by Sophia Henry
“Then why do you need a translator?”
The story of what happened in my first night translating must’ve gotten back to Grandpa. Gram never could keep a secret.
“I don’t like speaking with the media. I haven’t mastered reining in my thoughts, giving the correct answers.” Aleksandr shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Then thought better of slouching and straightened up.
Grandpa was going in for the kill. I could feel it.
“I understand that. You’re young and relatively new in the country. How the Pilots spend money is not my business, but I will not allow my granddaughter to be embarrassed and disrespected by a dishonest young punk. You should consider her services a favor since she is assisting you in a situation you don’t want to be in.”
“Yes, Viktor Vladimirovich.” Aleksandr’s swallow was audible.
“I am changing Audushka’s title and job duties to translator and tutor. We will let everyone, including the media, know that in addition to translating, she will help you learn the English language so you will be able to handle your own interviews. It makes sense as she is only in town for the next month.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Aleksandr nodded.
That glow he just had—yeah, that was gone.
“Thank you. And if I ever hear of you embarrassing Audushka when she is being professional and helpful, I will personally pay you a visit. And believe me when I say, I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”
Aleksandr nodded. “I’m very sorry, Viktor Vladimirovich. Please accept my apology as I hope Audushka already has.” He studied the floor.
“Please, call me Dedushka.” Grandpa clapped his shoulder before shuffling off to the kitchen.
Call me Dedushka? He sounded like a frickin’ mobster. Viktor Sopranov.
“And, Sasha?” Grandpa turned around.
Aleksandr whipped his head up. “Yes?”
“How about coming over tomorrow to help an old man with some outdoor work?”
Aleksandr nodded.
“Sorry,” I said, lowering my hand from my mouth. “I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”
“I deserved it.” Aleksandr opened the door and jumped from the porch to the grass. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to turn toward the house again, I shut the front door.
All the time I’d spent trying to keep my attraction to Aleksandr under wraps to avoid creating an uncomfortable work situation—not necessary.
Thanks, Dedushka.
Chapter 11
“I’ll help, too. I’m good at home-improvement projects,” I reminded Grandpa, pulling on a pair of Gram’s old leather driving gloves.
Aleksandr had showed up at our front door at noon the next day. Grandpa immediately put him to work scraping the old chipped paint from our garage. My grandparents were getting ready to put the house on the market in the spring, finally abandoning the city they’d called home for over sixty years.
Grandpa lifted his head from his search for something in the top drawer of his toolbox to flash me an irritated look.
I knew he remembered the time I got sick of the dirty old carpet in my bedroom. I’d assumed there was beautiful hardwood flooring underneath because I didn’t know any better and thought all houses had hardwood flooring under the carpet. So one Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of the house, I’d torn the carpet off the staples, rolled it up, and dragged it out to the curb. I was right about the hardwoods. Uncle Rick installed quarter-round molding and painted a coat of stain, and—boom—beautiful wood floors, just like I’d imagined. Which was fortunate for me.
“You can help with the scraping.” Grandpa handed me a tool with a wide, flat metal head.
“Painting can’t be that hard. I mean, it’s a garage, how good does it have to look?” I asked as I began assaulting the paint that had bubbled and cracked over the years. Aleksandr, already armed with a scraper, toiled beside me.
“That attitude is exactly why you are scraping.” Grandpa winked at Aleksandr and went to work on one of the other sides.
“Rolling my eyes would get me smacked,” I whispered to Aleksandr, glancing over my shoulder to make sure Grandpa was out of earshot.
“He’s right,” Aleksandr said, scraping away. “Just because it’s a garage doesn’t mean it’s not important. Should still look good. Dedushka has pride in his home.”
“That attitude is why he already likes you better than me,” I said in my best Viktor Berezin impression.
Aleksandr hip-checked me. “Likes me? He’s punishing me for playing a prank on you, and you say he likes me?”
“You gotta know Viktor.” I laughed and resumed scraping.
