In keeping with the Gladiators colors, Alex dressed in a navy wool suit with a medallion-patterned blue silk tie and brown alligator derbies. Anya had assured him he looked handsome and his speech was perfect. Or “on point.” Something like that.
“Don’t be nervous, Dad. You’re going to slay.”
“I am?” He cocked his head. “Is that something I want to do?”
Anya giggled and did a little pirouette. “What do you think?”
She’d dressed in a black, sleeveless chiffon jumpsuit with ruffles falling around the waist. “Adorable,” a word she’d forbidden from his vocabulary when referencing her, sprang to mind. “Beautiful, of course. Ready?”
“Are you?”
“Nyet.” He laughed and locked the front door behind them.
“I’ll be right there with you.”
He clutched her hand as they walked to the driveway and the BMW. What I wouldn’t give to be twenty-five again, not caring what came out of my mouth. Then again, that tendency had almost cost him the one thing that mattered.
A sold-out crowd, he learned when they arrived at the arena. They sneaked around to the VIP entrance, trailed by a substantial contingent of fans and media. He signed a few autographs and posed with Anya for several newspaper and magazine photos before they ducked inside. He was still clinging to her for dear life and using the mental techniques his therapist had taught him to combat his anxiety. Challenging the self-sabotaging automatic thoughts that popped into his head assuring him of failure. Committing to telling a joke and moving on if he froze up. Taking deep breaths. Starting the speech would be the hardest part; after that, his hours of preparation and practice all but guaranteed smooth sailing.
They waited in the tunnel as a video of his career highlights played on the Jumbotron over center ice, the crowd bellowing and the memories flooding back as fresh as if he’d retired yesterday. The images flickered in Anya’s blue eyes, and she squeezed his hand.
The PA announcer gave a short speech introducing one of Alex’s old teammates, who then introduced Alex. The butterflies morphed into nausea. His name, their cue to walk a black carpet onto ice lit with the Gladiators logo. Anya sat on a folding metal chair beside the GM and president, while Alex continued to the podium amid a standing ovation. He stopped to wave at each side of the arena, then put on his glasses and waited for the noise to die down. The blinding spotlight focused on him.
“Good evening, and thank you so much for that welcome. I couldn’t be more honored or grateful to be a part of the Gladiators Hall of Fame.
“I want to start by thanking the Gladiators organization. They took a chance on an eighteen-year-old Russian kid, and the fact I was eventually able to help bring home the Cup”—explosive cheers and applause—“is of course the highlight of my career. Thank you to all the coaches and trainers who made sure I was in my best playing condition every night for seven seasons.” Alex took a sip of water. The sweat was everywhere—under his arms, on the back of his neck, his palms. Heart battering its way into his throat. The arena lurched a little. Deep breath. Just keep breathing.
“Of course, I need to thank my parents back in Russia, whose love and sacrifices made it possible for me to achieve my dream. I’d also like to thank my team. As you all know, an injury forced me to retire from playing at twenty-six, but the Gladiators gave me a home again as an assistant coach. And on that note, I need to thank someone who is no longer with us.” His voice cracked. He lifted his glasses and wiped his eyes. “My wife, Stephanie, passed away from cancer last year, but I know she would be so proud. Because of her and our eighteen amazing years together, I’m the person I am today. I love you, baby, and I know you’re smiling down on me right now.”
Alex paused, grateful for a chance to compose himself, as the crowd cheered a woman they’d never met. How sorry he was for them. He glanced back at Anya, who blotted her eyes and gave him a thumbs-up. The fear plateaued and began its leisurely but steady decline down the other side of Panic Mountain; she’d forgotten she’d be telling him “up yours” if she flashed that gesture in Russia. He suppressed a laugh.
“And of course, the best thing I ever made—my daughter, Anya. I’ve always been just ‘Dad’ to you, and as happy as I am to be here tonight, it doesn’t compare to how happy you make me every day. You are truly an angel, baby girl.” He blew her a kiss and Anya mimed catching it as she had when she was a child.
