All-Star Pride (7 page)

He dropped. I stood above him, heaving for breath, glad to be alive. The man had just tried to put a knife through the center of my body. I steadied myself, ready to go after him again.

Nadia ran forward. “No!” she cried. “Don't!”

Her voice was like a pail of cold water thrown into my face.

I stopped.

He groaned and tried to roll over.

“Please,” Nadia said. “Go now.”

“And leave you here with him?”

“You have caused enough trouble. Please go.” She knelt beside him and cradled his head in her hands.

I stood, unable to understand.

She looked up at me. There was a sad smile on her face. She spoke as if she were many years older than I was.

“Goreela, you are a sweet, sweet boy. I thank you for caring for me. But if you truly care, you will go now. It is the only chance I have.”

I turned and stumbled out of the alley.

How could any person make sense out of this, let alone a big, battered hockey player like me whose job never depended on thinking?

I couldn't play the next night either—at game time my face still looked like uncooked hamburger. I couldn't see how it mattered. I wanted to be on the ice. Instead I had to watch game four from a seat in the stands, again just up from our players' box.

The night before, I had returned from the knife fight with Mr. Eyepatch to find we were leading 6–3. The game had finished 8–3, putting us up two games to one in the series.

From the start of this game, however, we were doomed. Chandler missed an easy open net two minutes into the game. Then the Russians stormed down the ice to score on a tic-tac-toe pass play that made us look like blundering robots. I could hear my dad watching this in September and yelling his anger at our stupidity for allowing the Commies to score so easily.

The Russians scored four more goals in the next ten minutes. All I could think about was getting back on the ice and throwing my body around. Instead I was forced to sit up here and watch the slaughter.

To add to my lousy mood, I couldn't get comfortable. In this ice arena, the seats consisted of wide planks, barely more than glorified steps. Because the planks weren't divided into one seat per person, Russian spectators pushed and jostled for better positions all through the game. When I stood to cheer our first goal of the night—scored on a deflected slap shot—someone slid over to take my spot, and I had to fight to get my seat back as I sat down.

We scored again a few minutes later. I made the mistake of standing again. This time, when I tried to sit, some woman in a gray shawl had wedged herself almost beneath me.

I decided to pretend I was Russian. I squeezed down beside her and took the space I needed, squishing her into a fat man on the other side of her.

She elbowed me in the right side of my ribs.

I knew I couldn't elbow her back—this wasn't hockey—so I pretended it hadn't happened.

She elbowed me again, and I brought my right arm down to protect my ribs. Then she grabbed my arm.

I turned my head to ask her to let go. She wouldn't understand English, but maybe the sight of my stitched and bruised face would scare her away.

I discovered her shawl pushed back. Nadia!

“Goreela,” she said, “watch the game. People must not know we are talking.”

I drew a breath to finally correct her about my name. Except I realized Hog wasn't much of an improvement. And so few people called me Timothy that it would sound just as strange to me as Gorilla.

“People?” I asked. “You mean the guy with the knife?”

“Yes. Boris. He cannot know I am speaking privately to you.”

I took a quick look at her face again. There was no trace of where he had slapped her.

“Are you all right?”

“Watch the game,” she said. “I remind you again. If he knows I am speaking with you, I am in serious danger.”

I wondered what spectators around us might think about our conversation, until I remembered they were Russian. The safest thing Nadia and I could do was speak English.

“What is going on?” I asked from the side of my mouth, my face turned back toward the ice. Hadn't she just the night before called me a simple boy and told me to leave her alone?

“He and I had a disagreement that is none of your concern.” She paused. “Tell me, what do you expect to gain by betraying Boris?”

I nearly turned my head to stare at her in disbelief. “You think I betrayed the eyepatch guy?”

“You assisted him in Moscow. Then, strangely, you fought him here in St. Petersburg. I cannot really believe you did this because he struck me.”

The Russians swarmed our net. Three shots later, they scored to make it 6–2. But I cared less about the game than I had earlier.

