Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel (2 page)

“Detroit,” I said, nodding. “But I go to Central State.”

“Are you kidding?”

I shook my head and picked up the drink the bartender had placed in front of me.

“So do I. That’s crazy.” Greg held up a few bills, waiting until the bartender saw the money before setting it on the bar. “My roommates and I have a band and we’re looking for a singer right now.”

“You’re in a band? That’s awesome,” I said, focused on mashing the limes in my drink. I raised my glass to him. “Thank you, by the way.”

“No problem.” He picked at the label on his beer bottle. “Any interest?”

“In what?” I asked, looking at Greg over the top of my cup.

“Singing for our band.” He didn’t even blink.

“You’re joking, right?” I laughed. Asking me to sing in his band after hearing one karaoke song was hilarious. I’d never taken voice lessons, and as far as I knew, I didn’t have any significant talent.

“Why would I joke?” He didn’t seem to understand my laughter at all.

“I just sang in public for the first time and you’re asking me if I want to be in a band?” Being the center of attention for five minutes in a karaoke bar was one thing; standing on stage in front of people expecting a show was a different beast.

“So that explains your lack of stage presence,” Greg said as he ran his fingers over his beard, looking more English professor than rocker.

“Quite the charmer, aren’t you, G-man?” I took a drink. I knew I didn’t have stage presence. Hell, I didn’t make eye contact.

“Stage presence can be learned,” he said. “You have a great voice and a hot look.”

Once I realized he wasn’t kidding, I was speechless.

Greg continued peeling the label off his beer bottle as he waited for me to speak. “It’s nothing crazy. We just play bars in Bridgeland, well, mostly at Wreckage.” He chuckled.

“Yeah, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” I forced a half smile.

“Come on,” he pleaded. “Just try out. If you like it, great.”

“I don’t think I could even learn to be comfortable on stage.”

“I can get you over your stage fright.” Greg’s voice was molasses, thick and smooth; a contrast to his grunge-hipster vibe. The lights flickering above gave his previously plain eyes a sensuous sparkle as he waited for my answer.

Why did I have to be a sucker for sparkles? “Okay, sure.” My head bobbed in reluctant consent. “The worst that could happen is I fail miserably, right?”

“You might surprise me.” Greg winked. He searched the bar before grabbing a pen lying on an abandoned credit card receipt. Then he flipped over a coaster advertising some brewing company’s winter ale and began scribbling. “Here’s my number. Call me next week for an audition.”

“This is crazy.” I took the coaster from him.

“What do you have to lose?” His eyes were solid and intense as he stared at me.

Nothing. I’d long since lost it all. But he didn’t know that.

Without another word, he walked away, leaving me alone at the bar, perplexed by the interaction.

“What did Eddie Vedder’s son have to say?” Kristen asked, nodding toward Greg, who had resumed his place behind the karaoke machine. Of course Kristen would think of a similar description for his look. It was one of the many reasons we’d been calling each other the “other half” since the first day of freshman year when we were assigned the same dorm room.

“He wants to me to try out for his band,” I said, flashing her the coaster. “Which is stupid.”

“No it isn’t.” She snatched my hand and squeezed. “You’re really good.”

I shook my head. Right now I was high from my time on stage and the applause and compliments I’d received, but as soon as I got home and thought about the unexpected conclusion to my soccer career again, the euphoria would abandon me. Just like my team had.

Just like everyone does.

“You’re a popular lady tonight. The Mohawked hottie stared at you the entire time you talked to karaoke guy.”

I followed Kristen’s gaze to the table where Crazy Hair and his friends were sitting. Though the group seemed to be leaving, downing their drinks and grabbing their coats, Crazy Hair stood still, his penetrating eyes on me.

I had a feeling he was the type of guy who would say anything to get me to take him home, and then slink away without a word the next morning. Though drinking had usually been involved when that had happened, I couldn’t even blame the alcohol. I fell for guys like him because I needed the attention. I needed to feel like someone wanted me. I needed to pretend that someone might be able to love me.

The way parents should have loved me.

It was an impossible void to fill.

