“It was always about you.” Brandon hunched over the table and lowered his voice. Engraved in the lines and shadows of his face was a sadness more aberrant for his having chosen it. He had elected to carry a torch for a woman he couldn’t have, and resentment for the man who did. “Wasn’t it? Your career. Your illness. Your scandals. Her life revolved around you.”
Alex bared his teeth. “Do you think I would’ve quit my job if that was the case? You think I didn’t have my eyes on a front-office position? I could’ve been general manager. But I was at her side every second for those last five months. I watched my wife die, Brandon.” He beat the tip of his finger against the table. “I watched the life fade from her eyes, and I held her. And Bog, if it weren’t for our daughter, I would’ve gone with her. If I gave one single, solitary shit what anyone thinks, I’d have made sure the cameras were lined up outside my house the second it happened so I could suck up the sympathy. Instead, I’ve been hiding away like a-a fucking recluse and…”
Brandon sank back. Alex pursed his lips and breathed through his nose until the tears retreated. The sight of another man expressing feelings unnerved most men—Stephanie had called it a result of “toxic masculinity” or something. With moods as unpredictable as his, he’d learned to accept if not embrace his feelings. It had consequently made him more tolerant of other people’s emotional outpourings, and less ashamed of his own.
“It doesn’t matter whether I loved her or not,” Brandon said, “because she’s gone, and because she loved you. So let’s not do this anymore, eh? Unless we have some Gladiators-related reason to run into each other, I think we’re better off staying out of each other’s way.” He tossed some cash onto the table and stood up. “Have a good life, Aleksandr. For her sake, I hope you do appreciate what you had.”
Alex’s fingers tapped out a furious rhythm on the table. He dared not lift his eyes, already conscious of the silent examinations he faced on the rare occasions he did leave the house. For all that people accused others of not wanting to change, they rarely considered their own refusal to allow change in the first place. To the world, he would always be Aleksandr Volynsky, womanizer, no matter how much he loved his wife and daughter. And Stephanie would always deserve better.
He left his half of the bill and pulled his jacket on, shielding as much of his face within the collar as possible and avoiding all eye contact as he retreated to the safety of his car.
Chapter Six
Anya
The Fall Festival, sponsored by a PTA that in their particular district had the finances to put on quite the event, kicked off tonight. It featured the typical booths and activities designed to draw in the largest source of revenue—little kids and their mothers. Concession stands enticed small stomachs and large pocketbooks with an assortment of treats both sugary and fried. Pumpkin-shaped bounce houses, bean-bag tosses, and face-painting amused them for at least a few minutes. Even a small petting zoo with rabbits, pygmy goats, and miniature horses, hand sanitizer included.
The older students, who would all skip the silent auction later on for a party at the house of the football team’s captain, congregated on the midway. Here, amongst racing lights and pop music blaring through the speakers’ static hiss, were the Ferris wheel, fun house, Scrambler, and merry-go-round, the Fun Slide, and even a mini-coaster. Entry was free, the rides anything but, and although every teenager in the suburb received a substantial allowance, they cajoled their friends working the rides into a free spin.
The fragrance of fried dough and greasy pizza beckoned those in the parking lot, mostly still-hungry teenagers on cheap dates who’d eaten at home to save money for a video game or a car. Anya knew the drill. For the first time in three years, she wasn’t on one of those cheap dates but meeting up with friends near the craft beer pavilion, a glorified dining tent with cafeteria-style trestle tables, where they waited for someone to sneak them a beer or two to pass around.
Although with Mike prowling around in his obnoxious silver Jeep Wrangler and shooting glares at her, she might not make it past the gate. Anya waited at her car in case she needed a quick getaway. Okay, so without explanation or ceremony she had dumped him like he had the Black Plague. Maybe she did owe him a word or two.
He parked three spots away and with his mouth wrenched into a scowl stalked toward her, ready to go Anakin Skywalker on the Jedi temple. “Thought you might be here,” he grunted. “Only reason I showed up.”