“Last but definitely not least, to the best fans in the league.” That prompted the longest, loudest cheers of all. “Your passion and energy brought the Cup here as much as those of us on the ice did. You didn’t accept defeat, and you held us accountable when we weren’t performing to our abilities. You demanded our best, and I hope I gave you that for seven years.” Home stretch. You got it. “Thank you all so much for the memories, for your support, and for this night. I wasn’t always a modest man, but I am humbled to be chosen as the newest inductee to your Hall of Fame. Thank you all for everything, and let’s go Gladiators!”
Alex stepped away from the podium and raised a hand to the crows before Anya rushed into his arms. Deafened by the arena’s commotion, he closed his eyes and hugged his baby girl.
“You’re right, Dad. She would be so proud of you. Just like I am.” She removed his glasses and wiped his face with a tissue.
“Spasiba, devochka.” He kissed the top of her head. Alex escorted her to the painting of himself—young, unbroken, in full Gladiators uniform—which the staff presented him along with a bust, and they posed for a photo op.
The Gladiators were halfway through warmups when Alex and Anya arrived at the luxury suite, where the president, GM, several alumni, and their spouses awaited them. Alex exchanged hugs and handshakes as he worked the room, introducing Anya to those few who hadn’t met her.
“Holy shit.” He grinned at the familiar mop of now-graying ginger hair. “Jacob!”
“Hey, man. Wouldn’t have missed it.” Jacob set his beer on a high-top table and yanked him into a hug. “And this beautiful young woman can’t possibly be Anya. You weren’t even out of diapers the last time I saw you.”
Anya smiled and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“How have you been?” Alex asked. “Where’s Nicole?”
Jacob’s expression grew thoughtful, even somewhat bleak. “Her dad’s sick, so she couldn’t make it. Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But she sends her love. And her condolences.”
Alex ordered a club soda for himself and a Coke for Anya from a passing server, and the three of them sat at the bar overlooking the ice. “Thank you.”
“How are you holding up? When I heard the news…” The morose twist of Jacob’s mouth supplied a physical analog for Alex’s heart. “It’s so unfair. She was a hell of a woman.”
“Da. She was. The best.” Alex swirled the ice in his cup. I can’t keep having this conversation. Not here. Not tonight. “What are you up to these days?”
“Doing some pee-wee coaching, and playing the annual alumni game. Golfing. Enjoying retirement. I’m turning fifty next year. You believe that shit?”
“Forty-five for me.” He laughed and crunched an ice cube. “I feel your pain.”
“Anya”—Jacob swiveled toward her and inclined around Alex—“you must be a senior now.”
“Yep.”
“Damn. Playing hockey like your old man, I hear.”
“Hopefully I’ll be as good someday.” She smiled up at him and laid her cheek on his shoulder. So few of these moments remained, and so much terror at the prospect of the infinite unknown he faced once she left.
The PA announcer welcomed the Gladiators’ anthemist, Hannah Kent, to the ice. She’d been singing the anthem for a decade, her voice one of the few Alex enjoyed. A strong alto who had released a number of albums both on labels and independently, she’d even scored a couple of prime-time TV shows.
Ten minutes later, the suite attendant was pointing him out
to her as she stood in the doorway scanning the room. He’d pivoted away from the ice to order dinner and spotted her, her Gladiators T-shirt embellished with a sequined logo that threw off sparks in the low light. Sun-kissed, tousled brown hair grazed her collarbone. Alex was crossing the room before he realized he’d gotten up.
“Oh! There you are. It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m—”
“Hannah Kent. Of course. Best anthemist in the league.” Alex closed his fingers around her warm hand. “My pleasure.”
“I’ve seen a few of your performances. Your voice is incredible. Why did you play hockey again?” Her eyes crinkled at the corners, her defined cheekbones rising even higher.
“Apparently, I was good at it.” Alex gestured to indicate the suite and chuckled. “Can I get you a drink?”
“The sangria, please.”
He stopped a server and placed the order, as well as those for his and Anya’s dinners.
