“Iisus.” Alex plucked the collar of his T-shirt and flapped it for circulation. “Now I can’t wait to wear nothing but underwear.” They climbed into the air-conditioned car’s back seat, and he let out a loud, affected sigh. “My people aren’t meant for this climate. I grew up two hours from Finland.”
“And yet you spent summers in Spain.”
“I was young and dumb.”
“You’re twenty-seven.” Stephanie pinched the inside of the muscular thigh exposed by breezy seersucker shorts. He closed his hand over hers, holding it there.
“Still young, not as dumb. Also, you seem to be feeling frisky.”
“If we were alone in this car…Well, I’ll let you ponder how that statement ends.”
He darted his tongue over his lips. “I’m already imagining it,” he whispered, and nipped her earlobe.
They arrived at the spacious studio an hour early so Alex could strip down and put on a white terrycloth robe before going into hair and makeup. Exposed brick walls, backdrops, umbrellas, and lamps in one area; in another an armchair, along with a bed draped in white cotton sheets. More lamps and umbrellas.
Alex was sitting in a stylist’s chair. The man who had artfully mussed his hair stepped away, and a woman swooped in to apply the necessary makeup, especially to his facial scars. Another woman was buffing his nails. Stephanie smothered a laugh with her hand. Alex was high-maintenance, but that was a bit much even for him.
He caught sight of her in the mirror as a stylist trimmed the hair at the back of his neck, and stuck out his tongue.
God, I love you. She giggled and turned to a south-facing window through which the massive, Gothic Duomo di Milano, Italy’s largest church, dominated the piazza. She added it to her mental sightseeing list.
Alex, the robe discarded, was lying on the bed in a pair of black briefs while a makeup artist touched up his face. He reclined on his forearms and spread his legs in a provocative pose, ensuring maximum visibility of his bulge. No digital enhancement required. You too can look like this if you wear our briefs, was the subliminal message, except no one would. Not Beckham, not Ronoldo, not Dotto, and certainly not the run-of-the-mill man.
He was kneeling now, canted forward and flashing a dazzling, playful smile. Then back to sexy and brooding, hands behind his head and biceps taut, before changing into a white pair of underwear. They shifted Alex to the chair, where he struck a thoughtful posture, chin on his hand as he gazed to his right. Powerful thighs seductively parted again. Now facing the camera and wearing an unbuttoned white shirt that framed his broad chest and contrasted with its dark hair. He needed little direction, and Stephanie was well acquainted with that simmering gaze. He was giving them exactly what they wanted, because he was thinking about sex.
She lowered her head to hide her smile, grateful there was no exterior analogue to the warm tugs in her belly.
Standing against the brick wall, Alex hooked his thumbs into a pair of boxer briefs and jerked them down to bare more of his V-cut, until the waistband barely concealed his pubic hair. She’d hang that one in her office for sure.
By the time the shoot wrapped, she’d never been so horny. They scrambled into the car and held hands tightly, preventing each other from indulging in a little semi-public grope before they reached the hotel. Alex was gazing at her with his heavy-lidded “I’m going to fuck your brains out” look. She shivered despite the heat.
They all but ran down the third-floor hall, holding hands and laughing like kids. The suite door had barely closed behind them; they were escaping the confines of their clothing and stumbling into the bathroom, the bed entirely too far away, where Alex lifted her onto the marble counter between double basins.
“It was a struggle to keep my hands off you in there,” Stephanie said. But not now, fondling, petting, placating sanguine flesh. Alex grazed his palms over her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. He pulled her legs around his waist, opening her as he dovetailed his body to hers. He slid his hands under her thighs, folding her legs back and pushing deeper; she matched her tempo to the escalating pace of his thrusts. As he unlocked more of her, he braced his hands on either side of her hips, and his mouth found hers again. Stephanie wrapped her arms around his neck. He was groaning, coming hard, each contraction of his cock shooting another hot torrent deep into her.
“You all right?” He was panting as he kissed the spot behind her ear.
“Think I might need some oxygen for a few minutes.”
“Was I doing it too hard? You can tell me if—”
“No. I enjoyed every second of it.” Her fingers dallied over his finely sculpted chest, brushed his hard nipples. “So, this is what I can expect during the off-season? Jetting to Europe while you model underwear? A girl could get used to this.”
Alex chuckled and laid his hands on her thighs. “Wait here.”
He returned a moment later with a white envelope from which he removed two tickets. “Paper is the traditional first-anniversary gift. I did my homework. So, La Bohème at La Scala tonight. Dinner first. Now get a shower and put on your pretty dress.”
“The opera? Fancy.”
“Happy anniversary.” He kissed her and helped her down, then slapped her ass. “Go. I’m going to grab a snack from the lounge to take with my pills.” Alex threw on a T-shirt, swim shorts, and flip-flops, and took a card key. The door snicked shut.
Stephanie ran the concentrator for five minutes before showering. She’d have to take the Jimmy Choo instead of the clutch. Though she preferred neither, there was no getting away with a messenger bag tonight. She retrieved Alex’s anniversary present she had hidden in her suitcase’s interior pocket and tucked it into the black leather shoulder bag.
