Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (13 page)

I go into our Translations midterm expecting to get my ass handed to me. I’ve barely had time to study outside of the one session I did with Monique and Beth, and between Sergei, the FBI, and stress taking up every ounce of my time and energy (and only one of those making it worthwhile), I fully deserve to crash and burn. But the teacher passes out the article we’re supposed to translate, something dense, all knotted around with weird turns of phrase and obscure vocabulary usage, and my writing just . . . flows. Before, I’d have to parse out each chunk of a sentence on its own, then spend several minutes cobbling those chunks back together into something resembling English. Now, though, it’s effortless. 

I glance around to see if my classmates are struggling. Surely it’s not just me. We’ve been given too easy of a passage by mistake, or something. But I guess it’s all the Russian I’ve been speaking with Sergei. Everything clicks, and now I have this whole other world of language inhabiting my head. There’s something truly magical about that. 

“Are we still on for the game tonight?” Monique asks Beth and me once we file out of the classroom. “My parents and Todd are having some sort of stupid investor party in their box, but we’re welcome to use it as long as we behave.” 

“Behave being a relative term?” I ask. “It’s not like their guests ever give a shit about watching the hockey game.” 

Monique rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it. But, hey, free food and booze for us, right?” 

Beth tugs anxiously at the cuffs of her sweater. Her blonde curls fly every which way; her gaze is wild as she scans the halls. “Yeah. I’ll be there. Just save me my own bottle of rum.” 

“Are you okay?” I ask, brows furrowing. Beth is always bubbly and carefree, but there’s sweat running down her face. “Honey. Let’s go have a seat.” 

“I can’t. I have to get back to studying.” She sighs. “That midterm kicked my ass. I didn’t study enough, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters until the LSAT is done.” 

“Beth, my sweet angel, I do not give a
fuck
what you make on the LSAT, but if it wrecks you with stress, I’m going to be mighty pissed,” Monique tells her. 

“I need this.” Beth grips us both by the wrists. “I have to do well. This is what I’ve been prepping for for the past three years.” 

I open my mouth to tell her that plans can change. But then, what right do I have to tell her that? I’m bending over backwards to keep in the good graces of the FBI, all so I can get some job where I’ll be disrespected constantly unless I make cold decisions like Roger and Frederica make. I wisely ease my mouth closed again and give Beth a sympathetic pat. 

“I’m so sorry. I’ve been a shitty study partner lately. I’ll make it up to you, though—we can study for the LSAT together,” I say. 

“But you’re not even trying to go to law school.” Beth frowns. 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll do it for you. And besides.” I smile. “Plans can change.” 

Monique isn’t kidding about her parents’ crowd in the box. We show up at the Eagles Arena an hour before the game starts, and there are already twenty people in suits and sheaths and Louboutins milling around, flashy jewelry twinkling in the modern lighting as they sip champagne and talk about ROIs. And Todd Beckwith is right in the middle of them, working his dimple-cheeked magic. “I forecast that we’ll be profitable within the first five years,” he tells one woman, a gorgeously curvaceous goddess with warm brown skin and black hair coiffed and ready for a photoshoot. Todd taps her on the wrist, leaning closer. “Four, if we can persuade the right investors.” 

I turn toward Beth and Monique and make a gagging motion with my middle finger. 

“The Thanksgiving Classic is coming up soon, Eagles fans!” the stadium announcer rumbles. “The Washington Eagles will host the Pittsburgh Forge in a nationally televised battle to win the right to host this year’s all-stars game! Buy your tickets today and don’t forget to stop by the gift shop for all your Classic merchandise . . .” 

“We’re allowed to use the booth during the Thanksgiving Classic, right?” I ask Monique. “I know it’s not considered a regular-season game.” 

“I’m pretty sure. And if we win the right to host the all-stars game, we can watch from here, too.” 

“Not that I think getting tickets is an issue for you,” Beth says, nudging me in the ribs. 

My face reddens. God, I wish I could explain to them what’s really going on. That as much as I’m having fun with Sergei—more than just fun, actually—it’s also a huge source of fear for me. I wish I could tell them about Vladimir’s goons chasing me through the Metro. But maybe Roger Ha is right, and if I just hang on for a little while longer, they’ll clean out the Bratva and everything will finally be the way it should be. 

The game starts, and Sergei makes a slapshot right out of the gate, much to the Seattle Bombers’ dismay. He pumps his fist in the air, then turns toward our box and winks. It’s small, small enough that even the cameras probably didn’t catch it, but it means the world to me. 

What the hell was Roger on about? Does he honestly think Sergei loves me? I know what we have is way deeper than just a fling now—he wouldn’t have held me, comforted me the way he did if it were. I’ve been there before. The moment things get tough, most tough guys bail. But easing me through a challenging time, especially one that he’s caused, however inadvertently, is one thing. Sticking by me when he learns just how many lies of omission I’ve told is another thing entirely. 

The flutter in my heart stills, and I stare hard at the skaters swirling on the ice, trying not to think. I let the rest of the world disappear until it’s just me and my love of the game. 

The Bombers start fighting back with a vengeance, and after a rough play, the gloves come off. The Eagles’ main bruiser takes a swing at their defenseman, then one of the Bombers catches Marcus Wright by the collar and starts grappling with him. The refs have to break up two separate brawls at the same time, sending Wright and two Bombers to the penalty box. Our record with power plays hasn’t been so hot this year, but hopefully we can make the most of the four on three. 

