by Piper Rayne
“I think I’m okay with that.” Campbell shoots Collins the middle finger. He seems to notice something out of the corner of his eye and turns his head. “Maybe I’ll have better luck with those two stone-cold foxes.”
Two women glance at us, then look away as if playing coy. But we all know, they aren’t shy. They’re puck bunnies, the girls who actively seek out hockey players. I have no problem with bunnies. They aren’t my cup of tea, but they make it easy for guys on nights they don’t feel like searching for someone.
I chuckle and lean back in my chair, making room as Flo reaches over me to set down a bucket of beers.
“Come on over, ladies.” Campbell waves them to the table. They don’t have to be asked twice, practically falling over each other to get to us. Instead of standing at the table to interact, they pull up chairs.
“Oh wow,” Novotný says, scooting over to make room.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?” The blonde sitting next to Campbell asks, smiling and touching his cheek.
He pulls back. “You don’t know who I am?”
I put my hand over my mouth to stifle a laugh. Not only is it hilarious because he thinks he’s wanted by anything in a skirt, but also because the boys and I always love seeing him to get knocked down when he says things that make him sound like an egomaniac.
She points to me. “That’s Ivan Kravtsov over there, but your face isn’t familiar.”
“Damn, that’s cold.” Collins laughs, holding his bottle out. Both Novotný and I clink the neck with ours.
“He is goalie,” I say. “He have no face.”
“Oh, Vanya.” The one next to me smiles and places her hand on my arm.
I look from her hand to her face without a smile. “It’s Ivan.”
She removes her hand, but she’s not deterred. She leans closer to me, asking, “So tell us, boys. What are some things you like?”
“Beer.” Collins drains his bottle, then slams it down, and grabs another.
“Hockey,” Novotný deadpans.
“Sexy women,” Campbell winks.
“I like my girlfriend and not being bothered while I eat.” I pick up my beer and take a long drink, hoping I’ve turned her off for good.
The last few months have been the best of my life. Katya and I have spent as much time as we possibly can together, getting closer and having so much fun. A relationship I thought would be stressful and hard to maintain has been fairly seamless. And when we’re not together, I have great teammates to hang out with.
“Look who’s on the news,” Collins cuts in before the girls can ask any more questions. His eyes are focused on something over my head.
“Who?” the blond asks.
Collins points to the television in the corner. I glance quickly, but when I see the logo of a music television network in the corner, I spin back and take a sip of my beer. “Madonna have new boyfriend?”
“Oh shit,” Collins hisses.
“Not Madonna.” Campbell shakes his head slowly.
“Hey!” Novotný pats my shoulder. “I’m going to grab us another round. Join me?”
“We have beer.” I give him a confused look.
Collins and Campbell eyes are still glued to the screen, while Novotný glances at it uncomfortably.
When I look at the T.V. again, my eyes widen with shock, and my jaw drops. I blink rapidly, thinking my sight might be playing tricks on me, but it isn’t. What I’m seeing is real.
It’s Katya kissing Andres Martinez, the singer who asked her to be in his video earlier this year. There’s no sound, but it’s not needed. First, it’s them kissing on a street. Then they’re lying in the backseat of a car. He’s covering her body with his, sliding his hands up and down her body and kissing her neck.
“What the fuck?” I jump up, but the clip ends, and the show moves on to something else. “What is this?” I ask out loud. It’s not directed at my teammates, but they answer anyway.
“It’s probably just—” Collins begins, but he can’t finish the thought because no one has an explanation.
“Oh my god! She’s so lucky. Andres is sex on a stick.”
“This is man she have video with,” I tell them, dropping into my chair.
Three of the five heads whip around to look at me. The girls are still looking at the T.V.
“What?” I ask confused.
Collins drops his beer onto the table, but quickly grabs it before it falls. “Like, a sex tape?”
“No.” I shake my head in disgust. “She in his music video.”
“Ohhhh,” they all chorus.
“How is this news?” the blonde asks. “Katya and Andres have been in every tabloid and celebrity magazine on the shelves. They’re so cute together.”
“How she do this? Why she do this?” I rest my elbows on the table and let my head fall into my hands.
“Hey, hey, take it easy,” Collins says. “She’s always all over the news, right? The press takes pictures and makes things out to be worse than they are.”
“She’s getting fucked in the back of a car,” Campbell says dryly. Novotný punches his shoulder. “What?”
“They’re fully clothed.”
“Sorry!” He holds his hands up. “They’re dry humping in the back of a car. If my girl ever did that. I’d never forgive her.”
“Probably why you don’t have a girl.”
I slide my chair back from the table and stand up abruptly. Then I dig into my pocket, take money out of my wallet, and throw it on the table.
“Come on, V! You don’t need to get into it tonight,” Novotný calls. “Sleep on it.”
“I sleep for months,” I say, storming to the exit and leaving my friends behind. I’m stewing as I walk to my car.
I know the paparazzi loves Katya and follows her around. I know they take pictures and create stories to sell copies. I never thought I had to worry because I’ve always trusted, Katya. She never gave me a reason not to.
