Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) Read online

  A woman a handful of years older than Stephanie at most sat to her right. She offered her hand. “Nicole White. You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Um…sort of? How do you know I’m—?”

  Nicole laughed and flipped her rich brown hair off her shoulder. She wore the elegant, trendy cream-colored pantsuit of a professional. A seen-it-all, heard-it-all smile graced her regal face, its high cheekbones and dark eyes suggesting Asian ancestry. “I know all the regulars. He never brings anyone.”

  “You mean Aleksandr.”

  “Let me guess. You work in local media, and your relationship is a conflict of interest. Not the first time one of the guys has fallen for a journalist, so your secret is safe with me. Mine is Jacob, number twenty-four. Married five years already. I knew Jake long before all this, so it doesn’t impress me the way it does these girls.” She gave a dismissive flick of her wrist.

  Stephanie couldn’t put a finger on why this woman had already earned her trust. Something about the way she spoke, her blasé attitude toward the lifestyle. She didn’t take any shit.

  “Bagged yourself the NHL’s most eligible bachelor. Good for you. I hope you’re ready for it.”

  “In terms of the NHL in general, or of Aleksandr personally?”

  “You are a journalist, aren’t you?” Nicole laughed. “These girls don’t understand. They hook up with a pro athlete, they see the money and the jealous glares from their friends, and somehow they convince themselves they’re The One. You’re obviously smarter than that. I don’t know Aleksandr, only met him once or twice, but he and Jake are roommates on the road. I’ve heard the stories.”

  Who hadn’t? “We knew each other a long time ago. Life took us to different places for a while.”

  “Maybe there’s a reason it brought you back together too. A hot-blooded guy like that needs someone to balance him.”

  Alex soared past the glass. He wasn’t wearing his helmet yet, and his black hair fluttered in the breeze generated by his own speed. One more circuit around the ice, and this time he looked right at her. Still trying to play it cool, but one corner of his mouth cocked, and he winked.

  The first period passed with the Earthquakes falling behind by two goals. At the beginning of the second, on the first faceoff, Alex was jawing at Vancouver’s winger, a Russian named Boykov, and jostling his stick. The gloves dropped, then the helmets. Alex had the guy by four inches and twenty-five pounds easy. Clutching the front of Boykov’s sweater, he swung his right fist into Boykov’s face in an attempt to spark the team, who from the bench beat their sticks against the boards. She hadn’t seen a skill player willing to throw down since Jake Voracek, but if Alex didn’t do it, no one would.

  “He’s playing for you.” Nicole smiled. Heat stole into Stephanie’s cheeks.

  He kept punching until Boykov was sprawled on the ice and the referees pried them apart. Despite the two refs between them, one with a hand on Alex’s chest, Alex was still trying to swat at him. “Ma′mkoo tvoyu′ yeba′l!”

  Boykov’s face bloomed a shade of plum. “Ya sovat′ vashi glaza, ublyudok!”

  Shouting at Alex, the refs dragged him away and pointed at the sin bin. Boykov was bleeding from his nose and mouth.

  “Vancouver, number twelve, five minutes for fighting. Seattle, number nineteen, ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

  Alex skated across the ice to the penalty box. Once inside, he hurled his stick at the door. He bellowed through the glass at the penalized Boykov, sneered, and spit, then spurted water from a water bottle onto his face and spit again.

  All right, so the bad-boy thing was a little sexy.

  His ploy worked. The Earthquakes rebounded with two goals of their own and, late in the third period, Alex shot high blocker side on Vancouver’s goalie for the go-ahead goal.

  “Let’s go!” He slammed his hands against the glass, rousing the fans in the front row, who cheered and pounded on the barrier between him and them. Alex raised his arms in victory, his smile brighter than the arena lights. His linemates swarmed him for helmet taps and hugs. The period’s remaining minutes trickled away, Vancouver unable to score again to force overtime.

