Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) (3 page)

Snap out of it.

He jerked his head as if he’d been dozing and focused on Coach’s words. He owed him that much. The team had no captain this season, a formality until his anticipated single-handed turnaround of a desperate franchise earned him the
C
on his chest over the summer. He was one of three players wearing the assistant captain’s
A
.

But she was already working her way through his veins like shots of Chopin, and he did not know how to quench the fire in his blood.

***

Stephanie

Joe was waiting with pizza and bottled beer. “
Quatro formaggi
for my
signorina
,” he announced as Stephanie kicked off her shoes, tossed her bag onto the counter, and shook the rain from her hair.

“You’re a prince.”

“I can’t take all the credit. GrubHub helped.”

Stephanie chuckled and sank into a chair.

“Everything okay?”

“I got the interview. We’re doing it tomorrow.”

“That’s fantastic!” Joe pulled her into a side hug and kissed the top of her head. When she didn’t respond, he cocked an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

“There’s something I never told you. About our eleventh-grade exchange student.” Stephanie grabbed a slice from the box. “We had a lot in common. Hockey, mostly, but other things too. We ended up getting close.” He did not need to know how close. Dustbin of history and all that, and he would flip his shit if he found out. “We kept in touch for a while afterward, then lost track of each other. That exchange student was Aleksandr Volynsky.”

Joe paused midchew. “No shit.”

“I know, right?”

“So did he remember you?”

“Yeah. And it was weird. Like he was angry at me.” Let Aleksandr bear the emotional turmoil. She was more than happy to conceal her own.

“You think he never got over you? I mean, I can see why.” Joe winked.

“I don’t know. That seems so petty, and it’s not like him. Women are lining up for him.”

“I told you you’re a catch.”

Stephanie smirked and tore off a chunk of crusty, cheesy goodness. “Well, tomorrow I’ll find out what his problem is.” She washed it down with a large swig of beer. “Wish me luck, babe. I’m gonna need it.”

Chapter Three

Stephanie glanced at the clock in the corner of her monitor again. No call from Aleksandr, so she’d spent most of the day gnawing pencils. Dave would fire her if she didn’t get this story. Otherwise, Shawn wouldn’t let her hear the end of it if Dave didn’t grant her the mercy of firing her.

At four fourteen, her phone danced on her desk. She snatched it and pressed Accept despite the unfamiliar number. “Hello, Stephanie speaking.”

“It’s Aleksandr.”

Her stomach jitterbugged. “Hi, Aleksandr. Thanks for calling.”

“I decided we’ll have dinner at my place. For privacy. I’m having it delivered.”

His accent was as difficult to understand over the phone as ever. She paused Spotify so she could concentrate on each syllable. “That’s fine. Six o’clock still okay?”

“Yeah. Let me give you the address.”

Stephanie scribbled it on a notepad. “Got it. I’ll see you soon. And thanks.”

The silence on the other end lasted long enough to be unpleasant. “You’re welcome,” he said before the line went dead.

Stephanie punched Dave’s extension into her office phone. “Dave, I’m meeting Volynsky for dinner tonight. I’ll be in early tomorrow morning so we can talk about it.”

“Total faith in you, kiddo.”

At least someone had it. Stephanie hung up and for the next forty-five minutes scrawled potential questions in her journal. Everything sounded forced. Typical.

Not the question begging to be asked.

***

Stephanie arrived at Seattle’s most exclusive condos, a building at which she and Joe had often gazed with longing and promised,
one day
. She peeked at herself in her compact mirror, rubbed a streak of sheer peach lipstick off her teeth, swept her fingers through her textured, choppy pixie cut, and sucked in a deep breath before buzzing Aleksandr over the intercom.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Stephanie.”

“Come on up.”

The door buzzed and clicked. Stephanie pulled it open and entered a modern lobby, all clean lines and shades of gray and white. Across from the security desk, a white sofa dominated the lounge. Judging from its pristine condition, they discouraged people from sitting on it. Two matching armchairs flanked it, and design magazines were spread in precise intervals on the glass coffee table. The dream home of someone suffering from obsessive-compulsive disorder.

She signed in at the desk, then as soon as the guard confirmed her visit with Aleksandr, pushed the Up button on the elevator. Alone inside the stainless-steel car, all the way to the twenty-second floor, she laid a hand over her stomach as if to settle the anxiety colonizing her.

