by Piper Rayne
Sweat forms between us, and murmurs of swear words and praise for one another leave us both. I use my legs around his hips as leverage to help him with the momentum that’s going to have each of us screaming in a moment.
Just when I think my orgasm will never crest, it’s like a rogue wave crashes into me. Maksim doesn’t let up, pumping into me until his hips jerk one final time and he pushes his face into my neck. After we both come, we don’t move or talk. We’re exhausted and breathless as he stands there, holding my weight.
On the television, the announcers are talking about Aiden racing with the puck down the center, passing to Ford, who passes back.
“Here comes Langley,” one says, and Maksim tenses in my arms.
“This doesn’t look good,” the other announcer says.
“And Langley nails Drake to the wall, and Drake is down.”
I lower my legs and Maksim sets my feet on the floor before he leaves me to go watch the television.
“This isn’t good. The way these two teams play, lambasting one another. I think we knew when Petrov left the game Langley would use it to his advantage.”
I get dressed while listening and hear medics being called out to the ice. By the time we’re both dressed and walking out of the locker room, Aiden is unconscious and being wheeled out of the arena.
I rush out to the ambulance as they’re wheeling Aiden into it. He’s just lying there lifeless.
Saige sits in the ambulance, holding his hand and whispering to him. “It’s okay, baby, come on. Wake up.”
An arm wraps around my shoulders. Paisley. Sweet Paisley, but even she can’t get me out of this.
I grab the arm of one of the paramedics. “I’m coming to the hospital. Which one are you taking him to?”
“He’ll be at Memorial,” he says.
“We’ll be right behind you, Saige,” Paisley tells her, but her eyes never leave Aiden.
The ambulance leaves with the lights and sirens, and suddenly I’m back on that highway in Russia, watching Armen being loaded into an ambulance.
The police were using flashlights to stare into my eyes, asking me to walk a straight line, recite the alphabet backward. They were sure we were drunk, but an animal had come out and I swerved, lost control, and hit a tree. To them, we were just two teenagers who were driving crazy.
“Is he okay?” Armen’s blood-curdling cries as they extricated him from the car were still ringing in my head. At least he was breathing, I thought. Maybe all the blood didn’t mean it was as bad as I suspected.
“They’ll get him to the hospital. Let’s get you situated,” the police officer said. “Take you down to the station.”
“Come on, Maksim, let’s go.” Paisley is pulling on my arm to get me to move. I do, and she wraps her arms around my waist. “This isn’t your fault. This is just hockey. Part of the game.”
“Let’s just go,” I say grimly.
I dislodge her from my body and run inside to get my shoes and my keys. Within five minutes, we’re in my Mercedes and heading to the hospital as I pray like hell I’m not responsible for the death of another best friend.
We’re not allowed back to see him, which I should’ve expected. I’m just a friend. I wasn’t allowed in with Armen either.
Paisley does most of the talking with the nurses, her demeanor much friendlier than mine. We sit in the waiting room, my knee bouncing nonstop as we wait for some news. Anything.
Saige comes out a little while later. “He’s awake.”
Paisley hugs her. “Thank goodness. Oh good.”
“But he has to go in for surgery.” Paisley leads Saige over to a chair as she keeps talking. “A ligament in his shoulder is damaged, plus he has a concussion, which is why he blacked out. But he knew who he was, who I was. That’s good news, right?” She’s asking Paisley as though she’s a medical doctor.
Paisley nods, but she has no idea. Armen had surgery too.
“They’re taking him into surgery. Internal bleeding,” his mama came out to tell us. I felt her eyes on me, silently asking if we were driving too fast, too reckless, and much like the police, had we been drinking or using.
Armen and I weren’t the best sons in the world. We lived our lives fast, thinking we were invincible. So her assumptions weren’t off base. But this time, we’d been innocent. We’d just been talking about where life would take us. I’d been drafted into the NHL, but Armen hadn’t. He didn’t know if he wanted to come with me to America or not.
He was a better man than me, because he always seemed happy for my success with hockey. I’m not sure I would’ve if our roles had been reversed.
“I’m sure he’s going to come out of this.” My mama led her to a chair, trying to inspire hope in her.
His dad had gone outside to smoke, and Nadiya was slouched in a chair, having been woken by the police knocking on their door.
More of our friends came. Other families filled the waiting room. Food and drinks were brought in, since we knew we’d be there the entire night.
“Maks.” Paisley’s soft voice rings in my ear. “Wake up. Some of the team is here.”
I shake my head. How the hell did I fall asleep with all the adrenaline coursing through my body?
“I’m going to fucking kill Langley next time I see him.” Ford paces the floor. “How much money do you need for me to get back there?”
“Sir, again, you’re not family,” one of the nurses says.
Saige returns to the waiting room. “His parents and sister will be flying down first thing in the morning.” She sits down and brings her nails to her mouth.
“And to think Gerhardt is giving you shit for being an enforcer. You’re out of the game and look what happens,” Ford says to me.
“Exactly. I wasn’t in the game. I fucked up.” I stand and look out the window of the hospital. The rest of the world looks dark and asleep.