Crazy Hair slid one of the muscular arms I’d admired earlier around the shoulders of the girl with the tight red sweater. She had big everything. Big hair, big boobs, big smile. Still holding my gaze, he said something against her ear, and she threw her head back in a laugh revealing big white teeth. Moving his hand to her back, he allowed her to go first as they followed the rest of the group toward the door.

Which reminded me of another definition of
smoke show
: to dominate, crush, or otherwise humiliate the opposition.

Mission accomplished.

Douche.

Chapter 2

“I hope you don’t think you’re going to sit on your butt your whole break,” Grandpa said. He punctuated his sentence with a quick snap of his newspaper. He’d done it to lift a falling corner, but he may as well have cracked an invisible whip.

“Come on,
Dedushka,
” I said, stopping my arm midair and lifting my tired eyes from the milk dripping off the spoon to his customary stern face. “I just got home yesterday.”

“And you start your job today.” His steel blue eyes caught mine before returning to the paper.

“Funny. I don’t remember interviewing.” I smirked, then shoveled the spoonful of soggy cereal into my mouth.

“Oh, how I’ve missed your smart mouth, Auden,” he said without even looking up.

Though I would be home for less than a month, living with my grandparents again would be rough. After my first taste of freedom living in the dorms freshman year, going back to Hawk-eye Land will be a challenge.

All my life I had wished I’d had a sibling, but the yearning was never so prominent as when I came home from school. It had been fourteen years since my mom died. Fourteen years of being the only person my grandparents had to worry about. While I appreciated the motive behind their undivided attention, I’d always wanted someone who understood my rants about their constant hovering. Someone to talk with and share silly inside jokes. Since my well-being was my grandparents’ first priority, they were always on my case. It would’ve been nice to have a sibling to pick up some of the slack. I never wanted to sound ungrateful for what they’d done for me, but sometimes I needed a break.

“What kind of job is it?” I asked, keeping any smart-mouth comments to myself. Didn’t feel like ticking him off today.

“Translating.” Grandpa folded the newspaper into a rectangle and set it next to his N
OT ONLY PERFECT, BUT
R
USSIAN, TOO
coffee mug.

My grandfather, Viktor Berezin, was a retired Russian language professor at a state university outside of Detroit. He’d taken on various translating jobs for friends and coworkers his whole life and had set me up with small projects since my junior year of high school. The work hadn’t been difficult; translating documents or contracts from Russian into English or vice versa. It was great money for a teenager, since it paid better than babysitting or a part-time retail job.

“Documents?” I asked.

“For a person. He doesn’t know much English, and he needs a translator to speak with the media for his job. You will help him.”

“He speaks with the media for his job? Is he super-high profile?”

“In some circles, I suppose.” Grandpa shrugged.

“You trust me to be someone’s PR person? I have a pretty smart mouth, you know,” I joked, shoveling more cereal into my mouth.

“I’m counting on it, Audushka.”

“Is he an actor? A model?” I pushed my empty cereal bowl to the side. “Wait! Is he some kind of dignitary?”

“I think I’d handle the dignitary if he were one.” Grandpa took a sip of his coffee. “He’s a hockey player.”

“A hockey player,” I repeated. “For the Red Wings?”

Excitement bubbled in my stomach. I’d been a Detroit Red Wings fan since before I could speak. Being a translator for a Russian player on my favorite team in the history of the universe would complete my life.

“Not that high profile.” Grandpa laughed. “He plays for the Pilots.”

A minor-league player? The bubbles in my stomach fizzled and popped, and my tense, excited shoulders dropped.

“Where am I meeting him?”

“You will meet Zhenya at Robinson Arena at noon.”

Grandpa was talking about his lifelong friend, Evgeny Orlenko. Zhenya is the Russian term of endearment for the name Evgeny. Personally, I thought of Orlenko as an uncle, since he and Grandpa were as close as brothers. Professionally, he was a sports agent who represented a number of Russian hockey players. According to recent documents I’d translated, he’d peppered his clientele list with a few basketball players as well.

“Hey, Gram,” I greeted my grandmother, who had just walked into the tiny kitchen with the electric lighted mirror she swore by.