“Must be your daughter over there. Trying to set me on fire with her eyes.”
“What—oh. Excuse me for a moment.” He shuffled back to the bar and towered over Anya, his arms crossed.
“Uh-oh.” Jacob winked and slid off the stool. “I’ll let you two talk.”
“Care to tell me what that look is for?”
Anya scowled, showing her teeth. “You. Hannah Kent. Making googly eyes at each other.”
“You said you wanted me to make new friends.”
“Not, like, girlfriends. Not in front of me.”
“Anya. Baby.” Alex took his seat beside her. “The last thing I’m interested in is a girlfriend. I’m not done grieving Mom, and I’m not at all ready for a new relationship. Okay?”
“You’re attracted to each other. Just like you were attracted to the assistant coach at Mercy Hill.”
“I look. It doesn’t mean I’m interested. You see a cute guy, does it mean you want to date him?”
“Usually.”
Alex laughed and slapped Anya’s knee. “Well, it’s a little different when you’re older. When all the hormones have settled down and you want more than just someone who’s nice to look at.”
Anya had gone somewhere in her head, the way her mother used to. No doubt thinking about the mystery boy and evaluating whether what Alex had said applied. “I’m sorry, Dad. I’m being immature.”
“You’re being my daughter.”
“Do you think you will meet someone someday? Someone who makes you feel the way Mom did?” She didn’t meet his gaze as she asked. Afraid the answer already lurked there.
“No one will ever make me feel the way she did. But…I don’t know, baby. I’m only forty-four. I’d like to think I’m not going to spend the second half of my life alone. At the same time, I can’t imagine spending it with anyone but your mom.” The magnetism of that dream world was too strong for him to trust he wouldn’t bet it all on something with the even the slimmest real-life resemblance. Better to remain secluded. Safe. “Seeing as how that’s impossible…I really don’t have an answer.”
“She’s coming.” Anya jerked her chin toward Hannah, who was approaching with sangria in hand.
“I don’t want to keep you from your guests, and honestly, I just stopped by to meet you. Do you have a card? I’d love to talk music with you sometime.”
“Da, sure.” Alex retrieved his wallet from his jacket’s inner pocket and handed her a business card. He’d obsessed for hours over the design of the damned things. Ultra-thick or standard? Raised print? Metallic finish? Glossy, matte, or linen? Who the hell even cared when most of them ended up in recycling bins? He didn’t own a business to speak of; that was the best part. The occasional pop-up piano lesson downtown or children’s hockey coaching gig hardly qualified. A vanity piece, those cardstock rectangles.
“Great. I’ll be in touch. It’s nice to meet you, Anya.”
Anya’s tight-lipped smile threatened to split her face, her eyes disengaged from it, its insincerity evident from across the arena. Possibly the solar system.
“All right. Enjoy your night, you two.”
“Spasiba, Hannah.”
The server set down a house-blend cheeseburger and pomme frites—“God, they’re French fries,” she groaned whenever she saw them on a menu—for Anya, a Wagyu flat-iron steak and whipped garlic potatoes for Alex. The tension was thicker than the slab of bacon on her burger, and he knew his daughter well enough to recognize this wasn’t about Hannah more than superficially but about her mysterious, nameless would-be boyfriend. The logical conclusion? A teacher a year or two out of college. Forbidden love. Perfectly normal. Sweet, even, as long as it stayed one-sided. Her unwillingness to discuss it, however, niggled at his fatherly instincts.
“Sweetheart, whatever is on your mind, you know you can tell me.”
“I know, Dad.” She chomped on her burger with a teenager’s ravenous appetite.
Alex watched her until she gave him the stink-eye. He let the issue drop as he cut into his steak and the Gladiators riled up the crowd by snatching the lead.
***
Anya
Dad had ordered a pre-prepared Thanksgiving dinner for four, though as far as Anya knew, it was just the two of them this year. Mom had loved to regale their guests with the story of how he nearly burned down his Seattle condo in his first—and only—attempt at cooking Thanksgiving dinner for her. Given the extra food, and Dad not being fond of leftovers (Anya, meanwhile, was already drooling over the prospect of hot turkey sandwiches slathered in gravy), she wondered if he’d invited Hannah Kent behind her back. Or the extra food was simply an acknowledgment of Anya’s passion for sandwiches. As he began plating, however, no one else had shown up. Until the doorbell rang.
