Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (11 page)

I’m wearing skinny jeans, riding boots, and a V-neck sweater now that the weather’s turning cooler. Somehow, it feels like a relief to see that we’re both comfortable dressing down for each other. “Just something I threw on,” I say with a grin. The mouth-watering scent of barbeque wafts around me as we head toward the living room. I take a deep inhale of all the charred meat and succulent goodness. “That smells incredible.”

“Delivery barbeque. We’re all set for our Bolshoi and beef. We shall feast like Ivan the Terrible while we watch him brutalize the boyars!”

“Can’t wait.” I rub my hands together and settle onto the couch before his over-the-top entertainment system. Monstrous 4K television, speakers crammed all over the place. “Uh. Is this really necessary?”

Sergei grins sheepishly. “My one indulgence. You have to watch the Bolshoi Ballet broadcasts in ultra high max eye-bleed definition, right?” He stretches. “Okay, and maybe it’s for when I play my hockey video games, too.”

I laugh. “Ahh, now that’s more like it. Seriously, you don’t get enough of playing hockey on real ice?”

Sergei sits up straight and shoves at the bridge of his nose as if he’s pushing up nonexistent glasses. “I beg your pardon, miss, but I am a
professional
, and professionals must practice both on and off the ice. It hones the instincts, you see, and—”

I hit the remote until the TV swaps over to his game console input. He’s paused mid-game, and as soon as I realize what’s happening, I burst out laughing. He’s used some sort of cheat code that makes the opposing team’s players’ heads absurdly huge, like they’re ripe watermelons begging to be split open. He’s playing as the Eagles, squaring off against the Pittsburgh Forge, our chief rivals. When I unpause the match, the Drakonov avatar proceeds with what it was doing before he paused it.

Punching the everloving crap out of Stéphane Carson, the Forge’s team captain, and his gigantic cartoon head.

“Oh, my god. Yeah, this looks real professional, all right.” Every time the Drakonov player lands a punch, Carson squeaks like a dog toy getting mauled by a Rottweiler. I start laughing all over again. “I’m sure you’re learning
crucial
tactics for your next match-up!”

Sergei laughs with me, and picks up the controller. “You should see what happens when you hook them with your stick.”

He wiggles the joystick around. The Drakonov avatar slashes his stick through the air and clocks Carson right in his huge noggin. Carson takes off, airborne, around the entire arena, squealing like a rapidly deflating balloon.

“This is poetry.” I laugh. “I wish the real game worked like that!”

“You and me both.”

Sergei grins, then pauses the game again and swaps back to his Russian streaming service.
Ivan the Terrible
will be starting up in another fifteen minutes or so. There aren’t too many guys who would eagerly suggest watching ballet as a date idea, and even fewer of them sporting the kind of musculature Sergei has. But that’s how most Russians I’ve met are—extremely passionate about all their national artistic endeavors. Sergei is certainly no exception, with his love for Russian poetry and music as well.

Me, I love Russian ballet for many of the same reasons I love hockey: athleticism, grace, style, strategy, and extremely fine physical specimens on display. Plus, unlike hockey, it even comes with its own badass soundtrack.

“Shall we feast?” Sergei pops open the lids on the numerous containers of barbecue, and my eyes widen. Amongst the brisket, ribs, pulled pork, sausages, and more, there must be twenty pounds of meat spread before us on the coffee table. And that’s not even counting the side dishes—potato salad, cole slaw, collard greens, mac and cheese . . . My stomach growls just looking at it.

“Uh.” I look around the living room. “Are we expecting company or something? Coz this is enough to feed a whole dorm of summer interns.”

Sergei laughs, throaty and rich. “Do you have any idea how many calories it takes to fuel all this?” He rubs his palms suggestively over his abs. “This’ll last me about four hours, max. And only then because it’s not a game day.”

“Wow. Remind me to take you to the all-you-can-eat Brazilian gaucho steakhouse next. It must be a relative bargain for your appetite.”

“What’s a gaucho steakhouse?” Sergei asks.

I raise my eyebrows. “You’ve never been? Okay, no, we’re going there your next day off. They bring around skewers of meat and slice off however much you want, usually for a flat fee. There are the cheesy chain ones, but trust me, I know the authentic ones to hit. This one Brazilian-owned place in Seven Corners serves the most incredible
pães-de-queijo
cheese buns you’ll ever have—” 

“Cheese buns? That’s a thing that exists?” 