  “It was very nice to meet you,” Nicole said. “I hope we’ll start seeing each other at the charity events.”

  “Same here.”

  “We’re trying to start up a carnival like some of the other teams have. We’d love any help you can offer.” She gave Stephanie a business card, and they shook hands.

  Stephanie trailed the crowd to the main concourse. Alex would be a while yet, signing autographs for enthusiastic fans waiting for their favorite player to emerge from the arena’s bowels, and giving interviews. She browsed the team store until closing, unable to repress a smile at the Volynsky bobbleheads and even action figures, his image on the team calendar, his name on jerseys and T-shirts. She was tempted to buy something, silly as it was for someone who had the privilege of making love to him every time they were together.

  She decided on a pair of woolen Earthquakes socks, then headed to the parking lot, which had mostly cleared, and got into her car. She turned on the radio. An hour passed.

  A honk roused her from the light sleep into which she’d drifted. The Mercedes pulled up beside her, and Alex climbed out, wearing a black wool suit over a light gray, checked shirt and a black-and-gray striped tie. Stephanie almost tumbled out in her haste to touch him.

  “You’re cute when you’re clumsy.” Alex opened his arms. Small cuts marred his right eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. “It’s been hours since I hugged you.”

  Stephanie all but launched herself at him.

  “Mmm. That’s better.”

  “Congratulations on the win. You were very feisty tonight.”

  “You know, I’m still feeling feisty. And I get amped after a win. I may need some help with that.”

  “You’re getting me all amped in that suit.”

  “I have a crazy idea. How about you come to my place—” he nipped her bottom lip “—and take it off me?”

  Stephanie jammed her mouth to his, weaving their tongues together. The tightness left his shoulders, his spine, but one part of him was growing harder. “It’s a date.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Aleksandr

  “You okay, Sasha?” Coach gestured for him to approach the bench as the rest of the team filed off the ice. Those who needed it would be receiving medical treatments for the minor ailments they all played through: muscle strains, bruises, the aches and pains inherent in a pro athlete’s career.

  He skated to the door. “I’d like to do a few more drills by myself, if that’s okay.” He’d lost an edge twice during practice and missed shots he could take in his sleep. Humiliated himself in front of everyone, teammates and media alike. Fuel for the guys who considered him overrated despite his entire career proving him otherwise.

  “You seem a little distracted. You know you can talk to Sara—ˮ

  The team psychologist? No. “I’m fine. Just a lot on my mind. So is it all right if I stay? I’ll be in for strength training.”

  “You still pissed about me scratching you in Winnipeg? You understand why I had to, right? But that’s twice in a month, and both for disciplinary reasons. You’re courting suspension, Sasha. It’s almost like you’re doing it on purpose. Trying to get traded, maybe?”

  “Is this a fucking joke?”

  “They may have given you a pass in Buffalo because of what you did on-ice, but pulling the ‘I’m Aleksandr Volynsky’ card isn’t gonna fly with me. You want that C here, son, you better earn it, and that starts with setting an example for your teammates. You follow me?”

  “Who the hell are you to lecture me? This team would be sold to the lowest bidder if I didn’t bring in fans every night!”

  Coach’s lips thinned into a forbidding slash across his face, and his eyes darkened at least two shades. “You go straight to her office after strength training or I’m scratching you indefinit
ely, and you can personally explain to Paul why his ninety-two-million-dollar investment is sitting in the press box. I’ll let her know to expect you.”

  Alex watched him disappear into the locker room. He understood then, if he hadn’t before, what it meant for one’s blood to boil. Liquid rage pumping through his veins. That’s all he was to these people. Money.

  He skated around the circles, always facing center ice, seamless transitions from forward to backward. He moved into edge figure eights around the pylons, turning as tightly as possible. Thirty seconds of that before shooting at the net, no dekes, moving his feet the entire time. His fury escalated.

  He performed each of his self-imposed drills to perfection. Then he smashed his stick against the boards until it splintered, flung the remains onto the ice, and marched into the locker room.

