Pairing Off (Red Hot Russians #1) (10 page)

“You’re saying she’s not good enough.”

“That’s correct. Though in fairness, she is not unskilled. She’s just not right for you.”

He felt the familiar ache. “Because I’m not good enough.”

As always, Galina was brutally honest. “To win in Lake Placid? I’m afraid not. Not with her. From what I’ve seen, I’m not even confident you will qualify for the national team. You’ve worked too hard to throw it away because of a short-lived...” She searched for the right word. “Fascination with this girl.”

Galina shook her head. “With all that’s happened, it’s easy to become distracted but what kind of coach would I be if I allowed that?” She pressed her lips together and turned away again, facing the hall. “There were better coaches you could have trained with. But you stayed with me. I won’t repay that by holding you back.”

Gently, he touched her shoulder. “Galina—”

“You are not going to fight me on this. I loved your mother like a sister, and years ago, I made a promise to her...” Her voice caught and she looked back with a sad, broken smile. “There has never been a time I wasn’t proud of you. Give me the peace of knowing I did what was right.”

He turned away, staring up at the perfect line where the dark blue wall met the white ceiling. So neat and clearly defined. If only life could be that simple.

He remembered his mother’s excited, dying eyes. “Someday,” she’d said. He remembered how little Nika gave up her ballet class when there wasn’t enough money to cover his skating. Papa working nights, making do. All so he could have this chance.

He’d tried to walk away from it once, but the hold was too strong. It brought him back from England to train with Olga. It kept him from walking away last fall. The Games weren’t just his family’s dream, it was his too. If he gave up now, those sacrifices meant nothing. “You’ve said nothing to Lara Zhukova’s team?”

“Of course not. I’m not cruel. I will go next to Carrie’s. She believes I’m the one who chose her, and as her coach it is my job to tell her she’s no longer needed.”

After Galina left, he sat with his back to the one unpainted wall, staring at nothing.

On one hand, the timing couldn’t be better. This afternoon’s almost-kiss proved he was playing with fire. Making her his partner had been a rash, emotional decision. The worst possible kind. Whatever personal feelings he had for Carrie—and he couldn’t even begin to sort them out—he had no idea of her feelings for him. Was it worth jeopardizing his lifelong dream?

He picked up his brush, but then set it down and went to the living room. He sat at his desk and opened the top drawer. Reaching way in the back, his fingers brushed against hard plastic. He brought out the sunglasses Carrie had left behind in that long-ago Amsterdam bedroom.

How strange to think that nameless girl had remained with him all this time. That one seemingly insignificant night in a foreign country years ago could lead to...this. He should have followed her that night, should have searched every gate at that damn airport the next morning. If he had, what would she be to him now?

He rose, pacing aimlessly through the apartment he’d intended to share with Olga, but that she didn’t want. He glanced at the clock on the stove. Galina must be at Carrie’s, breaking the news—her final act as his coach. How would Carrie take it? He hoped she understood. Just as Olga had chosen Valentin to give herself the best possible chance, he could win with Lara Zhukova. Nothing personal, just sports.

His hand clenched around the glasses. Staring down at them, he froze.

A win with Lara Zhukova wasn’t a win. It was capitulation to the idea he wasn’t good enough to do it any other way. A hollow victory gained by destroying his Amsterdam Girl. The girl he’d dreamed of for years was now a beautiful, kind, caring woman who shouldn’t be cast aside like garbage because a better offer came along.

His family wanted him to win, but at what cost? They hated what Olga did. He’d put them first, but they hadn’t asked for it. He’d put Olga first, though she didn’t deserve it. Galina was right. It had to stop.

It was time to think about what
he
wanted. And damn it to hell, he wanted Carrie.

He snatched his phone from the counter. Maybe Galina was stuck in traffic, and hadn’t made it there yet. He speed-dialed his coach, but the call rolled over to voice mail.
Fuck.
He tried Carrie. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

He
grabbed his keys and rushed out the door.

Chapter Twelve

In the meadow, a sparkling Edward cupped Bella’s cheek, gazing into her eyes. “
Tochno
Bella,” said the lovesick vampire. “
Ty moi lichnyi sort geroina
.”