Now, I’m beginning to wonder what happened in Los Angeles while she was making that video. She told me her part was acting as the singer’s love interest. A love interest is the pretty girl in the video who the singer lusts for. She’s smiling and dancing, not kissing and simulating sex.
When I get in the car, I slam the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. How could I be so stupid to think she was ready to settle down with one man? Especially at her age and with her popularity. She’s the it girl that everyone wants.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I didn’t want. As if the stress of trying to find time to see each other with two busy schedules wasn’t enough, the jealousy of seeing her all over the place with other people was bound to take a toll.
Instead of calming down on the ride home, I’m actually more worked up. I run to the phone in the kitchen and dial her number.
After five rings, she finally picks up. “Hello?” Her voice sounds as if she’s been sleeping.
“Katya,”
“Vanya, love.” I can hear her smile through the phone. “What’s going on? You’re calling late.”
“You’re all over the news!” I yell.
“All over the news? What are you talking about?’ She asks through a yawn.
“Photos of you and the singer,” I snap, slamming my palm on my kitchen counter.
“Oh Vanya, it’s probably just photos from the video. You know what the press says about me.”
I hear the squeak of a bed frame as if she sat up or jumped out of bed.
“You were kissing him, Katya. Kissing him and laying with him.” My voice breaks towards the end, but my anger is intact. “He was all over you.”
“I told you I was his love interest in the video. It was just acting, Vanya.” Her voice is nonchalant, as if I should understand.
“Acting? Having sex with someone is acting, now? You weren’t in a film, Katya. It was a music video. You could have said no. You could have drawn the line.”
“We didn’t have sex!” She yells
back. “This is absolutely ridiculous.”
“Yes, it is ridiculous that you had no problem doing that when you have a boyfriend.”
“This is my life, Vanya. I’m a model and a sex symbol. You knew that from the first moment we started this.”
“You’re right, I did know that. But I thought you had integrity.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s not what I meant. I—” I backtrack, scrambling for words to apologize but Katya cuts me off.
“You know what, Vanya? This relationship isn’t working for me anymore.” Her voice is ice and getting colder with every word. “I need someone who understands my life and trusts me.” It’s the last thing she says before slamming down the receiver.
My brain is numb as I hang up the phone. She broke up with me. I don’t know what my intention was when I called, but that certainly wasn’t it. Things had been going great between us for months and in less than five minutes, everything blew up.
Maybe we didn’t have the foundation I thought we did.
18
Vanya
The last month and a half has been a rollercoaster of emotions, I don’t have words to describe it—in English or Russian. During the season, I tallied seventy-seven goals, a personal and team record. And the Chargers have had the ride of our lives: capturing the President’s trophy as the team with the most points in the league and winning all three of the playoff series we’ve played so far.
And I’ve done it all without Katya by my side.
Hence the rollercoaster. How can I enjoy the ride when I haven’t been able to celebrate best season of my hockey career with the person I love the most?
We haven’t talked since I saw the tabloid photos of her and Andres. I could barely handle the risqué music video—but to see the photos of them together in a Hollywood nightclub was too much. That didn’t fall under the category of “work.” That was all play.
We cruised through the playoffs, scaling every hurdle, and defeating every team we came across on our way to the Stanley Cup Finals. A best-selling author couldn’t have written a better story.
And now, here we are, in the intermission before the third period of Game 7 against the New York Americans on their home ice. I’ve been matched up against Dima Morozov, one of my best friends, for the entire series, and I don’t expect that to change.
Years ago, I made the conscious choice to defect from the USSR for the opportunity to play in the National Hockey League with the best players in the world. I abandoned the only country I knew and my entire family for the chance at this moment.
My sister is in the stands. And even though she’s here because Dima plays for the Americans, I know deep down she’s cheering for me. Our bond is too strong for it to go any other way.
The person of significance that’s missing is Katya. And the weight of her absence hits on me hard.
But not hard enough to take me out of the zone.
I made a commitment to the Chargers when I made the decision to defect.
This moment has been the dream of every single man in this room for as long as they can remember. As I glance around the locker room, some of the guys are silent, with their heads down. A few have their eyes are closed, others have knees shaking with nervous energy. And though the Cup has been my dream for a slightly shorter time, I feel the pressure.
Just then, Coach Gagnon walks in and the room falls silent. He looks around, his eyes settling on every face present before he clears his throat and asks, “Are you fucking ready?”
“Yes sir!” The entire team yells together.
“I said, are you fucking ready?” he asks again, louder this time, the muscles on his neck straining to show the extra effort.
“YES SIR!” We chorus together again. It’s much louder than the first time, and some guys bang against the lockers to make extra noise.
We know exactly how to respond, since this has been our pre-game ritual ever since we won that first playoff game in April.
Hockey players are superstitious.
“Let’s pump it up. We are here in Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Finals for a fucking reason. We’re a fucking good hockey team.” His cheeks are red, and he’s pointing with his index finger to punctuate every sentence. “And we’re going to fucking bring the Cup home to Detroit tonight. So, let’s fucking go!”