“It’s not your fault,” Paisley says.
“Then whose fault is it?” I yell, whipping around with my arms outstretched at my sides.
She steps back, shock on her face.
“I was supposed to be there. To nail Langley before he nailed Aiden. It’s my job, my responsibility, but I got myself thrown out of the fucking game. Gerhardt is right. If I’d been calmer, I would’ve still been in the game, but I’m losing control of everything.”
I push my hands through my hair. Paisley puts her hand on my forearm, but I fling it off.
“I just need to be alone.”
* * *
I grabbed my dad’s cigarettes and went out to the front of the hospital, sat on a bench, and smoked one after the other. I knew internal bleeding was never a good thing, and the surgery was taking forever. I couldn’t control my guilt over my best friend fighting for his life because I’d swerved and lost control. It was all my fault that he was up there, maybe taking his final breath.
“Son.” My dad came out and sat next to me, holding out his hand for the pack of cigarettes. I gave them to him. “This isn’t going to help you once you get to the pros.”
I shrugged. “What if—”
He shook his head. “We don’t think of what-ifs. We wait and see what is.”
My dad was a sensible man. Always had been. He’d pushed, as had Armen’s dad, for us to be the best at hockey. Our dads had played in the men’s league and took hockey to a different extreme. There were no rules. Just as my dad had been a defenseman, so was I. Armen’s dad had been a center, which made it so much harder for Armen to go professional. It’s like shortstop in baseball—everyone wants to be one. Not that Armen wasn't a kick-ass center, but had he been a defenseman, maybe he would’ve made it.
“He could be paralyzed,” I say.
“He could, but we don’t know.” My dad lit his cigarette. “This isn’t your fault. This was an accident.”
I nodded as if I agreed, but we both knew I didn’t.
“Maybe I shouldn’t go to America. Armen will need me here to help him heal.”<
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We were like brothers. We’d grown up together, fought like brothers, protected one another like brothers. I was already on the fence about leaving him behind since he didn’t know if he’d join me. It just didn’t feel right. I’d come back from America to visit and he’d be playing in the men’s league and working a regular job. I couldn’t stand the thought of us losing touch.
“Armen has plenty of people here. You are leaving.”
In my family, what my dad said went. You didn’t argue. But if Armen was paralyzed, I was staying in Russia. But I would do what my dad asked and wait until we knew what was.
* * *
“You can’t talk to her like that.” Jana comes up to me by the vending machines. I’m not even sure why I’m here when I’m not hungry. “She’s trying to help you.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
She shoves my shoulder. “We get it, okay? You feel responsible, but pushing away the girl you love isn’t going to accomplish anything.”
“Love?” I question with a laugh. “Who ever said I loved her?”
I’m being cruel. I know it. This is what happens when I’m faced with things I can’t control. I get spiteful and mean, and I hate that Paisley’s friend is seeing this side of me. If only I could control it.
“Do you want me to kick your ass right here?” Jana tosses her purse and jacket on the floor as though she plans on doing just that.
“I’d like to see you try.”
“Jana,” Paisley says from the doorway. I have no way of knowing if she heard me or not, but from the look of gloom in her eyes, I’d say she did. “It’s okay. Just leave him be.”
“She’s way too good for an asshole like you.” Jana picks up her purse and jacket off the floor.
Don’t I know it. But they both leave me, Jana putting her arm around Paisley. I’m going to lose her, I just know it. But then again, I never did deserve her.
I watch the two of them walk away and I lean against the wall, letting my back slide down until my ass hits the floor.
* * *
My mama came outside where she found my dad and me still smoking his pack of cigarettes, not saying much to one another. We looked up when we heard her approach and I knew before she even spoke.
“There was too much bleeding. They couldn’t get it to stop. Armen—”
I stood and walked away. I couldn’t hear her speak those words. To confirm my biggest fear.
As I walked away, my mama’s sobs echoed in the stillness of the night. I stared at the window of the waiting room glowing in the dark, knowing I’d ruined seven lives that night.
But worst of all, I had killed my best friend.
* * *
“There’s the doctor,” Saige says.
“I just got off the phone with his parents and they said it was okay to talk to you, Saige,” an aging man in scrubs says.
The two of them shuffle away, but in doing so, they grow closer to where I’m still sitting against the wall. Great, I get to be here to hear the news right from the doctor’s mouth.
“He’s out of surgery and doing well. His season is over and the beginning of next season will depend on how he heals and how rehab goes, but all in all, he’s a lucky man. I’ve seen these cases before and they don’t always end this well.”
“Thank you so much, doctor. When can I see him?”
Saige is happy. Everyone will be happy.
“He’s just waking up. Maybe a half hour or so. I’ll have a nurse come and get you.”
“Thank you,” she says and walks back into the waiting room, telling everyone the news.
I hear cheers ring out as people say how relieved they are.
I stand up from the floor and walk toward the red exit sign. If it wasn’t for me, Aiden wouldn't be in this situation at all. I have nothing to celebrate.