While Alex showered, Stephanie dressed in a banded, black mermaid gown with glitter-dusted lace overlaid on the bust. Rather than a necklace, she wore the splurge from the sale of her father’s house, a pair of diamond-encrusted, white gold chandelier drop earrings that matched her engagement ring. She twisted around to see her back in the mirror, mentally preparing herself for confrontation with the scar. Until tonight, she’d worn nothing that displayed it to the world and with such prominence, but she’d fallen wretchedly in love with the strapless gown. Even a tomboy needed one beautiful dress.
She curled her lip. The lace capelet would provide sufficient cover.
Alex was belting out something jubilant in Russian. Stephanie snickered and applied as little makeup as she could get away with. Bad enough she had to wear heels.
“Do I look okay?”
He had stepped out and begun toweling off. When he raised his head, his mouth fell open, his eyes sparkling. “Wow,” he whispered and swept her into his arms. “If you ever try to tell me you’re not the most beautiful woman in the world, I will lose my fucking mind. Again.”
Laughing, she burrowed against his sleek shoulder, his skin warm and clean. Alluring. She grudgingly withdrew. “Get dressed or we’ll never make it out of here.”
“I’m strangely okay with that.” He winked and sprayed cologne onto the base of his throat, then a dab under each ear.
She walked back into the main room and reached into the closet for the capelet.
“You don’t need that.” Alex was standing in the bathroom doorway with his fists on his hips, one eyebrow arched.
“The scar is huge.”
“It’s so faded, you can barely see it. And trust me, no one’s even going to notice. They’ll be too busy wishing they were us.”
She cupped his smooth, fresh-shaven cheeks in her hands. “I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’ll never have to find out.” He kissed her palm. “What’s with the giant bag?”
“You’ll find out after the show.”
“Oh? Because after the show I was planning to bring you back here, throw you down on the bed, and ravage you. You know, a proper first anniversary.”
“You mean ravish?”
“Nyet.” Alex’s
mouth kinked up at one corner. “I mean ravage.” He peered into the closet. “Honey, what suit do you think I should wear?”
He’d packed seven of them. “Um…”
“I was thinking the HUGO, but I like the David Donahue too.” He held up each in front of him, both in charcoal gray with a subtle tonal check pattern, to help her better assess the choices. “Or the Versace?” Black with a soft luster. He cocked his head like a confused puppy.
“You’re going to look amazing no matter what.”
“Okay, pick your favorite.”
“Hmm. The David Donahue?”
“Good call. Wait, I’m not done with you yet.” He pointed to his collection of dress shirts and ties. “I was thinking this…” He picked up a white shirt with fine red checks. “And this tie.” Red silk in a circular grid pattern.
“Looks great.”
He kissed her cheek. “Thanks.” Alex dropped his towel and, carrying the suit, strutted to the bed where he laid everything out and inspected for wrinkles.
“Show-off.”
“I know you’re staring at my ass. Might as well give you a good view.”
“Guilty.” Stephanie slapped his toned bottom.
Half an hour later—Alex had needed to do his hair too, after all—his driver chauffeured them to Teatro alla Scala. Cool air coasting down from the Alps granted the evening a reprieve from the day’s heat and hinted at autumn’s impending arrival. Alex escorted her into the restaurant, next to the theater’s main entrance, where the host seated them in red upholstered chairs at a table draped with starched linen and candlelit, amongst shining marble columns. Silverware clinked against plates that cost more than her dress. Scents of rich pasta dishes, of espresso and decadent desserts, floated from the kitchen. Her stomach growled. She kept studying her surroundings, like a child on her first trip to Disney. Her family had been strictly working-class. No European vacations, certainly no opera. No millionaire husbands in either her or Matt’s futures.
“What’s going on in there?” Alex winked.
“I’m a little out of my element.” Realizing she was slouching, Stephanie pressed her back into the chair. She smoothed the bleached cloth napkin over her lap. The recessed lighting in the high ceiling prevented the restaurant from getting too warm, but her palms were damp.
“You’re fine, baby.” He curled his fingers around her hand. “I used to go to the opera with my mother. We’d see every show of the season. She thought if the hockey thing didn’t work out, I could audition as a lyric baritone.” He smiled and sipped his tea. “It’s still weird, and it’s been almost two years. A part of me will always want to be on the ice. I guess it would be easier if…”
“You weren’t Aleksandr Volynsky.”
“It’s like I’m haunted by my own ghost. I had this incredible career, and now it’s over, but I’m only twenty-seven. Most people are settling into their careers at our age, not moving into a new one.”
“You’ll be a great coach. And I’ll be right here with you.”
His soft eyes shone golden in the light. The road rash had left a nasty scar on his face, a darker, thicker patch of skin, yet it granted him an odd symmetry. Both sides damaged, and somehow he had become more beautiful for it.