Carrie repeated the words in Russian, following along with the English subtitles. “Exactly, Bella. You’re my brand of heroin,” wasn’t a phrase she’d use often.
Drug
, maybe? She flipped through Anton’s Russian/English dictionary, its pages embellished with his colorful notes.

She’d signed up for an online Russian course the day after her Hobo-Peebo adventure, and Anton had brought her a bag of instructional aids—the dictionary, plus DVDs of American movies dubbed into Russian. The
Star Wars
trilogy.
Terminator
1 through 3.
Batman
. “When I moved to London, they helped me learn English,” he said.

“
Twilight
?” She’d held up the box, never expecting he was the vampire romance type.

“It’s Nika’s. She thought you might like better than my movies.”

It definitely fit the mood tonight. They’d almost kissed today, and God, she’d wanted to. His eyes had held the tenderness and passion she recalled so vividly from Amsterdam, making her desire for him almost unbearable. It had killed her to stop, even though it was the right thing to do.

Hard as it was, Anton’s involvement with Olga was a good thing. Otherwise, they might pick up where they’d left off seven years ago, and she’d end up telling him everything. Which would
not
be good. No, best to leave it alone, though tonight, she could indulge in girlie, romantic dreams, and savor the memory of being in his arms.

There was a knock at the door. She paused the movie and went to answer. It was Galina. The coach’s red-rimmed eyes said something was very wrong.

“Good evening, Carrie. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

She ushered Galina in, her stomach churning at the awful possibilities. Anton had been killed in a car crash on his way to the doctor. Or the doctor had diagnosed a fatal disease. Their coach had come to say he had only six months to live.

The older woman took the sofa, her gaze lingering on the makeshift Russian language classroom. She looked away and swallowed, as if the sight upset her more. Carrie sat in the opposite chair and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.

Galina cleared her throat. “Sometimes, we don’t know right away we have made mistake.”

Her mouth went dry. “Mistake?”

“Carrie, I have watched you and Anton these past weeks and I do not believe you are well suited. I thought your skating that would complement his, but I was wrong. What I do see hinders his chances at Winter Games.”

Carrie breathed out slowly and her voice shook. “You’re saying I’m not good enough?”

“I’m saying you’re not right for him.” Galina looked down, then back up. “He agrees.”

The words fell like blows, and she fought the urge to wrap her arms around her head to ward them off. She collapsed against the chair and dug her nails into her clasped hands. Every moment they’d shared, each little comfort, was gone. The friendship and trust she’d so badly longed for was a fraud. She’d been seduced by Anton’s warmth, his gentleness. He’d treated her as though she mattered, and she’d let herself believe he cared. Only now, when it was revealed as a lie, did she realize how much it meant.

“He intends to partner with one of our best young female pair skaters.” Galina continued to talk about this new skater, but none of it registered.

Which hurt more? Learning Anton was just another ruthless competitor, or losing her last hope of redemption? She was nothing—a used-up former champion he could discard without a thought. Her career and her reputation would never recover. She’d kept the partnership quiet, but soon enough, word would get out. Then what? Infomercials? Second-rate ice shows...if she was lucky?
Celebrity Detox
with Cody? Dad and Lolly’s disgust over her train-wrecked life?

Galina took an envelope from her purse. “I have booked return flight for you tomorrow afternoon, and arranged car service to Domodedovo.”

With her self-control clinging by a thread, she counted slowly to ten.
Damn
,
if she’d let this woman see her cry.
When she finished, she felt no better, but at least now, she was angry. “Keep it. I don’t want your damn help. And I don’t need you
or
Anton Belikov.”

Another knock sounded. Great. Probably Rita or Anita, or whoever the hell from next door, coming to borrow ice. Talk about lousy-ass timing. If she ignored it, maybe they’d go away. She turned to Galina, clenching her jaw to hold back the sob pushing its way to the surface. “The only thing I want is for you to leave my apartment this minute.”

Again, the knock. Louder, this time. “Carrie!”