Maybe Aleksandr didn’t see it, because scraping the garage was a punishment, but Viktor loved him. If Viktor hated him, I would no longer have been his translator. Despite the “punishment,” I had a sneaking suspicion Aleksandr liked Grandpa, too. I mean, he was twenty years old. He didn’t have to come over. He could have blown my family off.
“I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t know Grandpa would put you to work. You probably think we’re weirdos.”
“Stop apologizing, Audushka. The joke I pulled was stupid and mean. Grandpa was right to put me in my place.” He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping from his lips. “It’s exactly what my father would have done.”
I snuck a peek at his profile. His mouth turned up, eyes glassy, his nose and cheeks pink from the cold yet sunny December day.
I kept forgetting that Aleksandr was navigating a new country and culture with no family at all. Had jackass always been his personality, or was it his wall of protection? How had he acted around his parents?
When we finished scraping for the day, we went inside to wash the stray flecks of dried paint off our hands. Then we made our way to the kitchen where Gram stood at the stove stirring a saucepan of hot chocolate.
“Smells amazing, Gram.” I hugged her from behind. “Thanks.”
“There’s a plate of graham crackers and apples over there.” She nodded to the counter near the sink, as she poured the steaming liquid into two mugs.
“Do you want to hang out or do you need to get going?” I asked as I shook mini marshmallows into my hot chocolate. It was a game day. He’d come over to scrape after his morning skate.
“I stay a little bit.” He added marshmallows to his drink. “Thank you, Mrs. Berezin.”
“Thank you. You helped us out so much,” Gram told him, as she rinsed out the pan.
I picked up my mug and the plate of food and headed downstairs. Aleksandr followed me with his drink and two napkins.
“This is great,” Aleksandr said. From the bottom of the stairs, he could see the basement in full. The section to the right housed a couch, an old recliner, and a TV. A bumper pool table that my grandparents have had since the seventies took up most of the left side of the room. A table hiding Gram’s sewing machine and a large dresser we used to store out-of-season clothes took up the rest of the space.
It was weird to hang out at my grandparents’ house with a guy. I’d rarely invited friends over when I was in high school. At college, I’d dated a few guys, but no one I would ever bring home to meet them. For some reason, I thought if I ever had a boyfriend there would be very little interaction between him and my grandparents.
Since I’d moved to college, my relationship with my grandparents had improved dramatically. The previous years had constant ups and downs, stemming from my being a grieving child acting out for attention and understanding. There’s a significant difference for those two generations apart. If the time between one generation and the next is considered a gap, the time between nonconsecutive generations is a canyon. How can it not be? My grandparents lived through multiple wars, a depression, and their daughter being killed.
“Thanks.” I set my drink and the plate of graham crackers and apples on the table next to the couch, then pressed the Power button on the TV. The old box hummed, warming up for
about a minute before the picture popped up. It was an ancient TV, but it served its purpose.
“You have Atari?” Aleksandr’s huge, disbelieving eyes focused on the dusty, black rectangle on the floor next to the TV.
I didn’t realize he’d be impressed by that. I didn’t play video games, so upgrading to a Wii or Xbox didn’t make sense. We’d had the Atari for ages. I played it only when my cousins were over.
“Yeah. Do you want to play?” I asked.
“Uh, yes!” He set his drink and the napkins on the table. “I’ve never seen one of these in real life.”
Aleksandr and I settled on the floor in front of the TV, because the joystick cords weren’t long enough to reach the couch. He sat close to me, the outside of his thigh touching mine. It warmed me in the cool, damp basement. My sweaty palms were not a result of holding the joystick. It was a hindrance, actually.
Being in my grandparents’ house made me feel like the timid creature I’d been as a child. I hadn’t been nervous about hanging out with a guy since high school. So why was Aleksandr’s thigh making my palms sweat and my insides flip?
“Watch out for that snake!” Aleksandr grabbed my knee, watching as I expertly maneuvered my Q*bert guy around, illuminating the blocks of the pyramid game board.