I knock on Maksim’s door and there’s no answer, so I ring the doorbell. I know he’s home. I gave him all night to get himself out of this blame game.
Nadiya opens the door wearing her cap and gown.
“Well, you look awesome,” I say. “A couple weeks, right?”
“Yes, I cannot wait. I had my grad photos done this morning. Our parents come in two weeks. Are you ready to meet your future in-laws?” She laughs. “Inessa is a tough one.”
“Are you sure they aren’t going to be your in-laws?”
She laughs again. “Never.”
“Is he in his room?” My voice turns serious.
She nods.
“Has he been out of bed at all?”
She shakes her head and I catch sight of Jessie on the couch.
“Hey, Jessie.” I wave. I ask Nadiya, “You heard about Aiden, right?”
“The news says he’s going to be okay. Is that true?”
“Yeah, he’s out for what’s left of the season and maybe part of next, but Saige says he’s doing great and is in good spirits. I wanted to see if Maksim wanted to go visit him.”
As I step forward, Nadiya puts her hand on my wrist. “Losing Armen… he can’t stop blaming himself. The wound is deep and it never healed.”
I nod because I know. I’ve known since he told me the story about losing his best friend. And it’s probably because of my background that I don’t want Maksim to live with that guilt in his life anymore. I want him to be healthy, vibrant and carefree. Not to think he has to be everyone’s protector and then blame himself when something inevitably goes wrong.
“I know.” I pat her hand and venture down the hallway.
I open the door to Maksim’s bedroom. His drapes are drawn and he’s sprawled out on his stomach in bed.
Sitting on the edge, I place my hand on his back, running it up and down, then I trace his tattoos. “Hey, sleepyhead.”
He groans and wraps an arm around my waist, sliding over on the mattress to get closer to me. My fingers roam his body and run through his hair.
When I overheard him talking to Jana and he mocked her for suggesting he loved me, I was hurt. But it’s okay if he doesn’t love me. We’ve only been dating a short while. I can’t be upset about it, even if it stings because I know my feelings for him.
“Come into bed,” he murmurs.
“I’m going to see Aiden and wondered if you wanted to come.”
His body tenses and his arm goes limp. Rolling over, he turns his back to me. “I’m not going.”
I had a feeling this might happen. Sometimes I hate that my education helps me predict people’s responses after I get to know them. “You have to get up and visit your friend. Sulking is doing no good.”
“Sulking?” He huffs, throws the covers off himself, and walks into his en suite naked.
Without shutting the door, he relieves himself then washes his hands before moving to his drawers to grab a pair of track shorts.
“You can shower. I’ll wait,” I say.
“I’m not showering because I’m not going anywhere.” He sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall in front of him.
“I think it’s time you talk to someone.” I know last night I was all about letting him do his own thing, but after what happened with Aiden and how he’s taking it, it’s clear to me that Maksim needs to deal with his issues.
“I’m not talking to anyone. What’s therapy gonna do for me?”
My back straightens. I’m annoyed that he keeps pissing all over my profession. “It does a lot of people good. It might give you some perspective.”
“You have thousands of dollars in student loans that say you have to think that.”
I stand. “You’re not serious. I get the whole ‘I’m Russian and we don’t talk feelings’ thing”—I do my best impersonation of him, which is pretty terrible—“but it’s a real profession and therapy helps a lot of people. It doesn’t mean you’re weak if you’re in therapy. Do you even know why I chose my profession? You’ve never bothered to ask me. Probably because you don’t believe in it.” I blow out a breath.
He says nothing.
“I went to therapy after my dad left us and all throughout college. It’s what got me to the point that I don’t have such horrible abandonment issues that I can’t date you. I’m healthy and stable enough to embark on a relationship with a man who’s in the spotlight and has women all over the world admiring him. Have I been jealous a few times? Sure. Sue me. But this is pretty extreme in comparison to a normal relationship. But without therapy, I wouldn’t be who I am. I’d be some twisted up, bitter woman with no confidence to tell you what she really thinks, who would never trust a man.”
I inhale deeply, my chest heaving, my eyes tingling from the tears that want to fall. “Would you like it if I downgraded your profession all the time? Said that all you do is hit people and act like a goon for a living?”
He stands. “You can say whatever you want.” He digs into a drawer and puts on a T-shirt.
“Ugh!” I yell. “Why are you doing this? Why are you pushing me away? Why do you want to be this person?”
He turns around with accusation in his eyes. “What person? There’s nothing wrong with protecting the ones you love. It’s admirable in a lot of people’s eyes.”
“Not when you harbor this much guilt. Aiden is fine, and even if he wasn’t, it’s not your fault. Armen wasn’t your fault. You need to release yourself of the responsibility of it all.”
He shakes his head at me in disgust. “Jesus Christ, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Why? Because I’m a stupid psychologist?”
“You always make me feel small. Like I can’t handle my shit. It makes me feel weak.” He punctuates his words by stabbing his finger into his chest while he speaks.
I stop for a moment and catch my breath because I don’t want us to get into a bigger argument or say something we can’t find our way back out of. I decide to go at it a different way.