Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (14 page)

The rest of the game is a lot more sedate following Sergei’s injury. The Seattle Bombers seem to be playing a lot more cautiously, and Ravik Ranacek, their bruiser who hit Sergei, is skating like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the game either way. Maybe he’s just rattled, but there’s something weird about his attitude—more like he’s done with this match, and not so much that he feels bad or guilty. He misses an easy save, in which our boy Magnussen ties it up, then gets called for icing later on. We capitalize on the power play to take the lead at the end of the second period. During the second intermission, the announcer updates the rest of the arena on Sergei’s status, and only then do I feel I can well and truly relax. 

“Everything all right?” Todd asks me, taking a break, I guess, from whatever pitch he’s making now. He leans against the box’s railing, back to the arena, and swirls a glass of scotch in one hand. 

I shrug. I’m in no mood to be divulging all my secrets and frustrations to him. He probably knows about Sergei and me, but that doesn’t mean I have to talk to him about it. “I’ve got a lot going on right now.” 

He nods and stares into the depths of his drink. “Believe me, I hear that.” 

Oh, yes, I’m playing the world’s smallest violin for him and the embarrassing amount of investors he’s rounded up to fund his new consultancy firm. I cross my arms. “What do you want, Todd?” 

“I was wondering if you’d thought any more about my proposal. Joining my new firm.” He looks back up at me with a smile. “We’re already getting interest from places like Interpol and a number of private insurance companies who want to hire recovery specialists.” 

“Private detectives, you mean.” 

“Yes, something like that.” Todd points at me. “You know, it’s the sort of work you’re perfectly suited for. Your analytical mind would be wasted on the FBI. With your linguistic talents, I think you could really make a name for yourself here.” 

I shift my weight. I won’t lie—the idea of working for a private firm and making crazy cash to do more or less what I want to do for the FBI, only freelance, and with less rules, is awfully tempting. But I’m in no position to deal with it right now. Not while I’m on the hook to the FBI, and getting stalked by the Bratva. 

“Still considering.” I flash him a smile. “It’s not a good time right now, but—” 

“It’s never a good time to seize a stellar opportunity,” Todd says. “But when one comes along, you should really take it up all the same.” 

“Whoa. What about my five-year plan?” I arch one eyebrow at Todd. “I mean, I could see lining that up with my three-day plan, maybe even my six-week plan if you’re lucky, but five-year—” 

“Look. Jael. I get it. I hurt you, right?” Todd grimaces, and swallows the rest of his scotch. “We weren’t good for each other. You shouldn’t have been having anxiety attacks trying to impress me, and I shouldn’t have tried to make you someone you’re not.” 

Todd Beckwith, admitting he made a mistake? Well, this is certainly new. 

“And I’m sorry for that. Truly, I am. You—” He stares down at his loafers. “You deserved better.” 

I press my lips together and manage a stiff nod. “Thank you.” 

“But please, Jael, don’t let your anger at me prevent you from taking a chance on something big. Real big. You can call it my ego, or whatever you like—I know you will—but I’ve got some incredible prospects for this business. And I want you to play a role in that.” 

“I appreciate the offer. But seriously, Todd—now is
not
a good time.” 

He nods and pushes off of the box’s railing. The arena dims to welcome the teams back onto the rink for the final period. “Well, you let me know when it is.” 

The third period is a snore. All the fight’s gone out of the Bombers, and Ranacek spends his time on the ice just brooding and circling. The Eagles try to widen their lead, but their first string is a bit of a mess without Sergei on it; Wright and Magnussen keep batting the puck back and forth between them without ever seeming to find a chance to capitalize. But a win is a win, and as soon as the last buzzer sounds, I’m delving into the depths of the arena once more to make sure Sergei gets home without tearing his stitches open. 

Once again, Monique guards my way into the med suite. Now that we’ve passed them a second time, the photographers are taking a little more interest, but there are fewer of them now—most have rushed off to do post-game coverage, or to file their stories before deadline.  

I chew at my lower lip, wondering if I’m really ready for this, my debut before the tabloid world as the latest conquest by the Russian Dragon. Sergei didn’t sound thrilled with the prospect, either.
Never let them see the real you,
he’d said. I had assumed that “they” was the world at large, but now I think it applies to his brother, as well. 

Well, too late on that front. Vladimir knows just who I am. 

Sergei’s at the far end of the med suite, dressed in a fresh pair of sweats, playing a hockey video game again with his injured leg propped up, an ice pack balanced on top of the injury. I cross the suite toward him. “Beating up on those poor Forge players again and their tragically misshapen heads?”  

“Thought I’d give Carson a break.” He gestures toward the screen. Sure enough, it’s Ravik Ranacek on the screen now. Sergei hits him with a high stick, and he takes off, squealing and deflating around the arena. “Come. Sit. Let’s give the media a little longer to clear out.” 

I toss my purse on the floor and sink beside him on the couch. “Wow. This is so much more comfortable than any hospital chair I’ve ever sat in.” 

“You should see the hot tub . . . the sports massages . . . I could probably convince them to hire a cupper from Russia if I wanted to.” 

I stare at him blankly. “What the hell is a cupper?” 

“Cupping? Oh, it’s this wacky Russian folk medicine. They suction glass cups to your skin with the heat from a candle flame so it sticks to you.” He pantomimes it against his arm and makes a
pop
sound. “It’s supposed to draw out the bad humors.” 