Sweat erupted on her palms and under her armpits as she stepped out.
So much for forty-eight-hour protection, Dove.
She stared at Unit 2204 for a good half a minute before working up the nerve to knock.

Aleksandr was wearing jeans and a Seattle Earthquakes T-shirt meant to convince the media he gave a shit about his new team. No shoes or socks. His black hair was cut into a modern pompadour shaped with the meticulousness of a high-maintenance metrosexual. The ends of his sideburns lined up precisely with the bottom of the circular notch inside his ears, the hair blended tight to his face in a natural shape. A tiny silver hoop gleamed in each earlobe. The bruise around his eye was fading to yellow.

He was beautiful.

His up-and-down appraisal of her did not escape her attention, either. Nor did the way he put his hands in his pockets, a subconscious framing and emphasizing of his genitals. He was unaware of her proficiency in reading body language and microexpressions.

“Come in.” He stepped aside and allowed her to pass. The short entryway led to an open-concept living space and kitchen with dark hardwood floors. Waning sunlight permeated the southeast-facing floor-to-ceiling windows. Even on an overcast day, he wouldn’t have to turn on a light. Beyond lay a postcard view of the Cascade Mountains. A glass case situated between bookshelves displayed his many NHL trophies and other career milestones. The puck with which he’d scored his first NHL goal as an eighteen-year-old rookie, the tape around the edge reading:
‘Volynsky 1
st
NHL Goal vs. Ottawa’
, along with the Calder from the same season. The silver medal from Team Russia’s most recent Olympic performance and gold from the World Juniors Championship. The Hart Trophy, the Art Ross, the Conn Smythe. On the top shelf, the diamonds in his Stanley Cup Champion ring glittered in the light. A large painting of a bird whose red, yellow, and orange plumage flamed against a star-speckled, black background decorated the wall above the steel-gray linen sectional.

“
Zhar-ptitsa
,” he said behind her. “Both a blessing and a curse to the one who captured it, but a bringer of hope to those who needed it.”

She turned, but he was already striding toward the kitchen.

“You have no real folklore here. No magic. I always felt very sad for you.”

“If you hate America so much, why stay?”

“I didn’t always hate it. As you know.” A sardonic smile tweaked his mouth. “Are we going to pretend now? Does it make you feel better?”

She glared at him. “You have a beautiful place.” Beautiful but not lived-in. Too clean, contemporary, like the lobby. Not a home but the immaculate palace of someone who could afford twice-a-week cleaning and rarely spent time there to begin with.

“Thanks.” He directed her to the dining table. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Water is fine. Thanks.”

He tapped a button on the refrigerator, filled the glasses with ice then water, and set one before her. A faint odor of cigarette smoke and bleach adhered to the air.

“Your girlfriend live here too?”

“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Aleksandr slid into the chair to her left, at the head of the table, and stared at his water glass. “I’m not really the boyfriend type.”

Something—relief?—sprinted through her
.
Hypocrite.
“Really.”

“We’re not here to discuss my personal life, Stephanie.” He popped his knuckles, a not-so-subtle warning. “And Russians hate small talk.”

“I, um…okay, then.” She took out her phone, opened the voice recorder, and set it on the table. “Stephanie Hartwell interviewing Aleksandr Volynsky, October eighth.”

“This whole thing was my agent’s idea. Do you mind if we talk off record for a little while?”

“That’s fine.” Stephanie swallowed around the ball lodged in her throat. She tapped the phone. “Nice photo in
People
.”

He smirked. “I have
Sports Illustrated
,
Esquire
, and
ESPN The Magazine
coming up. Now that I’ve signed the big contract, everyone finds me much more interesting. Funny how that works.”

“How do you really feel about the Seattle Earthquakes?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Expansion has diluted the talent pool, so players who would have barely made the AHL are now playing in the NHL. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result,
da
? Yet the commissioner keeps expanding into nonviable cities.”

“Are you still angry about being traded?”

“Of course I am.”

Stephanie jumped when the intercom buzzed. Aleksandr confirmed it was the delivery guy and let him in. Dinner consisted of filet medallions with mashed potatoes, green beans, and lemon-butter sauce from the best steakhouse in town.

The tension between them was a thirty-foot stone wall, insurmountable. They ate in moody silence.

“So,” she said, desperate to fill the void, “your English has improved.”