Damn him.
Guess he just couldn’t miss seeing her humiliated. He’d want to share every detail with Olga, after all. She flung open the door to find him standing the dim hallway, tall and gorgeous, with raindrops splattered across the shoulders of his leather coat. “What the hell are you doing here?

Galina shouted in Russian, presumably asking the same thing. He strode into the apartment and took Carrie’s hands. “This isn’t what I want. It’s wrong.”

She shook him off. “You’re damn right, it’s wrong! You brought me here, raised my hopes, and now you say I’m not good enough. I trusted you. I thought you were my...”
Friend
. The word hurt too much to say. “But you only care about winning. Fine. Go find the perfect partner to help you do it. Now get out!”

“Carrie, please. Hear me out. I made mistake.”

“Yeah, I got that. Everybody made mistakes. So y’all can just take yourselves on out and start fixin’ your mistakes.” Her hated drawl coated her words like thick honey. She turned away, pressing her hand over her mouth and nose, as hot tears filled her throat. “Please,” she choked out. “Just go.”

“Carrie.” Anton’s voice was soft in her ear. “Sending you away isn’t the answer.”

“
Chto
?” What? Galina resumed shouting in Russian.

Anton didn’t respond. Her shoulders tensed at the light pressure of his touch. She kept her head down, but he cupped his hand to the side of her face and lifted her gaze to meet his. When she looked into his eyes, tears spilled onto her cheeks. He wiped away a drop with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I know you’re angry, but please talk to me.”

She ought to send him packing. But the pain in his dark eyes mirrored her own. Was there anything he could say to heal this? Heal them? Unlikely, but if she didn’t give him a chance to speak, she would never know. She swallowed the lump in her throat and whispered, “Okay.”

Galina swore loudly and snatched up her purse. “I should walk away from both of you. I am insane to put up with this.” She stormed from the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Silence descended. Carrie stepped from his grasp, waiting. Anton reached into his coat pocket and drew out...

“Oh my God,” she whispered, as he placed the instantly familiar, rhinestone-studded sunglasses in her hand.

He shook his head, looking angry and hurt at the same time. “Why didn’t you tell me you were her?” he asked, in a ragged whisper.

Confronted with this strange talisman of her former self, she could only stare. On the plane home from Amsterdam, she’d realized the glasses were missing, and assumed she’d lost them at the party. Never had she suspected that Anton had found them...or imagined he’d keep them all this time.

He turned away, raking his hand through his hair. “I came back to rink today and saw you skate to Michael Jackson. That’s when I knew for sure. But lately, I’ve often thought about that night. Now I know why.”

She closed her eyes. “I assumed you’d forgotten.”

“I didn’t recognize you. Your hair and accent are different.”

“In the Silverettes, we dyed to match. I lost the Georgia drawl in college. My professors said I’d be taken more seriously as a journalist if I didn’t sound like Scarlett O’Hara.”

“Were you ever going to say anything?”

She laughed bitterly. “It was why I almost left the first day. But once I thought about it, I saw no reason. You needed a partner. I wanted to skate. Bringing it up would have only complicated things.”

“You didn’t think I had right to know?” His angry eyes narrowed, showing his dismay.

“Why? So you could freak out and send me back to the States?” She sighed. “Look, I have no intention of coming between you and Olga. Without dredging up a lot of garbage you don’t want to hear, just know it’s a line I’ll never cross.”

He sank down on the couch, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, staring blankly at the frozen TV screen. Bella and Edward in the meadow. She aimed the remote and clicked it black. He rose and went to the window, gazing out, saying nothing. Minutes passed. The refrigerator whirred quietly to life.

“Amsterdam was long time ago. We don’t have to mention it again,” he said.

“It’s best we don’t.”

“I still want you as my partner, and I’m sorry to the depths of my soul for what happened tonight. Will you stay?”

It sounded like typical Russian hyperbole, but the look in his eyes made her believe him. Still, she had doubts. Amsterdam might have been long ago to him, but with each passing day, it was harder to deny her attraction. Nor could she dismiss Galina’s fears. If there were problems that would hinder him, how could she in good conscience hold him back? “What about this phenom you’re supposed to pair with?”

