She signed in at the desk, then as soon as the guard confirmed her visit with Aleksandr, pushed the Up button on the elevator. Alone inside the stainless-steel car, all the way to the twenty-second floor, she laid a hand over her stomach as if to settle the anxiety colonizing her.
Sweat erupted on her palms and under her armpits as she stepped out. So much for forty-eight-hour protection, Dove. She stared at Unit 2204 for a good half a minute before working up the nerve to knock.
Aleksandr was wearing jeans and a Seattle Earthquakes T-shirt meant to convince the media he gave a shit about his new team. No shoes or socks. His black hair was cut into a modern pompadour shaped with the meticulousness of a high-maintenance metrosexual. The ends of his sideburns lined up precisely with the bottom of the circular notch inside his ears, the hair blended tight to his face in a natural shape. A tiny silver hoop gleamed in each earlobe. The bruise around his eye was fading to yellow.
He was beautiful.
His up-and-down appraisal of her did not escape her attention, either. Nor did the way he put his hands in his pockets, a subconscious framing and emphasizing of his genitals. He was unaware of her proficiency in reading body language and microexpressions.
“Come in.” He stepped aside and allowed her to pass. The short entryway led to an open-concept living space and kitchen with dark hardwood floors. Waning sunlight permeated the southeast-facing floor-to-ceiling windows. Even on an overcast day, he wouldn’t have to turn on a light. Beyond lay a postcard view of the Cascade Mountains. A glass case situated between bookshelves displayed his many NHL trophies and other career milestones. The puck with which he’d scored his first NHL goal as an eighteen-year-old rookie, the tape around the edge reading: ‘Volynsky 1st NHL Goal vs. Ottawa’, along with the Calder from the same season. The silver medal from Team Russia’s most recent Olympic performance and gold from the World Juniors Championship. The Hart Trophy, the Art Ross, the Conn Smythe. On the top shelf, the diamonds in his Stanley Cup Champion ring glittered in the light. A large painting of a bird whose red, yellow, and orange plumage flamed against a star-speckled, black background decorated the wall above the steel-gray linen sectional.
“Zhar-ptitsa,” he said behind her. “Both a blessing and a curse to the one who captured it, but a bringer of hope to those who needed it.”
She turned, but he was already striding toward the kitchen.
“You have no real folklore here. No magic. I always felt very sad for you.”
“If you hate America so much, why stay?”
“I didn’t always hate it. As you know.” A sardonic smile tweaked his mouth. “Are we going to pretend now? Does it make you feel better?”
She glared at him. “You have a beautiful place.” Beautiful but not lived-in. Too clean, contemporary, like the lobby. Not a home but the immaculate palace of someone who could afford twice-a-week cleaning and rarely spent time there to begin with.
“Thanks.” He directed her to the dining table. “Do you want something to drink?”
“Water is fine. Thanks.”
He tapped a button on the refrigerator, filled the glasses with ice then water, and set one before her. A faint odor of cigarette smoke and bleach adhered to the air.
“Your girlfriend live here too?”
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Aleksandr slid into the chair to her left, at the head of the table, and stared at his water glass. “I’m not really the boyfriend type.”
Something—relief?—sprinted through her. Hypocrite. “Really.”
“We’re not here to discuss my personal life, Stephanie.” He popped his knuckles, a not-so-subtle warning. “And Russians hate small talk.”
“I, um…okay, then.” She took out her phone, opened the voice recorder, and set it on the table. “Stephanie Hartwell interviewing Aleksandr Volynsky, October eighth.”
“This whole thing was my agent’s idea. Do you mind if we talk off record for a little while?”
“That’s fine.” Stephanie swallowed around the ball lodged in her throat. She tapped the phone. “Nice photo in People.”
He smirked. “I have Sports Illustrated, Esquire, and ESPN The Magazine coming up. Now that I’ve signed the big contract, everyone finds me much more interesting. Funny how that works.”
“How do you really feel about the Seattle Earthquakes?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Expansion has diluted the talent pool, so players who would have barely made the AHL are now playing in the NHL. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, da? Yet the commissioner keeps expanding into nonviable cities.”
“Are you still angry about being traded?”
“Of course I am.”
Stephanie jumped when the intercom buzzed. Aleksandr confirmed it was the delivery guy and let him in. Dinner consisted of filet medallions with mashed potatoes, green beans, and lemon-butter sauce from the best steakhouse in town.
The tension between them was a thirty-foot stone wall, insurmountable. They ate in moody silence.
“So,” she said, desperate to fill the void, “your English has improved.”
“I’ve been in the States except summers for eight years. Plenty of time to learn. Although English is the most nonsensical, idiotic language I’ve ever spoken, and I speak five of them.”
“So you never immigrated.”
“I’m on an O-1 visa.”
Eight years and he didn’t intend to stay. “Ready to talk on record?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I have another question for you.”
He set down his fork and knife.
“Why are you pissed at me?”
The conversational volleyball landed with a dull thud on his side of the net. He took a sip of water. “I suppose I should have seen that coming.”
