Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel (13 page)

“He said Jeremy drugged my drink.” I fell back on the bed, closing my eyes as I inhaled Aleksandr’s clove scent wafting from my pillow.

“Yeah. I can’t believe Scott would even bring that frickin’ psycho.”

“You can’t?” I asked. I didn’t believe Scott brought someone to hurt us intentionally, but I wasn’t surprised he had those kinds of friends.

“I’m so glad Aleksandr beat his ass.”

“What?”

“He punched Jeremy out. Like, punched him out cold,” Kristen said.

Though I didn’t condone violence, my heart swelled knowing that Aleksandr had punched him for me.

When I heard the rumble of a vehicle pulling into the driveway, I cut the conversation short. “I gotta go, KK. Uncle Rick’s here.”

“Scratch Max’s belly for me,” she replied. “And call me later.”

I paused to put on a bra and sweep my hair into a messy ponytail before trotting out to the living room. I’d assumed the visitor was my uncle Rick, since he came over every weekend with Max, his golden Lab. But when I looked out the window, I saw Aleksandr hopping out of his black Jeep Wrangler. He looked up from fumbling around in the passenger side and winked, before resuming his task. When he emerged again, he closed the door with his hip, as his hands were full; a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a package wrapped in plain brown paper in the other.

“Who is it?” Grandpa asked.

“My client,” I answered. My heart was pounding so hard, it felt like the offspring of unicorns and elephants were banging against my chest cavity.

“Let the boy in the house, Audushka,” he commanded, looming behind me.

I took a few steps back, before Grandpa brought out the mosh-pit elbows on me.

Aleksandr stepped over the threshold and into the house before greeting Grandpa. “Viktor Vladimirovich, is nice to finally meet you. Evgeny Igorovich and Audushka tell me many good things.” After speaking with my grandpa, he took a small step to the side and leaned in to kiss Gram on the cheeks three times. “Mrs. Berezin.”

Points for the Russian: Using Grandpa’s patronymic (first and middle names, which is the respectful way to greet in Russia) and kissing Gram’s cheeks in greeting.

Points against the Russian: His hair. I watched Grandpa’s eyes lock on Aleksandr’s head for a few seconds before he backed away. He didn’t mention it, but I knew he was judging.

Aleksandr must have noticed where Grandpa’s eyes had lingered, because he smoothed a hand over one shaved side and shrugged. “Prank on rookie.”

“Oh my.” Gram covered her mouth, hiding the curve of a smile.

“For you.” Aleksandr didn’t miss a beat, holding out the paper-wrapped package to Gram.

“Thank you,” she said, peeling back the wrapping to reveal a loaf of dark brown bread.

“Is black bread,” he explained, seeing her eyebrows lift in question at the gift.

“Where did you get black bread here?” Grandpa interrupted.

I swear Grandpa was salivating. He’d told me stories of how much he loved his mother’s black bread, but I’d never had it before. My great-grandma passed away before I was born, and Gram wasn’t a baker. A few years ago, I looked up a recipe to make the dark rye bread for Grandpa on his birthday, but immediately filed it under the impossible-for-my-skill-set category. Must’ve inherited Gram’s baking capabilities.

“I make this,” Aleksandr told him.

Six eyes widened as we all stared at him like he was crazy. And a liar.

“I made this bread,” he went on, “but I cannot tell you how this taste. I hope like Babushka’s.”

“You bake?” I asked peeking at him from over my Gram’s shoulder.

“No. I watch Babushka so many times I make this in my sleep.” Aleksandr smiled. “But I can cook.”

“Well, it was very thoughtful,” Gram told him, before turning to give me a pointed look.

I guess it was rude to ask a guy if he could bake.

“Come sit down,” she told Aleksandr, closing the door behind him. “Can I get you something to drink, dear?”

“No, thank you.” He shook his head. “I not gonna stay long. I come to meet you. Tell you Audushka is amazing translator. She, uh, professional and fast.”

Aleksandr handed me the beautiful bouquet of red roses and kissed each of my cheeks, then the left again, just as he had Gram. I brought the flowers to my nose, inhaling the musky scent that reminded me of Gram’s favorite lotion. Holding the bouquet in front of my face masked the color flooding my cheeks, but it wouldn’t stop the thrum as my heartbeat accelerated in my chest.

