had said a word about it. Sergei’s eyes lid as I touch his lip, and his breath gusts over my fingertips as he exhales, slow.
“What really happened?” I ask. I try to keep the question light, but I can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with his brother.
Sergei sighs, and closes a hand around mine. He kisses my fingertips, sending a thrill through my arm, then lowers both our hands to my lap. “I can’t lie to you, Jael.”
My shoulders tense. This is it. Part of me hopes desperately he’s speaking loudly enough for my phone to record it, but the rest of me? It wants to keep this moment for myself.
“But there are some things I can’t discuss. With you, or—or with anyone.” His fingers loosen around mine. “Please trust me when I say it’s for the best.”
I can already imagine Frederica and Chief Ha shouting at me to push him harder, to try and coax out whatever secret he’s locked away behind those cold Siberian eyes. It’s not like it’s completely unknown—a few of the news outlets have made vague whispers about his family being mixed up in some bad shit along the Eastern seaboard, though everyone knows better than to name names. To utter that which shall not be uttered. Bratva . The Slavic mafia boogeyman lurking in the night.
But this is more than some titillating crime drama to be gobbled up in the news. This is personal for Sergei—a private pain. He’d told me what it was like to grow up with nothing in Moscow; how his brother took the first chance he could to make something of himself. Sergei could have followed him into the mafia back then, but he chose not to—he chose to pursue his real passion of hockey. To do honest work. He deserves some respect for that.
I lick my lips. My throat feels impossibly dry. “Well,” I force myself to say, “if you ever change your mind, I promise I’ll listen.”
Sergei smiles again, so bright it lights me up inside. “
Fortunately, he decides for me, and cups my face in both his hands. “You look incredible. Velvety as the night.”
My face burns bright red. He leans in and kisses me on the tip of my freckled nose, then releases me, and starts peeling out of his disguise. Underneath the hoodie, he’s dressed incredibly—a tight button-down shirt and those jeans that drape against his muscular legs just so. I catch myself straining to view his backside and slump back onto the bench with an embarrassed grin.
Sergei sits down beside me, so we’re both facing out into the Washington night sky. “Sorry for the big production. I had a feeling you’d know, though, what name to give.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t ask for Lermontov.” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow. Oh. My. I’d forgotten about the ridges of muscle on those ribs. I feel my skin burning all over again. “Have the tabloids been that relentless?”
“Like you wouldn’t even believe.” He groans. “First they wouldn’t stop asking me about what happened to my lip, then, after I punched that Winnipeg guy, they can’t talk about anything else.”
“Well, it was a magnificent punch, worthy of a Dostoevsky novel.” I grin. “Did he seriously call Wright the n-word?”
“It happens all the time on the ice. Guys will say anything to get inside your head. You don’t want to know what they say about me.” Sergei shrugs, though his smile has faded. “That’s why I don’t like to let them see the real me. Because then, no matter what they say, it’s like it’s not even really me they’re attacking. It’s someone else entirely.”
In spite of myself, I’m reaching for his face, brushing my fingers against his still-swollen lower lip. I’d heard what he said in the interview—that he got injured in practice. Yet he hadn’t explained it any further than that. None of his teammates had said a word about it. Sergei’s eyes lid as I touch his lip, and his breath gusts over my fingertips as he exhales, slow.
“What really happened?” I ask. I try to keep the question light, but I can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do with his brother.
Sergei sighs, and closes a hand around mine. He kisses my fingertips, sending a thrill through my arm, then lowers both our hands to my lap. “I can’t lie to you, Jael.”
My shoulders tense. This is it. Part of me hopes desperately he’s speaking loudly enough for my phone to record it, but the rest of me? It wants to keep this moment for myself.
“But there are some things I can’t discuss. With you, or—or with anyone.” His fingers loosen around mine. “Please trust me when I say it’s for the best.”
I can already imagine Frederica and Chief Ha shouting at me to push him harder, to try and coax out whatever secret he’s locked away behind those cold Siberian eyes. It’s not like it’s completely unknown—a few of the news outlets have made vague whispers about his family being mixed up in some bad shit along the Eastern seaboard, though everyone knows better than to name names. To utter that which shall not be uttered. Bratva . The Slavic mafia boogeyman lurking in the night.
But this is more than some titillating crime drama to be gobbled up in the news. This is personal for Sergei—a private pain. He’d told me what it was like to grow up with nothing in Moscow; how his brother took the first chance he could to make something of himself. Sergei could have followed him into the mafia back then, but he chose not to—he chose to pursue his real passion of hockey. To do honest work. He deserves some respect for that.
I lick my lips. My throat feels impossibly dry. “Well,” I force myself to say, “if you ever change your mind, I promise I’ll listen.”
Sergei smiles again, so bright it lights me up inside. “
Similar Books