“Where I come from, it isn't right to hit a woman.”

“I wish I could believe that,” she said.

“Believe it,” I assured her. Then I asked, “What do you mean, assisted Boris in Moscow? And betrayed him here? Are you sure we're talking about the same guy? The one with the eyepatch?”

“Yes. Boris.”

“I did not assist him. I don't even know him.”

“You and Chandler,” she said, “you are together, are you not?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it's not what you think.”

“You are his bodyguard. Is that the way it is said in English?”

It was very difficult to look at the ice as if I were watching the game. “What!? Bodyguard?”

“The black market in Moscow. It is a place where you can hire murderers. Robbery is as common as shaking hands. With someone as big as you nearby, Chandler has few fears.”

“No,” I said, “I only did it because...”

Because he had offered me a large sum of money. To walk with him. I guess it did make me a bodyguard, even if I didn't know it at the time.

“Yes?” she asked.

“Nothing. But hanging around with Chandler doesn't make me friends with Boris.”

All the time we talked, she leaned into me. I wondered what it might be like to sit this close to her at a movie. I reminded
myself that girls like her would not date guys like me.

“I wish I could believe that too,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it.

“Please, tell me what is going on.” I wasn't good at riddles, and this one was driving me nuts.

“If you already know, I shall be wasting my breath. If you don't know, it is best for you it remains that way.”

Another riddle answer. “Nadia, I—”

She squeezed my arm. “I must go before Boris wonders about my absence.”

“But—”

“Did I thank you last night for facing Boris? If truly you did it for my sake, I owe you a debt.”

With that, she disappeared back into the pushing crowd. Instead of answering questions, she had raised too many more. So why did I have this insane urge to want to trust her?

I was allowed to dress for game five. We needed the win badly. By beating us the night before, the Russians had tied the series. Whoever won this game would go up three to two in the best-of-seven series, and with the two remaining games back in Moscow would only need one more win to take the $100,000 prize.

Klomysyk was not dressed to play for the Russian all-stars. It shouldn't have surprised
us, though. Since he had ripped my face open and hidden beneath the net, the Russian fans had booed him with their weird whistling every time he'd stepped on the ice.

Maybe losing one of their biggest guys demoralized the Russian all-stars. They skated poorly and made it easy for us to get the go-ahead game with a 7–3 victory.

We were on the return train to Moscow by ten the next morning. This time, however, it wasn't the Avrora high-speed train. Today was an off day. Because there was no hurry to get to Moscow for an evening game, Henley had decided to save some money and put us on the slow train.

This one seemed straight out of a Second World War movie. It clacked and swayed. We traveled second-class, called hardseat because we sat on wooden benches with only thin cushions for comfort.

I had the aisle seat. It was stuffy in the train, so Nathan, in the window seat beside me, had no trouble sleeping. But despite the heat, I couldn't sleep. I was thinking too
hard about the events of the previous few days. What was Chandler's game? How was he linked to Boris, the eyepatch man? What was Nadia's involvement? How could I get out of all this?

We passed colorful wooden houses, and I had plenty of time to watch people as they worked in their gardens and fields. Even with the distractions of scenery, I kept returning to my questions until the conductor interrupted my thoughts.

He set a small tray in my lap. The tray held a cup of oily tea, some cream and sugar. We had learned conductors often added to their income by running a small concession business on the train. This tea, however, was a surprise to me.

“I didn't order this,” I said.

He said something in Russian. I didn't know if he was disagreeing with me, talking about the weather or insulting me.

“Not mine,” I said, slowly and loudly. I gave my head a shake. As if talking slower and louder made it easier for him to understand English.

The conductor wore a black jacket, almost as ragged and dark as his bushy eyebrows. He lifted those eyebrows as he shrugged at me. Then he turned and left me with the tea.

Oh well, I thought, whoever actually ordered this will eventually chase down the conductor. In the meantime, what am I going to do with black Russian tea?