Stephanie wiped her mouth and pushed back from the table. “Really? That is what this is about? We were kids, Aleksandr. And even so, you knew how I felt. You know I…”
He laid his right hand on the table. “I never took it off.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
“ʻHow lucky I am to have something that makes saying good-bye so hard.’“
Stephanie giggled through her tears. “That’s from Winnie-the-Pooh.”
Alex smiled and, cupping her face, brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “He is very wise bear.” He bowed his head to hers. “We are together again someday. Maybe not so soon as we want, but someday. Until then, I am right here.” He laid his palm over her heart. “Good-bye for now, but not forever.”
His gaze fell to her hand, to the understated yet unambiguous engagement ring. For a split second, his face crumpled in anguish. Then he regained his stony composure and toughened the stare he leveled at her. “When’s the big day?”
“Valentine’s Day. Aleksandr, why didn’t you ever email me when you were drafted?”
“Why do you think? I was sure you didn’t give a shit at that point. Besides, we were still twenty-five hundred miles apart, and apparently you don’t do long-distance.”
“Let’s not do this. Please.”
“You’re right. Let’s not.” Aleksandr gathered the plates and carried them to the sink. “It’s been a pleasure, Stephanie, but I don’t want to keep you. I need to work out, anyway.”
“But the story—”
“I have to think about it a little longer. I’ll let you know.”
“How can you still be angry at me?”
“You know goddamned well why!” He banged his glass on the counter, and Stephanie flinched. “And now you have the fucking nerve to show up in my life again…forget it.” He pointed at the door. “I wish I could shut it off as easily as you did. Do svidaniya, Stephanie.”
“You don’t understand, Aleksandr. You have absolutely no idea.”
“Yeah? You’ve been perfectly happy without me all these years.”
The words hung in the air like flesh stripped from a wound, raw, oo
zing the unresolved emotions of nearly a decade. “Happy?”
“I’m not the one getting married, am I? You know what? Just stop talking. Otvyazhis.”
“You are unbelievable.” She shook her head and slung her bag over her shoulder. “You’re a millionaire. One of the best hockey players in the world.”
“Leave.”
She had already laid her hand on the doorknob when a photo in a black frame, placed on a side table so the door would conceal it whenever it opened, drew her attention.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.” Aleksandr slapped the frame facedown. “You were leaving, remember?”
“What are you hiding?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You have no idea.”
“Let me see it.”
“You don’t get to order me around in my own house, dorogaya. If you want to go, go. If you want to stay…” Retreating into character, he flicked his gaze up and down again, mentally undressing her. She knew a defense mechanism when she saw one.
She hip-checked him enough to disrupt his balance and snatched the photo.
“You little—”
Stephanie lifted the frame. Two teenagers cheesing for the camera. A girl in a purple spaghetti-strap dress, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail to reveal a face bearing the minimum amount of makeup socially sanctioned by the event. A sweep of eye shadow, of blush over her cheekbones, a thin sheen of light pink lip gloss. A tomboy’s vision of prom night.
Next to her, a striking boy tall for seventeen, six feet three. He would grow another two inches and gain forty pounds of muscle, but his body had already changed during the school year. Lean, strong, his tuxedo tailored to him. His host parents had prepared him for the time of his life. Nearly a man, and girls had leveled envious stares at her as she and Alex walked the school halls hand in hand, kissed at his locker. She wasn’t worthy of someone like him.
An electric current had thrummed between them in anticipation of their unspoken pledge, that they would make the ultimate commitment to each other. After the prom, in a dark hotel room for which he’d been saving his allowance, it took Alex several tries to enter her. Nerves had tightened her muscles. He had pushed, not hard but with persistence, until Stephanie felt a small pinch and, gasping, winced. He was uncircumcised like most Russian men. Sleek as waves on the beach. Full. His love overwhelmed her in its totality.
Only a few more thrusts before he was grunting and streaming into her. It had taken longer to enter her in the first place, but she’d heard from friends who had already lost their virginity that it didn’t last long. Especially the first time.
“It is better next time.” He brushed from her face the hair that had escaped her ponytail. “I make it better. Do you want to stay?”
She had a curfew, but a night in Alex’s arms was worth her father’s wrath. “Yes.”
Cold air hissed from the air conditioner across the room. She burrowed under the covers and curled up; Alex’s body complemented hers as though designed for it. He tucked his arm around her.
In the morning, the blackout curtains had obscured all but a white glow framing the windows. Alex had woken her with a kiss, a sensuous touch that ignited her like a match to a stick of dynamite. His face was rough with stubble not yet as thick and coarse as it would become, his chest still naked of hair. Nearly a man but not quite.
Then he was inside her again, and it was better, just as he’d promised.
Aleksandr drifted into the kitchen to pour another drink and light a cigarette. “My host mother printed it and framed it for me.” He shrugged. Avoiding eye contact, he tapped the ashes into a ceramic ashtray.
“You’ve kept this all these years.”
“I don’t usually have guests snooping around my condo.” He turned from the counter, eyebrows raised. “Chto yebat? What do you really want?”
“You know how I felt.”
“Stop.” His eyes softened, pleading with her not to dredge it up. She’d chosen anyway, security over love.