“Don’t worry, Coily will eat my dust,” I brushed off his warning.
Aleksandr laughed out loud. “You named the snake Coily?”
“No. That’s his name. The snake is Coily, and the green dude with the sunglasses is Slick, which is totally lame, but who am I to argue with Q*bert’s creators?” I shrugged.
“You’re the best, Audushka,” Aleksandr said in between laughter. He looked past me to the wall. “Is that Tretiak?”
“Yeah.” I nodded without taking my eyes from the TV screen.
I didn’t have to check the wall to know a poster of the greatest Russian goalie of all time hung there. Vladislav Tretiak, Bobby Orr, Henri Richard, and the Production Line (Gordie Howe, Sid Abel, and Ted Lindsay) all hung in poster form on the basement walls. The first three were reproductions of colored drawings that had been made into posters. My grandpa came home with them for me one day. The Production Line poster had been a giveaway at Joe Louis Arena during a Red Wings game I’d attended.
“You keep surprising me.”
“Why? You knew I was a hockey freak.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, not willing to lose a Q*bert life for this conversation.
“I knew that, yes, but I don’t know any girls who have posters of hockey legends on their walls. And I don’t know any Americans who have a Tretiak poster at all,” he explained.
“What can I say? I’ve always had a thing for Russians,” I said without taking my eyes from the screen.
In a flash, Aleksandr tackled me, and his mouth came down on mine. I dropped my joystick, clutching his shoulders to keep from falling over. His tongue was strong as he parted my lips and entered my mouth.
The tinny swearing sounds of Q*bert dying rang out in the background, but I didn’t care. Aleksandr pulled me closer until I was in his lap. The kiss intensified, his tongue rolling over mine, pressing harder, softer, then harder again. My back arched, chest slamming against his when I felt his teeth tug at my lower lip. He pulled away.
“Sorry.” He smirked. He didn’t look sorry at all. His eyes were bright. His lips moist and red. He could devour me.
I wanted him to. I shook my head to shake out the thought.
“Dude, you killed my guy,” I said with a smile, turning my eyes to the screen. A new Q*bert stood at the top of the pyramid ready to bounce.
“You can play mine.” He pushed his controller toward me before climbing onto the couch.
“Nah. I have Atari hand.” I rubbed the spot on my right hand where the base of my thumb and index finger come to a curve.
I leaned over to shut the game console off and joined Aleksandr on the couch. I intended to change the TV channel to one that showed real shows, not just the blue screen, but as soon as I got on the couch, Aleksandr grabbed me from behind and dragged me into him.
“I don’t know if we should start this, Sasha,” I said, my nose brushing his, our lips inches away from another intoxicating kiss.
“We already have, Audushka,” he said, looking into my eyes, expression soft.
“Can we just, I don’t know.” I exhaled, shaking my head. “Take it slow?”
“I’m in no hurry.” He pressed his forehead to mine and dropped a kiss on my nose. Then he slid his arms across my stomach, and we settled into the couch.
I watched his eyes flutter shut. Listening to his breath was peaceful, as it had been when he’d been in my bed. I’d never felt comfortable enough to sleep with anyone, always worried about ridiculous things. Was I too heavy? What if his arm fell asleep? Would I snore? Or worse, drool?
I felt so comfortable with Aleksandr that I honestly didn’t think I’d care if I snored or drooled. With him, I could laugh it off, rather than be mortified.
Snuggled into his chest, I smelled the faint aroma of cloves, which he hadn’t touched the whole time we were outside scraping. Probably didn’t want another strike against him with Grandpa, though I could totally picture Gram asking to bum one.
“Audushka,” Aleksandr whispered in my ear, rubbing my back in a soft swirling motion. “Audushka, you have to wake up.”
I stretched my arms, my body pressing against the length of his. “Hmm?”
“You have to stop doing that, too.” He kissed my neck, just below my jawbone.