“Yes, and they’re
heavenly.
” I moan. 

“No way. Maybe we’ll go there for dinner,” Sergei says. 

I eye the brisket and ribs he’s heaping onto my plate. “I think I’ll be in a meat coma for dinner.” 

“Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “I’ll finish whatever you don’t.” 

I start to reply that I’m
very
familiar with his skill in finishing me off, but manage to restrain myself. For now. 

Ivan the Terrible
is a pretty black metal ballet, as ballets go. Ivan was one of the first tsars of medieval Russia, and as such, was a big fan of pillaging and murdering and waving his enemies’ heads on pikes. The ballet loosely follows the story of his first wife, whom Ivan’s advisers, the power-hungry boyars, accidentally poison while trying to kill Ivan himself. Ivan then goes on a rampage, purging the boyars, beheading them, stringing them up and quartering them, all that lovely business. 

During one of the intermissions, we’re sprawled in each other’s arms on the couch, full of meat. I’m drunk on Sergei’s warm scent and strong arms wrapped tight around my waist. He nuzzles at my neck and starts tracing a slow circle on my stomach. I nestle deeper into his embrace, but my thoughts keep winding around the ballet, drawing connections between the story and the Bratva goons who cornered me on the Metro. Ivan’s wife paid the price for the boyars’ greed and determination to use Ivan for their own nefarious purposes. I don’t want to be stuck in any similar crossfire. 

Sergei’s hand dips down the front of my jeans’ waistband, but then he freezes, and slides his fingers back out. “Something’s bothering you,” he murmurs, lips right at my ear. 

I manage a feeble nod. 

“You can tell me.” He pulls me closer into his arms. “I’m not going to get scared off.” 

Here we go. I’ve gotten so used to the idea that I’m always being recorded when I’m with Sergei, but before now, I still felt in control. The FBI was on the other end, powerless to shape our conversation. Now I’m the one without a choice. I have to press him about his brother. Because his brothers’ thugs gave me no alternative. 

How do I walk this tightrope between pushing for what the FBI wants to hear and what Sergei and I really, truly need? 

“There were these . . . guys.” I choose my Russian words carefully, picking a word for
guys
that emphasizes how unpleasant they were. It’s closer to
strangers. Creatures
. “On the Metro. They cornered me the other night.” 

Sergei shoves himself back so he’s sitting upright on the couch. “What?” He turns me gently to face him. “What happened? Are you hurt?” 

“No! No, they didn’t touch me. I’m fine. But . . .” 

As I hesitate, I can see his initial panic start to morph on his face. Surprise hardens into a strong set to his jaw and furrowed brows. He knows without me saying it, now, that these were his brothers’ men. Now I just need to get
him
talking. 

“They said they represented your—your brother. They wanted me to tell you to uphold your bargain with him.” 

Sergei’s eyes lid as he blows out his breath. “
Blyad
,” he utters to himself. 

“They were talking to each other in Russian, but I pretended that I didn’t understand. They were really concerned about some sort of shipment. It was—” I gulp for air. “It was just so confusing, and scary, and they seemed to be implying that they’ve been following me for a while. That they knew how to find me and hurt me if you didn’t do what they wanted . . .”  

The words dissolve in my panic. All my studying and research about organized crime, all my desperation for real field work, but now that I’m living it, it’s horrible. 

Sergei’s mouth softens as he lowers his gaze. “Hey. Hey, listen. Come here. It’s okay.” 

He opens his arms wide, and I fall into them, burying my face in his neck. I’m shaking. All the initial terror of the moment has hit me full-force once more. As absurd as the goons were, I know there was real power behind them, real menace. They wouldn’t need to be smart or clever to hurt me. All they need is a chance to find me alone again. 

“I’m so sorry.” Sergei holds me tight, thick biceps pressed firmly against me like a fortress. “I never meant for this to happen. Not to you.” 

“What do you mean?” I ask. 

He swallows. “This wasn’t supposed to reach you. I want you to be safe.” 

I can hear Frederica’s nagging voice inside my head, and I hate it. but she’s right. This is it. Dig deeper for the truth. “You knew about this?” I pull away from him, letting anger fray my tone. “What even is ‘this’? What do those men want with you?” 

