Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (6 page)

“It can be you, or it can be another member of our team. But I’d hate to tell your internship coordinator that you’ve been uncooperative. I’d
certainly
hate for you to do anything that might appear like obstruction of justice.”

My head is spinning; I can’t see straight. No. I can’t lose my internship—my job prospects. I’ve spent the past three years of my life building toward this—a career with the FBI. Oh, my god. I am so far in over my head. Damn me and my need to be honest with Frederica. Damn Sergei and his stupid, hot, mesmerizing ways.

“Let’s hope it won’t come to that. Do a good job persuading him to tell you what we need to know, and it won’t be necessary. Are we understood?” Frederica asks.

“Perfectly,” I spit out.

She smiles again. “Excellent. Then you can begin by informing Mister Drakonov that you’d love to join him for dinner. I expect a complete writeup of your interactions with him thus far on my desk before you leave for the day.”

I spend the rest of the morning filling out my foreign persons contact form, then drafting a personality assessment of Sergei for Frederica. The way he acted at the Red Star, the way he acted in private with me (leaving out the details of the amazing sex we had, which I’m hoping will remain none of her business) and what little he shared with me about his mother and brother.

Then I pull out my phone while I head for the gym. No new texts from Sergei. I open up my messages, switch to a Russian keyboard, and take a deep breath.

You’re on for Wednesday night. Can’t wait.
 

“Jael, you will not
believe
the crazy shit that went down at Red Star after you left.” Beth flops onto the couch beside me and turns down the volume on the pre-game show for the Washington-Winnipeg game. We’re sprawled out in Monique’s penthouse condo in downtown DC, overlooking the National Archives and the Washington Monument. Since Beth still lives in the dorms and my television doubles as a nightstand in my cramped basement studio, it’s the best place to watch the away games.

“What happened?” I ask carefully. I haven’t told them yet about Sergei and me. I’m just waiting for the right time, honestly. Plus, I’m not sure how or if I should explain the whole “spying on him for the FBI” business. No, it’s probably best not to mention that. Right? But I hate lying to my best friends.

I hate lying to
anyone
. But now I have to lie to Sergei. The thought puts my stomach in knots.

“So you remember the Russian dude with the aviators who danced with us when we first got there?” Beth asks.

“Sure,” I say. “Oh. Wait. You didn’t—”

“Ew, no! He was just a little too Eurotrash creepy,” Beth says. “Anyway, Drakonov went missing shortly after you said you were gonna go, and the aviators guy got really agitated. He was, like, looking everywhere for him, muttering in Russian to himself, ended up arguing with some of Sergei’s groupie girls.”

“Oh.” I feel oddly detached from myself as I say it.

“Then this
other
guy shows up,
also
wearing sunglasses, but his hands are completely covered with these hardcore Russian prison tattoos, right? He takes off his blazer, and he’s got a fucking gun holster on. Two handguns—one under each armpit. And he and the first sunglasses guy start arguing. I couldn’t quite follow what they were saying—their accents were super thick and they were using a lot of slang—but I guarantee it was about Sergei.”

Sergei’s brother, or one of his lieutenants. It has to be. Bile rises in the back of my throat. What the hell have I gotten myself mixed up in? I think back to the SUV I swore was following me on my way to the Metro from Sergei’s townhouse. Surely it was just a coincidence.

But if I’m dating Sergei, and the Bratva is all in Sergei’s business, will it really take that long for them to start stalking me, too?

“All right, ladies, three orders of the finest carryout ramen Chinatown has to offer!” Monique bustles in her front door, arms loaded with takeout bags. “Let’s play some hockey.”

Beth and Monique dive into their bowls of ramen, but I can’t bring myself to do more than poke at it. I try one bite of the sliced pork, then let it fall back into the bowl. Even the thought of Sergei mixed up with those mobster goons is making me sick. I am so not cut out for undercover work.

“Hey, look, it’s your boyfriend.” Monique turns up the volume on the television.

I drop my chopsticks, splashing ramen broth everywhere. “I’m not—” I sputter. “He isn’t—”

Beth and Monique both turn toward me. “There something we should know, Jael?” Monique asks coolly.