I giggled, dropping my chin against his head.
“I need to go, sweet girl. I’ve got to get to the rink. I’m already late.”
“Oh shit.” I sat up, swinging my legs to the ground. He sat up as well.
“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” he whispered into the side of my neck, punctuating his sentence with a kiss. He got up and jogged to the stairs. “See you tonight.”
I lifted a hand and gave him a small smile. Then I fell back on the couch, resting my head on the arm and raising my eyes to the ceiling. My stupid heart hammered against my chest again, though I knew he meant only that he’d see me tonight after the game, when I would be translating and “teaching him English.”
Having an emotional attachment to a guy was new and frightening territory for me. After graduating high school without so much as a first kiss, I’ll admit, I went a little Sex in the City during my first two years of college. If a guy showed interest in me, we went home together. The make-out sessions would get pretty heavy, but I’d never had sex with any of them and I could always walk away. Which speaks volumes for what little self-respect I had at that time. My need for affection was a pathetic casualty of growing up without parents, but I craved it, and I would accept it from anyone willing to give it.
A sexy kissing session with Aleksandr had seemed like the perfect solution, as it was the only way I knew how to release the feeling of caffeinated bees attacking my insides. Unfortunately, the more I kissed and touched Aleksandr, the more I wanted him. The more time I spent with him, the more time I wanted to spend with him. For the first time in my life, I realized I couldn’t continue down the physical road without getting emotionally attached.
And I didn’t know how to handle emotional attachment to a guy.
Could I let myself fall in love with Aleksandr Varenkov when I knew falling caused injuries?
Scraped knees and palms would heal, but what about a lacerated heart?
Chapter 12
What’s that old saying? It’s better to have loved and had your heart raked across hot coals and stomped on than never to have loved at all?
That’s the route I’d decided to take, because saying no never even crossed my mind when Aleksandr invited me to go to the Detroit Red Wings game with him.
The Pilots had a five-day break over Christmas and Aleksandr wanted to see the Red Wings, since he hadn’t had a chance to get to a game yet. As I crunched across the greenish br
own lawn to his Jeep, I reminded myself to be calm and cool. But calm and cool got kicked to the curb when I lifted my eyes to Aleksandr, with his Mohawk gelled into a petite pompadour and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his strong jaw. I climbed over the gearshift to straddle him before intertwining my hands behind his neck and planting my lips on his.
“Best. Greeting. Ever.” Aleksandr said when I pulled back. He swept away a few strands of hair that had fallen forward when I’d attacked him. “You always surprise me.”
A stupid girly giggle slipped out as I climbed over to the passenger seat. As I buckled my seat belt, the realization of what that kiss meant hit me.
There was no turning back. I’d secured the parachute to my back, hopped on the plane, ascended to an altitude 12,500 feet, and jumped out.
Now, I was falling.
“First Red Wings game. Smile!” I snapped a picture of Aleksandr in Joe Louis Arena’s dark, dank parking garage.
“Shouldn’t we wait until we can see the arena?” he asked, blinking rapidly.
“Sorry,” I said and shoved my camera into my purse. Then I grabbed his forearm and hopped up and down. “I’m just so excited for your first game.”
Aleksandr laughed and placed his hand over mine so I couldn’t let go of his arm as he led me toward the walkway to the arena.
After snapping Aleksandr’s picture in front of the massive steps to the arena, we climbed them and entered Joe Louis through the Gordie Howe entrance, named after the Red Wings legendary forward. As we weaved through the Joe’s crowded concourse to find Section 121, Aleksandr came to an abrupt stop.
“Did you know he was going to be here?” he asked, nodding toward a stand where an older man held up multiple game programs. I followed his gaze and saw Drew exchanging a ten-dollar bill for the program.
“No,” I said. Which was true. Drew’s parents have had Red Wings season tickets for as long as I can remember, but he never told me he’d be at the game. Although I hadn’t spoken to him since the soccer game.