Sergei sighs and, arms emptied of me, slumps back on the couch. “They work for my brother. Vladimir.” He gazes somewhere beyond me. “He’s my older brother—eight years older, in fact. We couldn’t be more different.” 

I do the quick math in my head. Sergei’s twenty-four, so Vladimir is thirty-two. Well, there’s one thing the FBI didn’t know for certain. But I know they want me to dig for more. 

“I told you that we had nothing growing up. It was way worse than Soviet times, or at least, that’s what Mama always said. In communist times, the store shelves might be empty, but you could always find a guy who knew a guy who would trade with you for whatever it was you wanted. Then, after the Iron Curtain came down, and Yeltsin was in power, the stores were always full, but no one could afford anything in them. The value of our rubles were turning to dust in our hands.” 

I’d studied the origins of the Russian organized crime groups—the Bratva, the Mafiya, and plenty more—in one of my criminal justice classes. But there’s only so much an article can tell me. The pain that thrums in Sergei’s voice is tangible, so strong I could grasp it in my hands. I wish I could soothe it away. 

“Only a very few people got rich during those times—crazy, filthy rich. And it was only because the things they were doing were things our new country didn’t have laws for yet. Crooked businessmen, crooked politicians. Policemen so desperate to feed their families that they’d look the other way on horrible, horrible things for just a few bucks. And Vladimir . . . he was very good at being crooked.” 

My knees are tucked up under my chin as I listen; I realize that I’m shivering. 

“He was obsessed with gaining whatever we hadn’t had growing up. Wealth, power, respect.” Sergei winces. “Control.” He stretches out along the couch, sinking further and further from me. “He found the people who could give it to him, and did whatever he had to do to earn it.” 

“But there were other options,” I say. “You didn’t turn out that way.” I stretch out one hand, tentatively, and rest it on his knee. 

He shakes his head slowly, his gaze still far from here. “No. I made my choices, and he made his. After Mama passed away, we went our separate ways.” He laughs, bitter and dry. “You know, when I’d heard he and his
mafiya
comrades came to the States, I was actually relieved. Like I never thought I’d have to run into him again, right? Then I got the offer to play in America. Graduate from the Russian super league. I thought, surely I wouldn’t have to deal with him—maybe he was dead, you know, or had forgotten about me, or just didn’t care. God, I was so stupid.” He takes a breath. “But I always had this nagging fear. Turns out it was for good reason.” 

“It doesn’t matter. You don’t owe him anything,” I say. “He doesn’t own you. He can’t control you.” 

Sergei’s shoulders sag. “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong.” 

Yes,
I imagine Frederica saying.
There’s the weak point. Push on that bruise.
It makes me sick with myself. “Why? What were they talking about? They kept saying things about shipments . . . about honoring your agreement.” 

Sergei’s gaze drops. His eyes are deep wells, shadowed in the early dusk that’s settled over the townhouse. “Vladimir, he, ah . . .” Sergei’s mouth twitches. “He wants me to do certain things for him. To aid his ‘business,’ if you can call it that.” 

“Certain
things
,” I echo. 

Sergei nods, mechanical. “It’s better if you don’t know the details.” 

No,
I want to scream.
I can’t help you if I don’t.
And suddenly I realize—more than preserving any shot at a career in the FBI, right now, what’s truly motivating me is the chance to help Sergei. To see his brother pay for his crimes, and set him free of that weight for good. But I can’t explain that to him. It’s too dangerous for us both. 

“I haven’t agreed to anything, yet,” Sergei continues. “But Vladimir and his friends know how to be very . . . persuasive.” 

I swallow audibly and study Sergei’s face. The swelling from his lower lip has gone down, but I can still see the faint scab there, the slight way it juts out. After a week. And that’s just what I can see. I reach forward and run my thumb along his mouth. He sighs, leaning the weight of his head into my palm and kissing the tip of my thumb. For a moment, we’re frozen this way, cocooned together in this cavernous room, untouchable by the outside world. 

But then a siren roars past on the crowded streets of DC and I remember the FBI listening on the other end of my phone, and Vladimir and all his Bratva men just waiting for us to crack. 

“He wants to take advantage of me, that’s all.” Sergei cups my hand in his own, and presses a soft kiss to the inside of my wrist. My pulse races in response. “He wants to make use of my money. My access.”