“I’ll take that,” Grandpa said, holding his hand out for Aleksandr’s peacoat. Grandpa nodded to the couch. “Take a seat.”

A few strands of loose hair fell in front of Aleksandr’s eyes as he settled on the couch.

Grandpa kept glancing at Aleksandr’s head as he hung his peacoat in the front closet. He hated Aleksandr’s hair.

“Let’s put those in some water.” Gram motioned for me to follow her into the kitchen. I nodded, though I was uneasy about leaving Aleksandr alone with Grandpa.

Gram and I set to our tasks in the small kitchen. She unwrapped the bread and set it on a cutting board, as I grabbed an empty vase from the cupboard above the sink and filled it with water. I separated each rose with care from the extra greenery and arranged them in the vase. Eleven roses. I counted again. Still eleven. Jerky florist gypped the guy from a dozen roses.

“Audushka tells us you are from Serpukov.” Grandpa’s voice boomed from the living room. Then I heard the distinct creaks as he lowered himself onto his worn, gray recliner.

“Yes,” Aleksandr answered.

Hurrying to the living room, I set the vase of flowers on the coffee table and scooted around it to sit next to Aleksandr on the couch. Sitting next to him didn’t mean anything. We had a good working relationship. We were friends.

Friends. Keep telling yourself that, Auden.

“How often do you get to go home?” Gram asked, placing the bread on the coffee table in front of Aleksandr and me. She’d set a small ramekin of butter and a knife next to the now-sliced bread. Gram took a piece, buttered it, and handed it to Grandpa before doing the same for herself. “Your parents must miss you.”

“My parents, they killed in car accident. But I have many aunts, uncles, cousins. Never enough time for these visits when I am home.” He smiled.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” Gram told him, her eyes soft with empathy. No doubt in my mind, she’d already started saying the rosary for him in her head.

“I have my parents eighteen years. I miss them, but I come here like I planned. I just hope I make them proud, yes.”

“This bread is wonderful, Aleksandr,” Gram said, looking from Aleksandr to Grandpa. “Isn’t it wonderful, Viktor?”

If Gram was doing a quick subject change, it meant she was about to cry. And Irish Catholic Catherine was just as stoic as Russian atheist-turned-Catholic Viktor when it came to crying. They rarely let loose in public.

“Very good,” Grandpa answered while still chewing. He’d already motioned for a second piece, so I believed him.

“Thank you,” Aleksandr told them.

The conversation went on from there, but I tuned out because I couldn’t take my eyes off Aleksandr. His blue eyes were bright, highlighted by the cute wrinkles surrounding them. He wore an easy, genuine smile during a conversation in which I’d expected him to be stiff and uncomfortable. He seemed anything but uncomfortable. Should the power go out, we could’ve used the glow of happiness radiating from him as a generator.

This confident, sometimes arrogant, man just wanted attention and praise. I kept forgetting he left everything familiar back in Russia to start a new life here. He’d made a huge transition, and I needed to cut him some slack.

“Aleksandr, I’m glad you came to spend time with us. Thank you so much for the delicious bread. I have to excuse myself to finish up some work.” Gram rose from her chair.

Aleksandr stood. “Is nice to meet you. Thank you.”

She rubbed his shoulder as she walked past him to the kitchen.

Whoa, now! Back off, Catherine!

A minute later she was pecking away on her typewriter. (Yes, typewriter.) As the secretary of her Thursday-night bowling league, it was her duty to put a score sheet together from the previous week.

I waited for Grandpa to make his exit, too. Instead, he pushed back on his recliner, getting more comfortable.

“I think you got gypped at the florist,” I told Aleksandr in Russian, ignoring my nosy grandpa who was most likely listening to every word.

“What do you mean? You liked them, yes?”

“Oh, yeah! They’re gorgeous. But there’s only eleven.”

He smiled, and shook his head.

“Oh my gosh, that was so rude. I’m sorry.” I’d insulted the only person to ever give me flowers over one measly flower. As if I hadn’t put him through enough in the last twenty-four hours. I was a class act.

“In Russia we don’t give even-numbered flowers as gifts.”

“Why not?” Wasn’t something as simple as flowers the same across the world?

“Even numbers are for the dead.”

I paused, unsure how to answer. “Well, then, I’m really glad the florist gypped you.”

“Me, too.” Aleksandr laughed, glancing at his watch. “I need to get going.”