Anya, laying out the silverware, shot Dad a questioning look as he sliced the turkey. He lifted his shoulders and spread his hands out wide from his body, palms forward, in his patently Russian way. Anya answered it.
Her mouth dried out. Her tongue grew twice its size.
“So…happy Thanksgiving?” Lucas tipped his head and poked a finger into her arm.
“How did you…”
“Your paperwork.”
Of course. He didn’t have to put much effort into finding her. Maybe he stopped by every teammate’s house to wish them a happy holiday.
Lucas gave her one of those half-smiles, ambiguous and asymmetrical. Unfinished yet an invitation to…what? “I already know this is a bad idea, but I’ve been less than friendly lately, and—”
“Anya?” Dad’s resounding voice floated into the foyer. “Who is it, milaya?”
“And that’s the big guy, huh?”
“Yeah. Come in. Dad, get an extra plate ready.” She led Lucas, carrying a bottle of something in a paper bag, into the kitchen. “We have company. This is Lucas. He’s our new athletic trainer. Lucas, Aleksandr.”
The carving knife plunged through the turkey’s crispy golden skin and straight into the cutting board. Dad’s nostrils flared, and two red spots glowed like dwarf stars in his cheeks.
“Uh…it’s nice to meet you, Mr. Volynsky. I brought a bottle of—”
“I don’t drink,” he snapped, his voice taut and brittle.
“Right.” Lucas scratched the back of his neck. “More for me, I guess? Can I help with anything?”
“I think we’ve got it covered.” His lips stretched tight over his teeth, ready to bite. “Thank you.”
“Dad!” Anya stage-whispered.
He pursed his lips. She expected steam to puff out of his ears and nose like an angry cartoon character. “This is what you’ve been hiding from me?”
“There’s nothing to hide!”
The poor turkey had become the unwitting victim of Dad’s ire. He flayed it into a dozen thick slices, each one choppier than the last. When it began disintegrating altogether, a stream of Russian invective followed. “Then why wouldn’t you tell me who he was?”
“Because this is how you act!”
Lucas was pretending not to
listen as he admired the view from the patio doors, and at a safe distance from Dad’s carving knife. “Nice house, Mr. Volynsky.”
“Thank you. Dinner is ready.” Dad set out the plates, delivered the side dishes and mangled turkey to the table, and assumed his position at the head of it. He placed Lucas’s plate across from Anya rather than beside her. “So. Lucas.” Dad trained his focus on his dinner. The heat of his glare could have recooked his food. “You work for the school.”
“Yes, sir. I graduated in May with a master’s in athletic training and moved here from Erie.”
“You’re how old?”
“Twenty-two. I graduated from high school at seventeen and did a three-plus-two program for my master’s.”
Dad was right. Nothing sexier than a brain.
“Play any sports?”
He would ask that question. According to him, only another athlete understood the required dedication, the time away from friends and family, the sacrifices inherent in a pro sports career. It was why so many of their marriages failed. Anya had wondered on occasion whether his and Mom’s would have withstood the challenges if he’d never been injured. If they’d have gotten married at all in that case.
“I was a swimmer.” Lucas’s shoulders tensed. He spun his fork back and forth. “I don’t swim anymore.”
“Hmm.” Dad sawed at a turkey slice until his knife scored the ceramic with an ear-splitting screech, and harpooned it with his fork. “Are you trying to sleep with my daughter?”
Anya blew a mouthful of water into her stuffing.
“Because I can’t for the life of me fathom why else she would invite her athletic trainer to Thanksgiving dinner. And why he agreed to come.”
“Oh my God, Dad!”
Lucas blanched. “Um…I should go, then…”
The Pieces Of Us (The Firebird Trilogy Book 3) Page 8