We can’t. 

This six-foot-eight behemoth on the Bombers, Ravik Ranacek, sticks to Sergei like glue throughout the power play, and as Sergei chases the puck, Ranacek slams him up against the boards. Sergei’s foot slips out from under him. He crashes to the ice right as Ranacek swings his foot around to catch himself, and Ranacek’s skate nicks Sergei right in the thigh. 

I leap from my seat, straining to see the ice. There’s a spray of red on the ice. He’s bleeding. Oh, god. Please don’t let him have hit an artery. My head spins. I remember hearing about an ice skater once who bled out in less than a minute from a similar injury.  

Medics rush onto the ice, their team patches glinting in the stadium light glare. They’re putting pressure on the wound. I hold my breath, afraid to so much as move until I can see what’s going on. 

The entire arena is silent, except for the incessant chatter of Todd and his stupid investors behind me. I want to turn around and scream at them, but I don’t dare take my eyes from Sergei. 

He’s moving. He’s waving the medics away. He’s climbing to his feet, putting weight on his injured leg . . . My breath rushes out of me in one great burst. Everyone in the arena applauds as he skates toward the bench and exits the ice. He’s wounded, but he’s going to be okay. 

Monique touches my shoulder. “I can take you down to the med suite,” she says. “If you need.” 

I’m dying to rush down there, but I’m worried about what Sergei would think if I turned up uninvited. I don’t want him to think I’m encroaching on his private space. And I certainly don’t want any photographers or Bratva thugs or anyone else watching me. 

“Trust me,” Monique says. “His pride may be a little hurt if you show up, but not nearly as hurt as he’ll be if you don’t.” 

I ease into her grip. “You’re the best.” 

Monique borrows a Staff Access badge from her parents and brandishes it like a shield to guide us into the bowels of the Eagles Arena. While her parents only have a small fraction of a stake in the team ownership, they run pretty much all of the financials for the Eagles’ official owner, Mylo Saukonis, as well as for several of his other firms. It’s all way over my head, but right now, I can’t be thankful enough for the free access it’s affording us. 

 A flock of security guards, paramedics, coaching assistants, technicians, and dozens of other team employees are swarming the entrance to the medical suite, holding back a throng of reporters brandishing their press credentials. Monique holds our badge high and keeps her other hand clenched around my wrist. “Excuse me! Coming through! Get your camera out of my
fucking
face before the last thing it photographs is your colon when I shove it up your ass!”  

Monique was always the best at clearing a path. 

In the med suite, Sergei is sprawled on one of the beds, still wearing his uniform and skates. The paramedics have cut away one leg of his navy blue pants and pried open the padding he wears beneath them. “Hold
still
,” the doctor hisses, weaving something up and down. It catches the light and glints, revealing a wicked long curved needle. 

“Jael!” Sergei cries. He tries to hop up off the cot, but one of the doctor’s assistants shoves him back down. “Jael!” 

I rush toward him, and he wraps me in a one-armed embrace. I ignore the doctor’s glare. “Are you all right?” 

“It’s perfectly fine. Just a nick. I keep telling these bozos I’m good to get back onto the ice, but they’re insisting on giving me stitches.” 

Apparently at least one of the assistants speaks some Russian, because he shoots us both a death glare. “Please inform Mister Drakonov that there’s no way in hell he’s getting back on the ice tonight.” 

I offer Sergei a quick translation, and he groans. “Pretty of please with sugars on top?” he ask them in English, batting his eyes. I grin, but inside, I’m melting from that filthy rotten bad boy’s attempts at playing coy. 

“Be a real good boy and stay off that leg, and maybe I’ll let you skate in practice tomorrow morning.” The doctor pats him on the shoulder, then turns toward me. “I expect you to hold him to that.” 

“You have my word.” I offer him a sloppy salute. 

Sergei grins coyly at me, but then I notice it—the hitch in his smile, the tension behind it. Something isn’t right. I start to say something in Russian, but remember the assistant who at least somewhat understood it, and hold my tongue. 

“I have to head to the locker room for the period break,” Sergei says, the tension carrying over to his tone. “Coach wants us all there, injured or not. But can you meet me back down here once the game ends?” 

“You got it,” I tell him. 

I reach out to squeeze his hand—I’m sure he’d be mortified at any further show of affection in front of such a crowd. But then he pulls me in and kisses me, a full, deep kiss that makes me rise onto my toes and makes my heart burst. Roger Ha may have a freaking point. If Sergei doesn’t love me, he at least feels something deeper for me; and I’ll be damned if I’m not feeling it right back. 

Then I remember the horrible secrets I’m keeping from him, and my swelling enthusiasm fades. 

“I’ll be back. Right?” I glance toward Monique, but she’s chatting with one of the therapists, who’s monitoring our injured defenseman. The therapist is pretty hot, I’ll give her that—a petite, curvaceous girl with honey-blond hair wrangled back in a braid. I choose not to interrupt. “Well. I’ll make sure that I am.” 

“
Molodtsa.
” Sergei’s eyes lid. Whatever painkiller they gave him is starting to kick in. “See you soon.”