Alex raised her hand to his lips. Heat radiated through her, and the restaurant faded to a blur until Alex was all that remained. “Thank you for what you did for me. For us. For still being here.” His smile expanded until it had illuminated his eyes and flushed his cheeks.
No Italian masterpiece equaled the beauty of that face, and her breath bottled up in her chest with the potency of his love. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“What about you?” He tilted his head, his steady gaze searching hers. “Decide what you’re going to do?”
“Yes, actually, but I’ll tell you after the show.”
“Intriguing. Well.” He nodded at her pumpkin tortelli. “Eat up. We don’t want to be late.”
The opera house next door was a study in opulence. The neoclassical façade, with a three-bay carriage entrance crowned by pillars and a central pediment, gave way to a luxurious foyer decorated with fluted columns and large mirrors lining the walls. They entered the extravagant auditorium of red velvet, silk, and gilded stucco, on the box level. Hundreds of lamps glimmered in the crystal chandelier. Alex had purchased box two in the first row, overlooking the enormous stage from the destra side.
From the subtitle screen, Stephanie followed the libretto, a tale of love and loss amongst impoverished artists. The lovely, tragic music reminded her of Alex, who looked dashing in his glasses and trim-fit suit. She spent as much of the next three hours sneaking glances at him as watching the opera, feeling like one of the princesses she once loathed and in no small part due to the man beside her. What a fairy tale they had written. Maybe she had earned this happily ever after.
Afterward, they strolled hand-in-hand through the piazza toward Leonardo da Vinci’s white marble monument, luminous in the moon’s soft white light. Alex’s tie hung loose under his collar, the first two buttons undone and the jacket slung over his shoulder. He tossed it onto a bench, then hooked an arm around Stephanie’s waist and twirled with her across the cobblestones. He sang…
“O soave fanciulla, o dolce viso
di mite circonfuso alba lunar
in te, vivo ravviso il sogno
ch’io vorrei sempre sognar!”
She recognized it as the famous duet from La Bohème. A tenor’s role, but Alex’s melodious, agile range allowed him to sing it with ease.
“I know things went sideways this year and you didn’t get to perform, but I really want you to audition next year.”
“Hockey coach by day, opera singer by night. I like it.” He led her to a bench. He rarely complained about it, but the slight grit of his teeth signaled his foot was bothering him. “You had something to tell me.”
“Yes. And give you.” She extracted a blank, leather-bound book with ‘Alex and Stephanie’ hand-painted on the cover from her bag.
Alex flipped it open and stroked his chin. “It’s empty.”
“It’s time we both stop living in our pasts. The story I want to write with you is about everything that comes next for us. You may be a mess, but you’re my mess, and I love you.”
His eyes teared up. “Thank you, Steph.” He brought both her hands to his lips. “By the way, I’m looking forward to working with you again.”
She laughed and elbowed him.
“And you’re right. I’m ready to say goodbye to all of that. You and Anya are my life now.” Alex rose from the bench and extended his hand. “Shall we discuss this new life of ours over gelato?” he asked as they strolled away from Leonardo. “Or perhaps a bottle of fine wine.”
“How about both?”
“Smart woman. You know how much I love you, right?”
Stephanie fastened her arm around his. “Likewise.”
In the moonlight and the white lights strung through the trees, in the eyes that had seen far too much yet never lost faith in true love, was the boy who had shared those first enchanted moments with her eleven years ago. The boy who had silently sworn his life to hers. For as much as they had changed, love never did. Love never would.
And she was never letting him go again.
“Or we go back to the hotel,” he was saying, “order room service, and FaceTime Jacob so we can talk to the baby girl.”
“I like that even more.”
“I really miss her.” Alex swung their linked hands as they walked. “I was thinking, this is nice, and I love being alone with you again, but…”
“Want to go home?”
He chewed on his bottom lip. “What if all three of us went somewhere? I don’t even know where to go with a baby. I didn’t really think about this stuff until now.”
“Our first vacation as a family. It’s kind of a big deal.”
Alex kissed her. “Let’s see what Anya thinks. Come on.” His laughter ringing out,
bouncing off the ancient buildings, he broke into the fastest run a man with a permanent limp could rally. “Race you!”
Stephanie kicked off her high heels. Dangling them from her fingers, she sucked in a deep breath and chased him over the cobblestones.
The End
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Acknowledgments
The National Hockey League, The Players’ Tribune, the women of Hockey with Heart, Christine Tovey, the people too numerous to name who have supported The Firebird Trilogy along the way, and Tim Waggoner.
About the Author
Jennifer Loring’s short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines, webzines, and anthologies, including Crystal Lake Publishing’s Tales from the Lake vol. 1. DarkFuse published her novella Conduits in 2014, and Omnium Gatherum released her debut novel, Those of My Kind, in May 2015. Firebird, the first book in The Firebird Trilogy, was published in October 2015 by Limitless Publishing. Jenn is a member of the International Thriller Writers and holds an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. She lives in Philadelphia, PA, with her husband, their turtle, and two basset hounds.
What's Left Of Me (The Firebird Trilogy Book 2) Page 21