Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel

by Sophia Henry

  “What kind of job is it?” I asked, keeping any smart-mouth comments to myself. Didn’t feel like ticking him off today.

  “Translating.” Grandpa folded the newspaper into a rectangle and set it next to his NOT ONLY PERFECT, BUT RUSSIAN, TOO coffee mug.

  My grandfather, Viktor Berezin, was a retired Russian language professor at a state university outside of Detroit. He’d taken on various translating jobs for friends and coworkers his whole life and had set me up with small projects since my junior year of high school. The work hadn’t been difficult; translating documents or contracts from Russian into English or vice versa. It was great money for a teenager, since it paid better than babysitting or a part-time retail job.

  “Documents?” I asked.

  “For a person. He doesn’t know much English, and he needs a translator to speak with the media for his job. You will help him.”

  “He speaks with the media for his job? Is he super-high profile?”

  “In some circles, I suppose.” Grandpa shrugged.

  “You trust me to be someone’s PR person? I have a pretty smart mouth, you know,” I joked, shoveling more cereal into my mouth.

  “I’m counting on it, Audushka.”

  “Is he an actor? A model?” I pushed my empty cereal bowl to the side. “Wait! Is he some kind of dignitary?”

  “I think I’d handle the dignitary if he were one.” Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. “He’s a hockey player.”

  “A hockey player,” I repeated. “For the Red Wings?”

  Excitement bubbled in my stomach. I’d been a Detroit Red Wings fan since before I could speak. Being a translator for a Russian player on my favorite team in the history of the universe would complete my life.

  “Not that high profile.” Grandpa laughed. “He plays for the Pilots.”

  A minor-league player? The bubbles in my stomach fizzled and popped, and my tense, excited shoulders dropped.

  “Where am I meeting him?”

  “You will meet Zhenya at Robinson Arena at noon.”

  Grandpa was talking about his lifelong friend, Evgeny Orlenko. Zhenya is the Russian term of endearment for the name Evgeny. Personally, I thought of Orlenko as an uncle, since he and Grandpa were as close as brothers. Professionally, he was a sports agent who represented a number of Russian hockey players. According to recent documents I’d translated, he’d peppered his clientele list with a few basketball players as well.

  “Hey, Gram,” I greeted my grandmother, who had just walked into the tiny kitchen with the electric lighted mirror she swore by.

  For someone who didn’t approve of her kids or grandkids being vain, Gram was pretty concerned with her looks. She never wore foundation or mascara, but her cheeks were always powdered and her lips were never without lipstick in public. Her fair skin was wrinkled with soft lines, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of her features. Her blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones were complimented by perpetually dark blond hair, thanks to the magic of hair dye. She would’ve been beautiful even if she’d let her hair go gray. I could only hope I got some of those graceful-aging genes.

  “What time did you get home last night?” Gram asked, setting the mirror on the table and flipping it to the ultra-magnifying side before stooping to plug it in.

  “Around one-thirty, I guess.”

  “I can tell. You’re puffy.” She reached over to pat my cheek before turning to inspect her own face in the mirror.

  Thanks, I thought. I didn’t dare say it out loud. My grandparents and I had a better relationship since I’d left for college than we ever had when I was growing up. Didn’t want to mess up a good thing. “Where are you off to?”

  “It’s my week to clean the church,” Gram answered as she slicked a rose shade across her lips. Then she patted the skin under her eyes with her fingers and turned the mirror’s light off.

  “Do you need any help?”

  “Pat and Emma will be there, but thank you for asking.”

  My breath of relief was almost audible. I hadn’t been back to church since I’d left my grandparents’ house two years ago. Just thinking about the place made me itchy.

  I slid out of my seat, tapped my inseams together with a flourish, and straightened my arms at my sides.

  “Are you going to tell me my client’s name or is this a super-secret mission, Sir?” I asked in a military monotone.

  My grandpa shook his head, picked up the newspaper, and straightened it out. “Don’t know it. I just told Zhenya you’d be happy to do it.”

  “Super secret. Got it. I won’t let you down, Sir.” I saluted him. Still staring straight ahead, I waited to be excused.

  Grandpa lowered the paper. “Is there something else?”

  “May I be excused? I have to shower and dress for the mission.”

  “You are a ridiculous girl, Audushka.” He dismissed me with a shake of his head.

  “Auden, you’re only home for a month. Please try not to drive your grandfather crazy,” my grandma said.

  With a salute to both of them, I ignored her warning. I’d driven my grandpa crazy years ago.

  I thought Grandpa would continue to reward my almost-native knowledge of reading, writing, and speaking Russian by giving me tedious translating projects my whole life. I never expected him to allow me to work directly with a client, let alone a client in the public eye. Maybe he had more faith in me than I realized.

  —

  I arrived at Robinson Arena fifteen minutes early to prove that I took my first translating assignment with an actual human to heart. There was no doubt Evgeny Orlenko would report my professionalism, or lack thereof, to Grandpa. My mission, other than translating, was to keep my grandpa’s stellar reputation intact.

  I spotted Orlenko waiting for me at the top of the stairs, outside the main entrance to the arena.