  ***

  “What’s on your mind, Sasha?”

  “Coach told you I was coming, so do what you do.” He folded his hands in his lap and glared at her. Sara was stout, with mousy hair pulled into a ponytail and rosy cheeks. He did not know how to relate to her. In the years without Stephanie, he’d assessed women based on whether he planned to fuck them.

  “He mentioned you seemed to be having concentration issues, and he’s concerned you’re losing your composure. Let’s talk about how we can improve some of your mental skills to match your physical ones. One thing we can do is focus on and affirm your strengths.”

  “Gospodi,” he groaned. “What is this, AA?”

  “Sasha, it won’t work if you’re not open to it.”

  “And I’d better be open to it, or I won’t be playing,” he sneered. “Fine. Whatever.”

  “Do you know what the three Cs of being a captain are?”

  “I was a captain for five years, so yes. And right now I am lacking in caring.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this team fucking sucks. Because I’m sick of an entire team’s failures being pinned on me. I didn’t ask for this. Shall I go on?”

  A rare breed, Sara was, unrattled by his bluster. “Here’s what I want you to do. Think of a cue statement to help you refocus. It should be personal, positive, and short. If you were the best hockey player you could be, how would you act?”

  He put his face in his hands. He was the best. How did he answer? Alex scrubbed his palms down his cheeks. “I would…stay in control.” That was what they wanted him to say, right? She’d tell Coach everything.

  “Great. Now, what makes you the best?”

  “I’m confident.”

  “Excellent. And finally, what do you need to do?”

  “I need to care.”

  “So maybe your cue statement can be, ‘In control, confident, caring.’”

  “Sure.”

  “When you feel yourself losing focus, inhale for four counts, hold it for two, and let it out for four counts. While you’re exhaling, say the cue statement in your mind. The centering breath will decrease muscle tension, and the cue statement will help you concentrate. Let’s try it.”

  If it got him out of there. He inhaled, counted, held it, and released. In control, confident, caring. Right.

  “Good. All right, I’ll let Coach know our meeting went well. Remember your cue statement and breathing, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.”

  “Thanks.” After some internal debate, he shook her soft, moist hand. He did not like the way it felt.

  Nor the shame clinging to him like a sodden blanket.

  ***

  “I’m not going to the holiday party.” Alex lit a Winston Red, relishing the woody, harsh flavor that washed over his tongue and down his throat. A glass of Chopin to go with it, the perfect antidote to his perfectly shit day.

  Stephanie wrinkled her nose. She’d come straight from work so they could go out to dinner, but he was less and less inclined to be around people tonight.

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to. Do I need a reason?”

  “Considering the season thus far, yes. You’re the—”

  “Face of the team. Jesus fucking Christ.” He flung open the cupboard containing his tumblers and pulled one out. “They don’t like me anyway. And the feeling is mutual.”

  “Alex, what the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well you’re going to.”

  “I said I don’t want to talk about it!” He banged the glass on the counter, and Stephanie flinched. Self-loathing chewed through him like a metastasizing tumor. In control, confident, caring.

  “Let’s do this another night.” She walked to the door. “When you remind me a little less of my father.”

  “Stephanie, no. I’m sorry, baby.” He stubbed out the cigarette, skirted the breakfast bar, and circled his arms around her waist, his humiliation a suffocating plastic sheet wrapped around his face. She remained taut, anxious. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in her ear. “You know I would never hurt you.”

  “I know, Alex. Just let me in. I want every part of you. The good parts and the bad parts. All of you.”

  “Every part of me is yours, devochka.” He kissed the back of her hand, then led her to the living room and sat with her on the couch. “Coach made me see the team psychologist. He threatened to scratch me indefinitely if I didn’t.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What happened?”

  “Practice didn’t go well, I’ve been scratched twice for off-ice conduct, and he thinks I’m trying to get traded again.”

  “Are you?”