“I’ve been in the States except summers for eight years. Plenty of time to learn. Although English is the most nonsensical, idiotic language I’ve ever spoken, and I speak five of them.”

“So you never immigrated.”

“I’m on an O-1 visa.”

Eight years and he didn’t intend to stay. “Ready to talk on record?”

“Not yet.”

“Then I have another question for you.”

He set down his fork and knife.

“Why are you pissed at
me
?”

The conversational volleyball landed with a dull thud on his side of the net. He took a sip of water. “I suppose I should have seen that coming.”

Stephanie wiped her mouth and pushed back from the table. “Really? That
is
what this is about? We were kids, Aleksandr. And even so, you knew how I felt. You know I…”

He laid his right hand on the table. “I never took it off.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“ʻHow lucky I am to have something that makes saying good-bye so hard.’“

Stephanie giggled through her tears. “That’s from
Winnie-the-Pooh
.”

Alex smiled and, cupping her face, brushed her tears away with his thumbs. “He is very wise bear.” He bowed his head to hers. “We are together again someday. Maybe not so soon as we want, but someday. Until then, I am right here.” He laid his palm over her heart. “Good-bye for now, but not forever.”

His gaze fell to her hand, to the understated yet unambiguous engagement ring. For a split second, his face crumpled in anguish. Then he regained his stony composure and toughened the stare he leveled at her. “When’s the big day?”

“Valentine’s Day. Aleksandr, why didn’t you ever email me when you were drafted?”

“Why do you think? I was sure you didn’t give a shit at that point. Besides, we were still twenty-five hundred miles apart, and apparently you don’t do long-distance.”

“Let’s not do this. Please.”

“You’re right. Let’s not.” Aleksandr gathered the plates and carried them to the sink. “It’s been a pleasure, Stephanie, but I don’t want to keep you. I need to work out, anyway.”

“But the story—”

“I have to think about it a little longer. I’ll let you know.”

“How can you still be
angry at me?”

“You know goddamned well why!” He banged his glass on the counter, and Stephanie flinched. “And now you have the fucking nerve to show up in my life again…forget it.” He pointed at the door. “I wish I could shut it off as easily as you did.
Do svidaniya
, Stephanie.”

“You don’t understand, Aleksandr. You have absolutely no idea.”

“Yeah? You’ve been perfectly happy without me all these years.”

The words hung in the air like flesh stripped from a wound, raw, oozing the unresolved emotions of nearly a decade. “
Happy?
”

“I’m not the one getting married, am I? You know what? Just stop talking.
Otvyazhis.
”

“You are unbelievable.” She shook her head and slung her bag over her shoulder. “You’re a millionaire. One of the best hockey players in the world.”

“Leave.”

She had already laid her hand on the doorknob when a photo in a black frame, placed on a side table so the door would conceal it whenever it opened, drew her attention.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” Aleksandr slapped the frame facedown. “You were leaving, remember?”

“What are you hiding?”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You have no idea.”

“Let me see it.”

“You don’t get to order me around in my own house,
dorogaya
. If you want to go, go. If you want to stay…” Retreating into character, he flicked his gaze up and down again, mentally undressing her. She knew a defense mechanism when she saw one.

She hip-checked him enough to disrupt his balance and snatched the photo.

“You little—”

Stephanie lifted the frame. Two teenagers cheesing for the camera. A girl in a purple spaghetti-strap dress, her hair pulled back in a simple ponytail to reveal a face bearing the minimum amount of makeup socially sanctioned by the event. A sweep of eye shadow, of blush over her cheekbones, a thin sheen of light pink lip gloss. A tomboy’s vision of prom night.

Next to her, a striking boy tall for seventeen, six feet three. He would grow another two inches and gain forty pounds of muscle, but his body had already changed during the school year. Lean, strong, his tuxedo tailored to him. His host parents had prepared him for the time of his life. Nearly a man, and girls had leveled envious stares at her as she and Alex walked the school halls hand in hand, kissed at his locker. She wasn’t worthy of someone like him.

An electric current had thrummed between them in anticipation of their unspoken pledge, that they would make the ultimate commitment to each other. After the prom, in a dark hotel room for which he’d been saving his allowance, it took Alex several tries to enter her. Nerves had tightened her muscles. He had pushed, not hard but with persistence, until Stephanie felt a small pinch and, gasping, winced. He was uncircumcised like most Russian men. Sleek as waves on the beach. Full. His love overwhelmed her in its totality.