  “Audushka!” He leaned in to kiss my cheeks, as was Russian custom, but he stopped himself and offered me his leather-gloved hand instead. I shook it firmly. “We’ll keep this professional, yes? It’s good to see you again.”

  “Good to see you, too, Mr. Orlenko,” I responded as a smile crept across my face.

  Orlenko wasted no time getting to business, greeting me with the Russian-inspired diminutive of my name and continuing the conversation in his native language. I threw my grandpa a mental fist-bump for teaching me Russian so well I could’ve been born and raised in Moscow.

  “Your destiny awaits,” he said with a wink, holding a heavy blue door open. “Tell me how you got Vitya to give you this assignment. I thought he’d have you translating contracts until you were a little old lady.”

  Since only Orlenko called Grandpa by his diminutive, Vitya, I had to think for a minute. My grandma, being of Irish descent, doesn’t use diminutives—or any nicknames. She called Grandpa only by two names: Viktor or Horse’s Ass.

  “I have no clue. I thought the same thing, except I always throw in some cats. Little old cat lady translating Pushkin and Tolstoy until her arthritic hand falls off.”

  Orlenko’s deep laugh echoed through the empty concourse as we entered the arena. When the heavy door slammed shut, the frigid air hit my exposed skin, sending an involuntary ripple from my fingertips to my toes.

  “You will be spending quite a bit of time here, so you may want to dress for warmth,” Orlenko said.

  I nodded. Wearing a black skirt suit for a job at an ice arena hadn’t been the smartest decision, but it was the only suit I owned, so I didn’t have another option. Maybe my grandparents would take pity on me and spot me some cash for appropriate work attire.

  I followed Orlenko through the arena’s concourse and down a few long hallways into the dank, fluorescent-lit basement.

  Stan Martin, Michigan furniture store guru and owner of the Pilots, was in the process of having a brand-new downtown arena built in the city, but it wouldn’t open until next fall. Until then, the Pilots called Robinson Arena home. A state-of-the-art arena in its heyday, Robinson had
become a massive eyesore over its thirty-five-year existence. And I’d only observed it from the exterior.

  The basement gave deteriorating a whole new meaning. The floors, walls, and ceilings showed their age as numerous cracks and chips marred the painted concrete surfaces. The Pilots logo, a black and blue plane, sparkled in comparison, having been stenciled onto the walls within the last two years. The logo guided us down the hall like we were jets lurching forward on a runway waiting for our turn to take off.

  Just when I thought I’d get lost in the maze of dull white walls, we turned right into a hallway covered in light wood paneling and historic team photographs hiding the grubby concrete. Massive, red double doors with the Pilots logo welcomed us at the end of the hallway. Above the logo was a sign: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

  Before we entered the locker room, a ripple of pride rushed through me. I felt like a true professional.

  And then I watched Orlenko try to pull open the door. It barely budged, so he grabbed the long, thin handle and tugged it with what I’d guess was all two hundred fifty pounds of his weight. If I did that every day, I’d yank my arms out of their sockets.

  Undeterred, I took a deep, optimistic breath before following him into the locker room, where the stench of sweaty hockey gear immediately assaulted my senses.

  Now I understood why Dedushka gave me this assignment. Well played, Grandpa. Well played.

  Instead of focusing on the smell, I took in the surroundings of my new “office.” Tall, open oak lockers spanned three walls of the compact room. The space might not have been that small, but it seemed that way with all the large bodies crammed into it.

  Large men’s bodies.

  Large men’s bodies in various states of undress.

  Fully clothed men—and women—with cameras, microphones, and handheld recording devices filled the room, as well. The media.

  Keep your eyes up. I couldn’t be caught staring at the men with towels wrapped inches below muscular abs. Abs that must have taken more than eight minutes a day to chisel out.

  Orlenko weaved his way through the swarm of people to the back wall of the locker room. He stopped behind a group of reporters and tapped a short cameraman on the shoulder. I couldn’t see the player who was being swarmed by the media, but judging from the nameplate attached to the locker, it was my client.

  VARENKOV.

  “Excuse me,” Orlenko interrupted the stream of questions being directed at the guy I still couldn’t see. “Aleksandr is done with questions for today. Thank you.”

  I rose up on my toes, craning my neck to get a glimpse of my client before the crowd dissipated. No such luck, until the two men in front of me who’d been blocking my vision excused themselves and inched past.

  “Couldn’t resist my package?” a voice asked in Russian.

  I jerked my head up and locked eyes with Crazy Hair from the karaoke bar.

  And he was half naked.

  Chapter 3

  I’m pretty sure there were only two ways Crazy Hair could have looked better than he had at O’Callaghan’s. The first was as he did right now: sitting on a bench in the locker room wearing nothing but the lower half of his uniform, including his skates, sweat rolling over his sinewy pecs and creating a happy trail all the way into his hockey pants.

  The second way—I can only assume—would be if he were completely naked.

  “Aleksandr, this is Auden Berezin. She will be your translator.”

  “I don’t need a translator.”

  I almost laughed, because he’d said he didn’t need a translator in Russian.