  Her eyes, deep pools of doubt he had filled, and in them, his own troubled face staring back. He would never know what she or anyone else truly thought of him. What he saw in their faces would always be what he projected, a mirror reflecting what he expected and not the truth he desired. “What?”

  “What’s really going on? I feel like there’s this secret part of you, this locked door I can’t enter because even you don’t have the key.”

  A perfect metaphor. He had long wandered the hallways of his mind without a map, a mental diversionary tactic to keep him from the shadowy, unfinished room he sensed at his core, where something terrible was waiting. “I don’t know,” he said, and it was not an excuse but the worrisome truth.

  “Maybe you need to talk to someone. Like an actual psychologist.”

  Why those words felt like a betrayal baffled him. She didn’t think he was strong enough to handle problems on his own. By extension, then, he couldn’t take care of her. “No. I’ve had a lot thrown at me over the past few months, and I’m still adjusting. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” He kissed her, and she held him close for a few moments, her lips on his.

  “Please tell me if you’re not.”

  “I will. But please don’t worry about me. It’s just stress.”

  Stephanie nodded but didn’t look at him. She didn’t believe him.

  He didn’t, either.

  ***

  Stephanie

  Stephanie examined herself in the mirror. A lingering uncertainty over her dress choice, a sleeveless fit-and-flare Betsey Johnson, plagued her. It was pretty enough, purple-and-black floral jacquard she’d paired with black glitter pumps. Too pretty, maybe. Not her style. She twirled, and the skirt moved with her.

  Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up.

  Alex: Downstairs. Ready?

  Stephanie: Ready. Down in a minute.

  She grabbed her coat and purse. In the lobby, Alex, wearing a burgundy, velvet blazer over a black button-down, black trousers, and derby shoes, grinned at her.

  “Do you ever look bad? Never mind, stupid question.”

  The smile broadened. “And you’re beautiful.” He plaited his fingers with hers and led her outside to the Mercedes.

  Stephanie fiddled with a loose sparkle on her bag. “I’m nervous about this.”

  “If you want, I won’t introduce you as my girlfriend. If that helps.” Alex shifted into first gear, his gaze fixed
straight ahead.

  “I haven’t figured out how to approach this with my boss yet without losing my job, and I want to be the one to tell him, not have him read it somewhere.”

  “I understand. I shouldn’t have pressured you into coming.”

  “Alex.” She laid a reassuring hand on his thigh. “I love being your girlfriend. Again.”

  He glanced over at her and smiled. “I promise we’ll have fun.”

  They arrived at the Earthquakes’ practice facility north of the city as the rest of the team and their significant others were exiting cars. They headed into the viewing lobby, which along with the café had been converted for the night into a party space. Alex offered her his arm. “Don’t be nervous. Just think about what I owe you for doing this.” He kissed her cheek.

  A DJ played a mix of pop songs and contemporary versions of Christmas classics. A Christmas tree twinkled, and fake presents adorned its base. A table draped in black fabric displayed an array of traditional party fare: a cheeseboard, a hummus plate, chips and salsa. The chocolate-dipped strawberries were especially tempting.

  “I’ll get you a drink,” Alex said. “You look like you need one.”

  Once he’d left for the makeshift bar, Stephanie spotted Nicole wearing a draped, sleeveless, garnet jumpsuit and silver heels, her dark hair pulled away from her neck, walking in with her husband. Nicole waved and hurried over, bringing Jacob with her.

  “Stephanie, so glad to see you here. This is Jacob.”

  “Nice to meet you.” The carrot-topped center shook her hand. “Here comes trouble,” he said and winked. “What’s up, man?”

  “Hey, Jacob.” Alex handed her a cocktail. “It’s called a dead sailor.”

  “Very festive.”

  “What do you do, Stephanie?”

  “I’m a senior staff writer for King County Today.”

  “So is this official business, then? Tell me this guy isn’t your date for the night.” Jacob jabbed an elbow at Alex.