The pre-game show is playing an interview with Sergei. “Is just hurt in practice,” Sergei tells the reporter, gesturing to his lower lip—which is swollen and split open. “Happens lots. I play tonight fine.”

I sigh and sink back into the leather couch. “So I might have . . . slept with Sergei Drakonov the other night.”

I can already see the note in my FBI file:
Folds under questioning.
 

“Thank
god!
” Beth cries, as Monique squeals and kicks her legs. “Oh, Jesus, I thought you were going to be hung up on Todd Beckwith for
ever
!”

“Drakonov. Holy shit, girl. I wanna hear everything. No, no, wait—it’s better if I imagine it.”

My face is burning up. “It’s really not a big deal—and we’re going out to dinner when the Eagles are back in town—”

“Whoa. Wait. So this is like an actual thing you two have?” Monique asks.

Beth makes a show of swooning and falling backward on the couch. “Candlelit dinners . . . jaunting off on a chartered jet to Ibiza . . . Hot, hot sex in an Aspen ski chalet atop a bearskin rug . . .”

I force my brightest smile to my face. “Well, we’ll see where it goes.”

Unfortunately, I have a feeling it’s going to go exactly where the FBI wants it to.

The Washington Eagles have a rough time on their road games. Our goalie, Brian Osbourne, gets hurt during the second period of the Winnipeg game, and we have to sub in some kid fresh from the farm league. The Winnipeg team is stuck to Sergei the whole time, and he can’t get a single play off. The game ends three to one for Winnipeg—at least our Center, Marcus Wright, manages to score in the third period.

Then it gets really interesting. While the teams are lining up to congratulate each other, one of the Winnipeg guys calls Marcus Wright the n-word. Sergei overhears it and punches him square in the jaw, right there on the ice. The league slaps him with a fine, but he gets a standing ovation from most of the arena (save for a few people in the crowd who are hardcore Winnipeg fans and, presumably, racists). The morning sports shows play the clip of the punch on endless loop, providing a really entertaining soundtrack to my morning workout as I kick and punch the shit out of some sandbags.

The Buffalo game goes a bit better. Sergei, Wright, and one of the defensemen all score, but Buffalo answers each one, and regular play ends in a tie. We end up losing the game in sudden death overtime. So the Eagles are 1-1-1 for the season—one win, one loss, one tie. Not the worst start to a season, but we’re really going to have to shape up in time for the Thanksgiving Classic. Especially since we’re hosting this year.

“I don’t care what you say, Frederica, I am
not
wearing a wire.”

It’s Wednesday morning at FBI headquarters, the day of my dinner date with Sergei Drakonov. Frederica and Chief Ha have been trying to coach me on how to persuade Sergei to open up about his brother, but their methods are a bit more . . . direct than I’m willing to use, to say the least. Like I’m really going to start out a date by grilling him about his brother. Only if I want to come off as a total creep.

Frederica clenches the battery pack for the wire device in a death grip. “We have to have some way to record your conversation.”

“I’ll write up a detailed report afterward, okay? You know I can write up a report.” I’d done a fantastic job on that psychological profile of Sergei, but did Frederica say a single word about that? Of course not.

“A report isn’t good enough. We need something verified.” Frederica purses her lips. “That way, no one can call your—ahem, your
veracity
into question.”

I glance toward Chief Ha, but his expression is the same. Protocol
uber alles
.

“Okay. What if I recorded with my phone, instead? Like a voice memo app or something. Anything has to be more discreet than wearing a wire.” Especially if—
ahem,
Frederica—I might not be fully dressed for the entire evening.

Frederica and the chief exchange looks for a moment, then Chief Ha nods. “Fine. We can use that, under one condition. You have to set it to upload the data directly to our servers. No tampering.”

“Deal,” I say, and hand over my phone.

The restaurant Pluribus has been open for two months and already has a six-month waiting list, but I guess none of that matters when you’re the hot new athlete in town. I totter toward the gorgeous old mansion near the White House. Even in my hottest dress—sleek black velvet with a low cowl neck in the back—I feel woefully inadequate next to the plasticized congressional wives and flawless, polished young lawyers. I tug down the dress, but it’s nowhere near reaching my knees. I swear, I’m the only person here who doesn’t get a facial for her legs.