  “You must talk with the media at some point, Sasha. They’re riding my ass to get better answers from you than ‘was good game.’ ”

  Aleksandr Varenkov, hot Russian hockey god, laughed, showing the perfect set of white teeth I’d noticed at the bar.

  “You have your teeth in, but you haven’t even showered yet?” Orlenko asked.

  Was Orlenko a mind reader? I sure hope not, because I would be fired for thinking about my client naked.

  “I wanted to look good for pictures.” Aleksandr winked at me. Then he stood, and drops of sweat raced down the hard planes of his chest.

  I’d never been so envious of perspiration in my life.

  “Sometimes I talk in the shower. Will she translate for me in there?”

  My cheeks began to burn, so I averted my eyes, lowering them to the black Cyrillic script tattooed down his sides, then thought better of that line of sight and studied the soiled beige carpet below my feet.

  “Aleks—” Orlenko sighed, rubbing his forehead.

  “Zhenya,” Aleksandr began. “You know I’m kidding, yes?” He shoved a towel onto the shelf above his nameplate and walked away without waiting for an answer.

  “Yes,” Orlenko hissed. He’d said it under his breath, but I heard him and wondered what my grandpa had gotten me into. “Well, that was Aleksandr Varenkov, your client. He’s a talented player and a good man. But he can be a little—”

  “Douchey?” I offered in English. I shouldn’t have said it, considering Grandpa’s professional reputation was in my hands. Then again, Evgeny Orlenko was Grandpa’s friend first, so maybe he wouldn’t be too hard on me. Besides, Grandpa knew what kind of mouth I had, and he’d sent me for the job anyway.

  Orlenko laughed, and continued in Russian. “Wild was the word I was looking for, but your adjective may not be that far off.”

  “I’ve got it, Mr. Orlenko.”

  “Are you sure?” He inspected me through thick black-rimmed glasses that were too small for his puffy face.

  “As a college student with an active social life, I’ve learned how to handle arrogant douche bags.” This time I was being paid to handle one.

  “I shouldn’t be having this conversation about one of my clients,” Mr. Orlenko said, his lips quirking up, then back into a tight line. At least he was trying to keep a straight face. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, Audushka. I hope you stay that way even with his off-ice antics.”

  Off-ice antics? What the hell did that mean and why would I have to deal with them? “Will I have to hang out with him outside of the arena? I thought I was here to translate for media interviews after games and some practices.”

  “Aleksandr speaks very little English. He’ll need your assistance in all aspects of his career; interviews, community service. At least, until he gets acclimated. Vitya said you were here for the month, is that correct?”

  “Yep. All of winter break.”

  “You’ll be putting in a lot of hours.”

  “I’m a hard worker. And I need the cash. Got cut from the soccer team, and I have to replace the scholarship money I lost.” I was running my mouth again. Maybe I did need to tone it down.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. The being-cut part.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s my card. I wrote my cell number on the back. If you have any trouble or if Aleksandr makes you uncomfortable in any way, please give me a call.”

  “Thanks.” I scanned the card wondering if I should try to memorize his number now, since I wasn’t sure how stable this client sounded.

  After Orlenko left the locker room, I realized I hadn’t asked him what I should do next, and he hadn’t given me instructions as to where I should wait while Aleksandr showered. Since I wasn’t part of the media, I was extremely aware of being the intruder standing in a room of half-naked men. A shower shouldn’t take very long, so I dug my e-reader out of my messenger bag and sat down on the stool that Aleksandr had just vacated.

  “Ewww.” I jumped up and skimmed my palm against my damp backside. Hadn’t even thought about any runaway sweat that might’ve dripped from Aleksandr’s lean, hard body onto the stool.

  Stop. Just stop thinking about the shiny, wet flesh covering his impeccably carved frame.

  As I didn’t see a cleaner choice within reach, I pinched the funky-smelling towel Aleksandr had shoved into his locker with my thumb and index finger and removed it w
ith caution. Then I batted at any remaining sweat drops on the seat, though I was sure my skirt had absorbed most of the moisture.

  I’d always been under the impression that guys were fast at showering, but Aleksandr took forever. Forty-five minutes had passed according to the clock on my tablet. I couldn’t help but scan the room a few times, catching odd looks from some of the guys. I ignored their questioning eyes and kept my head down.

  When Aleksandr finally came out, an hour and a half later, the locker room had cleared significantly.

  “Couldn’t find your lipstick?” I asked.

  “Excuse me?” Aleksandr readjusted the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, in a gray, high-neck military-style peacoat; a crisp, white button-down; and dark blue jeans.

  Though I’d asked my original question in Russian, I clarified with my next sentence. “You took so long. I thought you were putting on your face.”

  “Funny,” he said without a smile. “I always ride the bike after the game.” He reached over me and shoved something onto the shelf above my head. “What are you doing?”

  “Reading.” I held up my e-reader as proof.

  “At my stall?”

  “Well, neither you nor Mr. Orlenko told me where to go, so I waited for you. Right here, where you both left me.”

  This time Aleksandr laughed. “I’m glad Zhenya got me a devoted translator.”

  “So, what now? Looks like all the media is gone. Should I come back tomorrow?”

  “No. Now, we get to know each other.”