Every guy in the room jumps up, inspired by Coach’s short, enthusiastic speech. There’s a chorus of:
“Let’s go boys!”
“Let’s do this!”
I adjust my shoulder pads and grab my helmet and stick. As I follow my teammates to the ice, my mind is far away. Coach’s words echo through my head. We’re in Game 7 for a reason. I know he means our hard work and determination in every game this season got us to where we are, and we deserve it.
I’m thinking about the reason I’m here, the reason I play. It’s been years since I really thought about it. While it’s true, I play for myself, for the freedom—and opportunities—hockey’s allowed me to have.
But above all, I play for my team. The unit who has a common goal and does everything together—win or lose. I may be living in America, but I’m still a Soviet man. I can’t forget my upbringing: being selfless, sacrificing everything for the cause. Playing a professional sport, being part of a team, isn’t about me, it’s about us.
Over the last five minutes of the third period, my teammates and I have thrown everything we have at the Americans, trying to score to break the 3-3 deadlock.
The announcer says something over the PA that causes the crowd to respond with a thunderous cheer. Using the praise as motivation, I jump off the bench and join the play, accepting a pass from Collins on defense and skating up the ice. When I pass the blue line, I see a shot and take it, rearing my stick back and slamming it against the puck. The American’s goalie reaches out quickly, grabbing it with his glove and holding on until the ref blows the whistle.
I remove my mouth guard and look up at the scoreboard, hocking spit onto the ice before I return the guard back to its place. There’s thirty seconds on the clock, and the game is tied 3-3. My stomach is in my throat, but this is where I excel—now-or-never situations.
The ref drops the puck. I win the faceoff, sending it back to Collins in one swift motion, but he’s immediately checked and loses control. New York takes the puck and turns it around, charging toward Campbell, our goalie.
American’s rookie forward, Tremblay, rears back before sending the puck forward with everything he has.
Skating forward, evading bodies as I close in on the goal, ready to pick up a rebound, I watch the puck fly. For a moment everything is silent. All yelling from the players on the ice is blocked out. The sharp sound as skates glide over the ice is blocked out. The noise from the crowd is blocked out. In that moment, all I can hear is my heavy breathing, as my eyes follow the puck.
It sails right through Ricky’s five hole. The red light goes off and the crowd erupts. The noise from the fans is deafening, in all my years, I’ve never heard anything like it.
As the Americans celebrate, my teammates and I skate to the bench to get the play from Coach Gagnon.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins, refusing to give up. There’s still 1.6 seconds left. It’s a long shot, but we have to try.
Everyone in the arena is on their feet, buzzing with anxiety and excitement. I’m shifting my weight from foot to foot, willing myself to use that momentum to spur me on.
Skating into the circle to face me is Dan McDonald, the veteran center who never wears a helmet. I’m not nervous to face him. I’m nervous because this is the most important faceoff of my life.
The puck drops.
Dan wins the draw, sending it to a defenseman behind him.
The clock strikes zero.
And the entire arena erupts, everyone jumping to their feet screaming and cheering. On the ice, the Americans throw their gloves and sticks before crashing the net.
I bend at the waist and rest my
stick on my thighs in disbelief. Then, it’s as if I can’t hold my weight anymore. I drop to my knees and look up at the scoreboard one last time before hanging my head again.
When I finally have the energy, I skate over to the bench to join the rest of my team watching the Americans celebrate. There’s nothing worse than having to watch the other team celebrate after you just lost the most important game of your life. But we have to hang around for the center ice handshake.
Actually, I’m wrong—that handshake is worse than having to watch the other team celebrate. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a great tradition. At the end of the day, we’re all out there doing our jobs and playing the game we love. To show each other respect after a hard-fought series is something I appreciate.
But it fucking sucks when you lose.
When we finally get back to the locker room, it’s silent, except for the sound of gear slamming into lockers and skates shuffling across the floor. Thankfully, we have a few minutes to compose ourselves before the media will be allowed in. The press is the last thing I want to deal with tonight. The media. The flashing cameras. Pretending to be calm and poised on such a disappointing night.
I already know what they’ll say about me. It’s the same thing they’ve said every year since I joined the Chargers. I don’t have the heart. Russians don’t show up because we don’t care about the Stanley Cup. That I “only” had six goals in this series, why didn’t I do more?
I take a deep breath, wishing I didn’t know enough English to answer. Wishing Vitya were next to me.
Thankfully, the press doesn’t stay long, finally having a little mercy on us and letting us wallow in peace. Like most of my teammates, I can’t get out of the locker room fast enough. We can still hear the celebration vibrating through the arena. After showering and collecting my things, I push the door open and slide out quietly. When I look up, Stasya stands in the hallway, biting her thumbnail.
She rushes to me and throws her arms around me. I slump in her embrace, my stoic facade falling for a moment. When I notice water dripping from the tips of my wet, shaggy hair onto her shoulder, I pull back.