“Great. I’ll be sure to look into it next time I need my spleen vented or my melancholia leeched.” 

Sergei grins at me, revealing the little gap in his teeth, then reaches for the table in front of him for a spare controller. “Want to play?” 

“That’s awfully brave of you.” I cradle the controller like a gun I’m about to holster. “I could be a real ringer. You don’t know.” 

“We’ll do a shootout to make it quick. Then we should be safe to leave.”  

He scrolls through the settings until he’s got us set up for a shootout. He’s playing himself, and he assigns Magnussen to me. I skate forward, assess the angle, pull back the lever, and take the shot. 

CLANG.
 

Bounces right off the goalposts. Shit. Sergei, of course, skates right up and plinks it in. I make the next shot, but he does too. In no time, he’s got me beat, eight to my pitiful three. 

“Okay, you win this time, but we’re going to have a rematch soon. You won’t be so lucky when there are actual goalies and players trying to block you,” I tell him. 

He smirks. “That’s what our shooting coach keeps telling me.” 

Sergei shuts down the console and swings his leg off of the couch. He takes a few tentative steps, but aside from a faint limp, he doesn’t appear to be having any problems. “How’s it feel?” I ask. 

“The cut stings a little and the stitches itch, but fine otherwise. I told them I could’ve played the last period.” 

I hold out an arm to support him, which is absurd, given that he probably weighs more than twice what I do, with half a foot of height on me as well. “You need your rest so you can heal. Listen to your doctor.” 

“Rest is a relative term,” Sergei insists as we head out of the med suite. The backstage area of the arena is all cinderblock walls and concrete floors; our footsteps ring through the empty corridor as we head for the exit. “I’m sure there’s still plenty we could do tonight that qualifies as ‘resting.’” 

I roll my eyes, but I won’t deny that I have a few ideas of my own. 

We push through the heavy double doors and enter the early November night, biting with a fresh chill. Sergei holds open the door for me on the black sedan sent from his usual car service, then climbs into the back beside me. I rest my hand on his uninjured thigh. 

“Here’s the thing.” Sergei glances toward our driver, but the plastic panel separating us is tinted. His shoulders ease a little. “I can’t shake the feeling that someone paid off Ranacek to hurt me.” 

“Oh, god.” I cover my mouth. “No. You don’t really think your brother—I mean, surely he doesn’t hold that kind of sway—” 

“You have no idea. With enough money and intimidation, he’s capable of making a great many people do whatever he likes. I don’t know Ranacek personally, but I’ve heard some stories. Stuff he was involved in back in the minor leagues—betting, game fixing, the works.” Sergei exhales slowly. 

“That’s very different from doing it in the majors, though. He could be jeopardizing his entire career,” I say. 

“With my brother . . . that can often be the less awful alternative to whatever he’s threatening you with.” He runs one hand through his hair. “I don’t have any proof. Just speculating. But there was this look in his eye when he hit me against the boards, like this was strictly business. It seems like just the sort of thing my brother would do to send me a message.” 

Damn it. I feel completely helpless to offer any real solution beyond the one I know Sergei doesn’t want to hear—that we should go to the FBI for help. This is useful information, though. I can use this to help him, whether he wants me to or not. If Vladimir’s pressuring Sergei this much, then maybe that means he’s getting desperate, and desperation makes people sloppy. Sloppy criminals are much easier to catch. 

“What kind of message is he trying to send you?” I ask. 

“He wants me to help him. That’s all.” Sergei turns and stares out the window as the gleaming storefronts of Connecticut Avenue rush by. 

My fingers curl against his thigh. “And are you going to?” 

“I’m going to do whatever I have to do to keep you safe.” 

“Sergei . . .”  

I take a deep breath. This is ridiculous. I understand why he doesn’t think the authorities can help, but Vladimir’s getting too aggressive. I don’t see any other way. I have to come clean. My stomach churns; it feels like my blood is made of acid. But I have to tell him. 

“Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but I think I know how to help.” 

But Sergei’s not listening to me. He presses his palm against the glass of the window. “Hey,” he says. He leans forward and knocks on the plexiglass divider, trying to get the driver’s attention. “Hey, you missed the turn.” 

That churn in my stomach grows. I reach for my door handle, but it’s locked. I search for the locking mechanism, but there’s no way to unlock it from the inside. 

“Hey!” Sergei smacks the glass with the flat of his palm. “Hey! Where are you going?” 

The driver doesn’t so much as look up. Instead, we turn down an alleyway, hemmed in on both sides by windowless brick walls. The car slows to a stop, where a group of burly men stand waiting. The same goons who confronted me on the Metro train. 

The driver unlocks the car doors, and one of the thugs opens Sergei’s door while another swoops around to my side and rips me out of the vehicle. It takes three of them to get Sergei out of the car—he swings a wild punch across them, grazing one on the cheek—but the sudden appearance of a pistol muzzle quells him. 

“Good to see you, too, Sergei,” the tallest of them says. “Vladimir has been expecting you.” 

The thugs lead us through a set of double doors into one of the brick buildings and up a narrow stairway. A frantic bass line throbs through the walls, emanating from an unseen dance floor. I realize with a sinking feeling that we’re in the back rooms of the Red Star. One of the men is holding my arms pinned behind my back, making it difficult for me to climb the stairs. When I trip, he wrenches me back upright so hard I think he’s nearly pulled my shoulder out of socket.