I looked over at Nathan to see if he could be suckered into trying it. He was still asleep.

I decided to dump the tea. When I lifted the cup, I saw a folded piece of paper on the tray beneath it. In neatly printed letters there was a single word: help.

I set the cup back on the tray and opened the note. More neat printing:
Goreela, we must talk. Go ahead to the first-class section. Walk through slowly. Nadia.

I thought about it. I decided nothing could go wrong here on a train. For lack of anywhere else to put the cup of tea, I carried it with me.

To reach first class, I had to leave this train car and cross through a rattling, bouncing
walkway into the next car. I discovered first class was not rows of seats like our car. Instead of the aisle running down the center, it hugged the left side of the car. Door after door ran down the right side of the aisle. All of them closed. Private sleeping compartments?

As Nadia had instructed, I walked through slowly.

Coming my way was a middle-aged man in a brown suit. It would be a tight squeeze getting past him. He waited as I walked forward. When I reached him, he turned sideways and pressed against the windows of the train to let me past. Except as I brushed by he slammed me hard, pushing me against the door to my right. It popped open and I almost fell, catching my balance a couple of steps into the sleeping compartment. Half of the hot tea sloshed over my hand.

The brown-suited man quickly moved into the compartment toward me. Without thinking, I flung the remaining tea into his face and drew my hand back to punch him.

Someone grabbed my arm from behind me.

“Settle down, boy,” a voice said with a Texas twang. “You're with friends.”

The guy in the brown suit sputtered and cursed as he looked down in disbelief at the dark tea stains on his chest. At least, I guessed it was cursing. He spoke Russian.

The guy behind me didn't let go of my arm.

“You're a big one, son,” his drawl continued. “The only way I could stop you is by shooting you, and I'd hate to have to do that.”

I relaxed. The unseen man behind me let go of my arm.

Mr. Brown Suit dropped his fast-paced Russian to mere mumbles and vainly brushed at the tea stains.

“Go on, son,” the drawl said, “take a load off your feet. Sit down.”

I remained standing. The man with the drawl moved around me and locked the sleeping compartment door. Finally he turned to face me.

“Boy, we can be friendly here. Trust me.”

He spoke to Mr. Brown Suit. “And Ivan, rest your mouth. All the talk in the world won't get rid of the mess on your suit. Serves you right for being careless, anyway.”

I snuck a quick glance around the sleeping compartment. On one side, a low couch. On the other, two bunk beds. In between, hardly enough room for the three of us to stand without bumping into each other. One thing was missing, though.

“Where's Nadia?” I asked.

“She agreed with me that it wouldn't do her any good to be seen with us,” the man with the drawl said. He stuck out his hand. “By the way, my name is Clint Bowes.”

Slowly, suspiciously, I stuck out my hand and shook his.

Clint Bowes was tall and snake skinny. His hair was greased back, dark brown with strands of gray. His nose was like a popsicle stick turned sideways and stuck into his face. He wore a dark-gray suit, but instead
of dress shoes he had on shiny, buffed cowboy boots.

“I'm from the U.S. Customs office,” Clint said, a lazy smile across his face as he spoke. “Ivan, my partner here, is from the equivalent government bureau in Russia. He speaks English but prefers not to.”

For a greeting, Ivan frowned at me.

Tall as Clint was, he had to reach above his shoulders to place a hand on my shoulders. He tried to press me downward onto the couch behind us. When he failed to get me moving, he shrugged.

“Suit yourself. Ivan and I want to be comfortable.”

They sat side by side on the lower bunk bed. Feeling stupid, I finally lowered myself onto the couch opposite them.

“Let's cut right to the chase,” Clint said. “You're mixed up in something you shouldn't be. Fact is, until Nadia told us about the fight with Boris, we figured you to be part of their team.”

“Do you have
ID
?” I asked.

“Huh?” Clint's eyebrows dipped as he
squinted at me. “Oh. Identification. You still back on that? Try to keep up with me, boy.”