“Oh, okay,” I mumbled, jumping up to retrieve Aleksandr’s coat from the front closet. My cheeks flushed as I watched him pull it up his arms and over his shoulders. His movements were so easy, so self-assured. Leave it to me to get excited over someone putting on clothes.

“Thank you so much, Sasha,” I said, throwing my arms around him. My hug must’ve caught him off guard because he stumbled backward.

“Thanks for letting me stop by,” he responded, recovering from my attack. I pulled back, sneaking a peek at his reaction. He was smiling. A white-teeth-showing, bottom-lip-dipping smile.

“Aleksandr Sergeevich?” Grandpa called just as Aleksandr was about to open the door.

“Yes?” He lifted his head to meet my grandpa’s eyes.

“I couldn’t help but notice that you have a good handle on the English language.” Grandpa minced no words in Russian. He pushed down the footrest on his recliner and stood up.

Oh shit. I put a hand over my mouth.

“I do, yes,” Aleksandr admitted.

“Then why do you need a translator?”

The story of what happened in my first night translating must’ve gotten back to Grandpa. Gram never could keep a secret.

“I don’t like speaking with the media. I haven’t mastered reining in my thoughts, giving the correct answers.” Aleksandr shifted his weight from his left foot to his right. Then thought better of slouching and straightened up.

Grandpa was going in for the kill. I could feel it.

“I understand that. You’re young and relatively new in the country. How the Pilots spend money is not my business, but I will not allow my granddaughter to be embarrassed and disrespected by a dishonest young punk. You should consider her services a favor since she is assisting you in a situation you don’t want to be in.”

“Yes, Viktor Vladimirovich.” Aleksandr’s swallow was audible.

“I am changing Audushka’s title and job duties to translator and tutor. We will let everyone, including the media, know that in addition to translating, she will help you learn the English language so you will be able to handle your own interviews. It makes sense as she is only in town for the next month.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea.” Aleksandr nodded.

That glow he just had—yeah, that was gone.

“Thank you. And if I ever hear of you embarrassing Audushka when she is being professional and helpful, I will personally pay you a visit. And believe me when I say, I don’t think you’ll enjoy it.”

Aleksandr nodded. “I’m very sorry, Viktor Vladimirovich. Please accept my apology as I hope Audushka already has.” He studied the floor.

“Please, call me
Dedushka
.” Grandpa clapped his shoulder before shuffling off to the kitchen.

Call me Dedushka?
He sounded like a frickin’ mobster. Viktor Sopranov.

“And, Sasha?” Grandpa turned around.

Aleksandr whipped his head up. “Yes?”

“How about coming over tomorrow to help an old man with some outdoor work?”

Aleksandr nodded.

“Sorry,” I said, lowering my hand from my mouth. “I didn’t know he was going to say anything.”

“I deserved it.” Aleksandr opened the door and jumped from the porch to the grass. When it was clear that he wasn’t going to turn toward the house again, I shut the front door.

All the time I’d spent trying to keep my attraction to Aleksandr under wraps to avoid creating an uncomfortable work situation—not necessary.

Thanks, Dedushka.

Chapter 11

“I’ll help, too. I’m good at home-improvement projects,” I reminded Grandpa, pulling on a pair of Gram’s old leather driving gloves.

Aleksandr had showed up at our front door at noon the next day. Grandpa immediately put him to work scraping the old chipped paint from our garage. My grandparents were getting ready to put the house on the market in the spring, finally abandoning the city they’d called home for over sixty years.

Grandpa lifted his head from his search for something in the top drawer of his toolbox to flash me an irritated look.

I knew he remembered the time I got sick of the dirty old carpet in my bedroom. I’d assumed there was beautiful hardwood flooring underneath because I didn’t know any better and thought all houses had hardwood flooring under the carpet. So one Saturday morning when my grandparents were out of the house, I’d torn the carpet off the staples, rolled it up, and dragged it out to the curb. I was right about the hardwoods. Uncle Rick installed quarter-round molding and painted a coat of stain, and—boom—beautiful wood floors, just like I’d imagined. Which was fortunate for me.

“You can help with the scraping.” Grandpa handed me a tool with a wide, flat metal head.

“Painting can’t be that hard. I mean, it’s a garage, how good does it have to look?” I asked as I began assaulting the paint that had bubbled and cracked over the years. Aleksandr, already armed with a scraper, toiled beside me.