“To see if I came here with anyone else, you mean.”
“Did you?”
“Do you see anyone?”
He tugged his baseball cap down and, shifting from foot to foot, shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “You could’ve said something, if you thought it wasn’t working out.”
“Yeah. I know. I was just…going through a lot.”
“You can’t use that excuse forever.”
It never failed. The mere suggestion she was hiding behind her mother’s death delivered her into such a rage she could have torn him apart with her bare hands.
She flipped him a double-bird and stormed onto the fairgrounds like a supercell, ready to unleash her wrath on anyone who looked at her the wrong way. Her name shouted across the parking lot did not reverse her course. No longer in the mood for company, she rerouted away from the pavilion and behind a row of concession stands. Dough sizzled in vats of bubbling oil, its heavy, burned-grease smell seeping into fabric that stank long past closing time. Balloons popped, and jugs toppled over to the delighted shrieks of children. She picked her way over cables as thick as snakes, past chugging generators, until her path opened onto the midway and she was gazing up at the Ferris wheel.
“Fancy meeting you here. You ride this thing?”
Anya whipped her head around. Her legs lost most of their capacity to hold her upright. “Lucas. Hey. What are you doing here?”
“The district likes it when we show up to school-related functions.” Lucas scrunched his eyebrows together. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks. I’m more of a Scrambler girl myself.”
“Ah. Wish those rides didn’t make me puke. Come on.” He nodded at the wheel, then produced a wad of tickets from his jacket pocket and handed them to the ticket taker. “I was hoping I’d find someone to ride with me.” With a sheepish smile he added, “I’m afraid of heights.”
“Oh. I…” Would love to ride with you. Would love to do anything with you. The crisp breeze caught her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear. “Okay. I’ll ride.”
They sat on a cushion whose yellow padding oozed through cracks in the vinyl like pus. The car rocked back and forth, its red paint flaking along the edges from years of assembly, dismantle, and travel to the next county fair.
Lucas pulled down the lap bar. His thigh brushed hers. “How long are you hanging out here?”
“I was supposed to meet some friends and go to a party later, but…I don’t know. I kind of just want to go home to my dad.”
“Aw. That’s sweet. You two are close, huh?”
The wheel shuddered, then lurched forward and up. “We were, before…Never mind. I know he’s trying.”
Lucas offered a sympathetic glance but said nothing. At the top, the lights and discordant symphony of music, laughter, and shouting dwindled, leaving her and Lucas alone with a three-quarters moon and each other. The operator stopped their car just long enough for Anya to wish they’d stay forever. She kicked out her feet the way she used to when Dad took her on the Giant Wheel at Darien Lake, and Lucas chuckled.
“Tell me about swimming,” she said as the wheel finished its first rotation.
“I said ‘maybe someday.’”
“Technically, it’s now someday.”
He side-eyed her, but he was grinning. “This is going to be a great season; I can tell.” The car creaked and moaned. Lucas gripped the bar as though they were going to tip right out.
Fortune favors the brave. Anya placed her hand over his. He was trembling a little,
his skin cool from the autumn chill.
“Um.” His fingers twitched beneath hers. With a vacillating smile, he gazed off at the city in the distance.
The Ferris wheel juddered to a halt, their ride concluded. Lucas slipped his fingers out from under Anya’s and hefted the bar off their laps. She scrambled out of the car and onto the platform, down the set of portable metal steps. Stupid. So stupid.
“Anya.”
Over her shoulder, Lucas was still smiling.
“I’ll see you at the meeting. Thanks for riding with me.”
She nodded, almost tripped over the steps, and sprinted for the parking lot.
***
Anya and her twenty-two teammates gathered with their coaches and Lucas in the cafeteria after final bell. Coach Landers passed around copies of the rules handout so they could follow along as he recited almost verbatim what Lucas had no doubt been tasked with typing.