For someone who didn’t approve of her kids or grandkids being vain, Gram was pretty concerned with her looks. She never wore foundation or mascara, but her cheeks were always powdered and her lips were never without lipstick in public. Her fair skin was wrinkled with soft lines, but it didn’t take away from the beauty of her features. Her blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones were complimented by perpetually dark blond hair, thanks to the magic of hair dye. She would’ve been beautiful even if she’d let her hair go gray. I could only hope I got some of those graceful-aging genes.

“What time did you get home last night?” Gram asked, setting the mirror on the table and flipping it to the ultra-magnifying side before stooping to plug it in.

“Around one-thirty, I guess.”

“I can tell. You’re puffy.” She reached over to pat my cheek before turning to inspect her own face in the mirror.

Thanks,
I thought. I didn’t dare say it out loud. My grandparents and I had a better relationship since I’d left for college than we ever had when I was growing up. Didn’t want to mess up a good thing. “Where are you off to?”

“It’s my week to clean the church,” Gram answered as she slicked a rose shade across her lips. Then she patted the skin under her eyes with her fingers and turned the mirror’s light off.

“Do you need any help?”

“Pat and Emma will be there, but thank you for asking.”

My breath of relief was almost audible. I hadn’t been back to church since I’d left my grandparents’ house two years ago. Just thinking about the place made me itchy.

I slid out of my seat, tapped my inseams together with a flourish, and straightened my arms at my sides.

“Are you going to tell me my client’s name or is this a super-secret mission, Sir?” I asked in a military monotone.

My grandpa shook his head, picked up the newspaper, and straightened it out. “Don’t know it. I just told Zhenya you’d be happy to do it.”

“Super secret. Got it. I won’t let you down, Sir.” I saluted him. Still staring straight ahead, I waited to be excused.

Grandpa lowered the paper. “Is there something else?”

“May I be excused? I have to shower and dress for the mission.”

“You are a ridiculous girl, Audushka.” He dismissed me with a shake of his head.

“Auden, you’re only home for a month. Please try not to drive your grandfather crazy,” my grandma said.

With a salute to both of them, I ignored her warning. I’d driven my grandpa crazy years ago.

I thought Grandpa would continue to reward my almost-native knowledge of reading, writing, and speaking Russian by giving me tedious translating projects my whole life. I never expected him to allow me to work directly with a client, let alone a client in the public eye. Maybe he had more faith in me than I realized.

—

I arrived at Robinson Arena fifteen minutes early to prove that I took my first translating assignment with an actual human to heart. There was no doubt Evgeny Orlenko would report my professionalism, or lack thereof, to Grandpa. My mission, other than translating, was to keep my grandpa’s stellar reputation intact.

I spotted Orlenko waiting for me at the top of the stairs, outside the main entrance to the arena.

“Audushka!” He leaned in to kiss my cheeks, as was Russian custom, but he stopped himself and offered me his leather-gloved hand instead. I shook it firmly. “We’ll keep this professional, yes? It’s good to see you again.”

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Orlenko,” I responded as a smile crept across my face.

Orlenko wasted no time getting to business, greeting me with the Russian-inspired diminutive of my name and continuing the conversation in his native language. I threw my grandpa a mental fist-bump for teaching me Russian so well I could’ve been born and raised in Moscow.

“Your destiny awaits,” he said with a wink, holding a heavy blue door open. “Tell me how you got Vitya to give you this assignment. I thought he’d have you translating contracts until you were a little old lady.”

Since only Orlenko called Grandpa by his diminutive, Vitya, I had to think for a minute. My grandma, being of Irish descent, doesn’t use diminutives—or any nicknames. She called Grandpa only by two names: Viktor or Horse’s Ass.

“I have no clue. I thought the same thing, except I always throw in some cats. Little old cat lady translating Pushkin and Tolstoy until her arthritic hand falls off.”

Orlenko’s deep laugh echoed through the empty concourse as we entered the arena. When the heavy door slammed shut, the frigid air hit my exposed skin, sending an involuntary ripple from my fingertips to my toes.

“You will be spending quite a bit of time here, so you may want to dress for warmth,” Orlenko said.

I nodded. Wearing a black skirt suit for a job at an ice arena hadn’t been the smartest decision, but it was the only suit I owned, so I didn’t have another option. Maybe my grandparents would take pity on me and spot me some cash for appropriate work attire.