“You gave me a purple orchid corsage. I gave you a matching boutonnière. The colors were silver, blue, and purple. Starry night.”
He took a long drag and blew it out slowly.
“You were so nervous, I could feel you shaking. After eight years, I remember every detail.”
He gritted his teeth and hurled the tumbler of vodka at the floor. It shattered inches from her, and liquid splashed her shoes. Stephanie, her heartbeat double-timing, jumped back.
“Get out!” he shouted. “Go back to your safe fucking fiancé and your perfect little life!”
“My perfect life? Look who’s talking!”
“You think this is perfect? Do you see a wife or even a fucking girlfriend around here? Do you have any idea how lonely I am no matter how many women I fuck? Do you know why?” He crushed the cigarette and advanced on her, looming like some fairy-tale beast, his face red, fists clenched at his sides. Too much, in that instant, like her father. Stephanie, groped for the doorknob. “Because in eight fucking years, I haven’t been able to let you go! Is that what you want? Are you happy now? You have all you need to write your story. The real Aleksandr Volynsky is a fucking pussy-whipped bitch over the girl he lost his virginity to. Now get the fuck out of my house.”
Stephanie stared at him, at his rising and falling chest, into his bloodshot eyes. “Aleksandr, I—”
“You broke my heart.” The crack of his voice on the last word betrayed his otherwise lifeless tone. “And you do it every time I see you. Now please, go away.” He pushed her enough that she stumbled into the hall so he could slam the door in her face.
A thousand thoughts fought for purchase. She had done worse than break his heart, and the cruelest part was that he had no idea.
Stephanie raised her fist to knock but dropped it. She had to let it go. They’d been kids. He was better off not knowing.
You broke my heart.
She stared at the door, wondering if he was watching through the peephole, before she walked away.
***
Aleksandr
Valentine’s Day. What a trite day for a wedding. He’d expected better of her.
Sasha leaned into the spray, hot water sluicing over his skin. He’d done the right thing. She had been careless with his heart before, and he could not trust her with it. The upcoming road trip would put necessary physical space between them, at least for ten days. The team had to win half or more of the possible points to deem their trip a success. He needed to focus on that, purge her from his mind. His desideratum. His firebird. A blessing when she’d been his and his curse when she had vanished.
He closed his hand around his erection. He was acting like a complete lunatic around her, his emotions an unnavigable labyrinth. Before this week, life had been simple if not happy. Play hockey, drink, and fuck. Uncomplicated. Concealed in his public façade, he’d buried the pain so long that, resurrected, it was as fresh as raw meat.
Sasha pumped his fist. He remembered their nights together with a clarity nearly a decade and myriad other women should have erased. And would have, if he’d not mythologized her the way he had so many aspects of his life.
She’s engaged, asshole. She’d had eight years to get in touch, hadn’t she? And she hadn’t.
His gasps echoed in the too-large bathroom. He shuddered, grunted, and clenched his teeth as he came with a guttural sound too closely resembling a sob.
Sasha washed himself and shut off the shower, then grabbed a towel from the rack. Once dry, he wrapped himself in his bathrobe and padded barefoot into the living room, where he switched on the gas fireplace.
She still pronounced his name the proper Russian way: “Ah-lyek-sahn-der”, not “Alexander” like everyone else. Hadn’t forgotten. He stared at his cellphone, willing her to call.
It did not ring.
Chapter Four
Stephanie
Dave leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Steph, we need this st
ory.”
“I know. He’s just—”
“Difficult. But that’s your job, to break through and uncover the real deal. Listen, Steph, you know I love having you here—”
Stephanie’s guts clenched. Here it comes.
“—but with your credentials, I think I expected more.”
Funny, coming from the guy who had refused to assign her anything of substance for three years because he’d deemed her too unseasoned. “I can get this story, Dave. I just need more time to work on him.”
He nudged his glasses up and regarded her as a teacher might a brilliant but lazy student. “You have until the end of next week. And if that story isn’t on my desk by five p.m. next Friday, our conversation will be even less pleasant.”
Stephanie swallowed around the tears rising in her throat. Shawn would have a field day if she broke down at work. “I understand. And I’ll get the story.”
Dave flicked his hand toward the door.
***
Stephanie started the bath, then poured a large glass of wine. She could talk to Joe about most things, but tonight she felt guilty relief she didn’t have to explain her failure, that she could sulk and soak and be asleep before he left the office. She lit some scented candles, dimmed the lights, and plunked a bath bomb into the steamy water.
Aleksandr intruded into her thoughts. She’d stopped believing in so many things by sixteen, chief among them love. There had been so little of it at home, and she’d become jaded enough to know her friends’ proclamations of such were naïve, foolish, a child’s rendering of the concept.
And then, one August morning, the boy who changed her life.
She hadn’t believed in love at first sight or soul mates, hated fairy tales in general and Disney in particular. She’d felt nothing but scorn for the girls who reorganized their lives according to whatever boy they were dating that semester. Yet on a long-ago summer afternoon, love had seemed, with a boy she’d known a mere eight hours, the most natural thing in the world. He’d held her hand under her desk all day long. And she had prayed he would never let go.
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