“I’d like to start by formally introducing our new athletic trainer, who you all should have met by now.” Coach patted Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas, perched on the end of the table with his feet on the bench, gave a polite nod. “Lucas will be responsible for injury rehab, evaluations, taping, practice prep, and concussion and return-to-play protocols. In the event of an injury, he will refer you to be seen by a doctor or specialist within twenty-four hours.”
The coaching staff and athletic director had a lot more time on their hands now. She envisioned them in Coach’s office, conspiring over their latest embarrassing fundraising initiative. Swimsuit carwash once Indian summer hit? Kiss a farm animal? Karaoke—where people paid them to stop singing?
“You will submit all required paperwork to him when he asks for it. He has also helped develop the new athletics program policy and procedures manual you’ll all be getting before you leave. So with that, let’s all welcome Lucas Donovan to the Rosewood High School athletics team.”
A chorus of welcomes and hellos attended a smattering of applause.
“Thanks, everyone. I just want to add that you can also come to me for any non-sports related health issues, because these can affect your performance just as much. I’m looking forward to working with all of you.” He caught Anya’s gaze, pretended he hadn’t, and returned his attention to the handout he was holding.
“All right, let’s get down to business. Lucas, would you hand out the schedules?”
“Sure thing.”
As Lucas distributed more paper, Coach launched the most boring part of the season. “This year, the theme is ‘a team above all, and above all a team.’ We expect all of you to be good people, good students, and good players and to represent this school and this city with pride.”
The usual. She was more interested in the way Lucas moved around the room, his long legs carrying him with graceful strides.
“For you.” He held out the schedule, fingers positioned to prevent her from touching them without performing obvious contortions. Then he resumed his seat on the table, and she held in a sigh that made her chest ache.
“The skills you’ve learned and will learn as individuals are the skills you’ll need to apply at any level of hockey, and this is especially important for our seniors going on to play NCAA hockey.”
Lucas hazarded a glance at her again, and one corner of his mouth edged up. Anya’s heart stuttered.
“Those of you who have been on this team for the past few years know what we expect of you. Be here forty-five minutes before ice time. Be respectful to everyone you encounter, and take responsibility for what you do both on and off the ice.”
His wine-colored polo, unbuttoned at the throat, revealed the edge of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the right sleeve. Several rows of sacred geometry were inked on his forearm. So hot. Defined biceps and the chest to match, if the fit of his shirt was any indication.
“Each one of you has a role on this team, and that role is in service to the team first and you second. You will support your teammates at all times. If we criticize you, it’s because we know you can improve.”
Anya licked her lips. Coach moved on to academic performance, not an issue for her. She tried not to stare at Lucas. At the same time, she craved another acknowledgement, no matter how small.
“You will come to every practice and game in your warmups, jacket, and tennis shoes, and you will use only clear tape over your practice socks.”
Black khaki pants and black loafers. Boxers or briefs? Heat flooded her neck and into her face.
Lucas was watching her. They locked eyes; he blushed too, and feigned a cough into his fist.
“Make no mistake—we’re here to have fun, but every game we play is preparation for the playoffs. Our main goal is to improve each week so we can get to those playoffs.”
Here come the player usage charts. Starting lineups followed.
Did he just wink at me?
Lucas rubbed his eye. Smooth.
“This year’s captain is also our new top-line center. Congratulations, Anya Volynsky.”
Most people, including Lucas, clapped with enthusiasm. Anya gave her teammates a close-lipped smile. Someone muttered the inevitable, “Big surprise.”
“Anyone who can’t uphold the things we just discussed is free to leave. Permanently.”
Silence.
“All right, team. Grab your uniforms and manuals, and I’ll see you at practice next week.”
Lucas issued the manuals. Anya grabbed her plastic-bagged warmups, jacket, and jersey, then positioned herself last in Lucas’s line. Not that they’d have much of a moment with the three coaches still hanging around. She stuffed the uniforms into her backpack to free her hands.