His only answer was a sad smile and a shake of his head. “It’s stopped raining. Why don’t we go get coffee or something?”

Light mist hung in the air as they walked south toward the river. They cut through a large park and crossed dark soccer fields, marked at the ends with ghostly white goals. The soggy ground squished under her feet. A concrete tunnel ran beneath the busy road that separated the park and the Moscow River. It came out onto the embankment, and they stood in silence, watching the headlights of cars on Krasnokholmsky bridge reflecting in a soft dance on the river. Directly across, their rink lay hidden among the early evening lights of Zamoskvorechye.

“I know there are problems,” she said quietly. “That’s why I stayed late today. But even if all the technical elements are right, I’m never going to skate them like Olga. Maybe you should be skating with Lara Zhukova.”

A sad smile played on his lips. “Are you also saying I’m not good enough to win without superstar partner?”

“I’d never say that. But all the years I skated with Cody, I was never allowed to forget he was a juniors national champion, and I was a synchro girl who’d gotten lucky. A little nobody with a rich daddy willing pay for our training. I always questioned whether I was good enough to be at the top of my sport.” She looked down at her muddy boots. “I still do.”

He leaned against the metal railing, gazing off into the night. “After Olga and I won Nationals, big car dealer in Moscow hired us for TV commercial. Olga had all the lines. I only had to show up for two hours, and I’d get new car. Not bad deal.”

“Not bad at all,” she said, not sure what this had to do with anything.

“On day of shoot, they decided to film my black car instead of Olga’s white one. That was fine, but then director said he wanted me in backseat...with my shirt off.”

“You were the eye candy.”

“I felt stupid, but did it anyway.” He laughed self-consciously. “I really wanted that car. Anyway, finished commercial showed Olga walking around my car pretending it’s hers, saying it has all hottest accessories. Right when she said that...” His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “They showed me.”

“The hottest accessory,” she murmured, feeling awful for him.

“Never mind I was national champion. Never mind I’d trained as hard—harder even, because our programs were always written for Olga. I was her accessory.” He blew out a breath. “I don’t want to be that again, and don’t want you to ever feel that way with me.” He placed his hand on her upper arm and squeezed gently. “Galina didn’t choose you. I did. And not because you’re pretty, or to have someone pay for my training. I didn’t do it even because of Amsterdam. I chose because I believe in you, and out of all the pair girls in the world, you are the one I want to skate with.”

She bit her lip, ready to cry again.

“You are an amazing skater. You didn’t even start serious training until late teens and look at where you are. Not because of Cody, because of you,” he said, fervently. “Ever since Beijing, I’ve wanted to skate with you. Please stay.”

Her heart hammered wildly and she turned away, hugging her arms across her chest. Could she spend hours a day with him, create beauty and romance on the ice, only to see him in the arms of another woman when the performance was over? She didn’t know. But she knew she didn’t want to leave.

The mist had turned to rain, and cold drops splattered against her neck. She shivered and burrowed deeper into her coat. Anton wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I said I would buy you coffee. I’m not being a good partner, am I?”

“Between that and trying to fire me an hour ago, you could stand improvement.”

Hope flickered in his eyes. “So you’re going to give me another chance, even if I acted like
zhopa
?”

“A
bolshaya zhopa,”
she said, offering a little smile of forgiveness.

Then he drew her close, sheltering her from the cold night wind. His embrace banished any doubts about his sincerity, and she buried her face against his throat. This afternoon had been about longing and desire. Tonight, it felt like them against the world. She closed her eyes and hugged his waist. If only this didn’t feel as good as it did. “But I have to be honest,” she said. “I really,
really
hate
Evita
.”

For a moment, he was silent. Then he stepped back and took her hands. For the first time that night, he smiled. “Me too. Let’s get rid of it.”

She blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “You can’t be serious. The season’s about to start. We’ll kill our chances.”

“No worse than we kill them by changing nothing. It’s our final season. Why shouldn’t we have program we’re proud of? You skated what Cody wanted. I skated what Olga wanted. Let’s skate what we want. If you’re going to stay, you shouldn’t have to skate something not written to your strengths.”