“And last but not least.” Lucas presented her with a comb-bound manual. His fingers brushed hers, but he was playing it nonchalant. Her skin tingled anyway. “See you next week.”
“See you.”
He slid his fingers away, down the length of hers. “Let me know if you need anything taped up before practice.”
“I do—uh, right. I will.” Anya lowered her head so her hair tumbled into her face. “Bye.”
He leaned in as she walked by. “You’re too pretty to hide like that.”
Her breath gone, choking on adrenaline, she said nothing more. He’s twenty-two. He just likes the attention. Don’t be an idiot—no one is going to risk their job over you.
She glanced back. Lucas and the coaches had formed a half-circled in which to talk. When he didn’t return her gaze, she sighed and plodded down the isolated hallway toward the school’s rear exit.
***
As she had every morning since getting an eyeful of their Homecoming dance, Hailey crowded into Anya’s precious little personal space at her locker and in a loud whisper said, “So? Anything new with you and Mr. Donovan?”
“No, Hailey. I see him before and after practice and games. That’s it.”
“Yeah, but your season started a couple weeks ago. There must be something to tell.”
“Nope. Sorry.” Anya closed the locker and clicked the lock into place.
“But you like him. It’s all over your face, you know. Your mouth does that funny thing every time I say his name, when you try not to smile.”
She could feel it twitching. The more she tried to stop, the worse it got, as if a puppeteer was working her lips from inside her head.
“See?”
“Fine, I like him. So does every straight girl in school. Look at him.”
“Oh, I am.” Hailey grinned as Lucas approached from the hallway that led to the back parking lot. “Hi, Mr. Donovan!” she chirped.
“Hello.” He furrowed his brow. Didn’t recognize her. Then he flicked his gaze to Anya, directing a subtle scan up and down, lingering on her. A smile—reserved, uneven, but a smile nevertheless—flitted across his face. “Good morning, Anya.”
“Um.” Her mouth was as dry as high noon in the middle of July. Um? Really? “Hi, Lucas.” Her blood thrummed in her ears, and she stared at the work of art that was hi
s ass until it and the rest of him had rounded the corner.
“Oh my God!” Hailey squealed as she spun back to Anya. “Did you see the way he looked at you? And you get to call him ‘Lucas?’”
“He doesn’t like being called ‘Mr. Donovan’ because he’s so young. Hailey”—Anya slouched against her locker, her arms laden with books for the next three classes—“just let it go, okay? We can’t do anything about it anyway.”
Hailey sulked. “Fine. Let’s go. Bell’s about to ring.”
Students had already vacated the halls for the most part, and assumed their positions in homeroom for attendance-taking. Anya glanced over her shoulder and imagined Lucas in his tiny office in the back of the school. Was he reading over her paperwork, obsessively committing her details to memory? Was he staring at the team photo in which they’d both stood in the back, Lucas off to the left and separated from her by one teammate?
Or the likeliest scenario, that he was doing the director’s busywork and not sparing her a single thought.
Chapter Seven
Anya
Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, Anya sat on a table in the fitness room with her right leg sticking straight out. Lucas sprayed Tuf-Skin on her before laying the pads that helped prevent blisters.
“What did you do to your ankle?”
“Sprained it a couple weeks ago.”
“Most common sports injury, you know.” He covered her foot and ankle in pre-wrap from her arch to the bottom of her calf muscle, spraying adhesive here and there to secure it. Not watching him solved nothing; his skillful, firm fingers electrified her skin. “Also,” he said with a smirk, “you’re supposed to tell me.”
“You must enjoy taping up so many girls.”
Lucas side-eyed her, one corner of his mouth still cocked. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think there was a touch of jealousy in that statement.” He placed an anchor of athletic tape around the top of the pre-wrap and another around her arch. Then he made three stirrups with the tape, inside her ankle, under her heel, and attached to the top anchor. “And I know you’re too smart to think I’m allowed to fraternize with the students.”
The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3) Page 6