Delayed Penalty: A Pilots Hockey Novel (3 page)

I followed Orlenko through the arena’s concourse and down a few long hallways into the dank, fluorescent-lit basement.

Stan Martin, Michigan furniture store guru and owner of the Pilots, was in the process of having a brand-new downtown arena built in the city, but it wouldn’t open until next fall. Until then, the Pilots called Robinson Arena home. A state-of-the-art arena in its heyday, Robinson had become a massive eyesore over its thirty-five-year existence. And I’d only observed it from the exterior.

The basement gave
deteriorating
a whole new meaning. The floors, walls, and ceilings showed their age as numerous cracks and chips marred the painted concrete surfaces. The Pilots logo, a black and blue plane, sparkled in comparison, having been stenciled onto the walls within the last two years. The logo guided us down the hall like we were jets lurching forward on a runway waiting for our turn to take off.

Just when I thought I’d get lost in the maze of dull white walls, we turned right into a hallway covered in light wood paneling and historic team photographs hiding the grubby concrete. Massive, red double doors with the Pilots logo welcomed us at the end of the hallway. Above the logo was a sign: A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY.

Before we entered the locker room, a ripple of pride rushed through me. I felt like a true professional.

And then I watched Orlenko try to pull open the door. It barely budged, so he grabbed the long, thin handle and tugged it with what I’d guess was all two hundred fifty pounds of his weight. If I did that every day, I’d yank my arms out of their sockets.

Undeterred, I took a deep, optimistic breath before following him into the locker room, where the stench of sweaty hockey gear immediately assaulted my senses.

Now I understood why Dedushka gave me this assignment.
Well played, Grandpa. Well played.

Instead of focusing on the smell, I took in the surroundings of my new “office.” Tall, open oak lockers spanned three walls of the compact room. The space might not have been that small, but it seemed that way with all the large bodies crammed into it.

Large men’s bodies.

Large men’s bodies in various states of undress.

Fully clothed men—and women—with cameras, microphones, and handheld recording devices filled the room, as well. The media.

Keep your eyes up.
I couldn’t be caught staring at the men with towels wrapped inches below muscular abs. Abs that must have taken more than eight minutes a day to chisel out.

Orlenko weaved his way through the swarm of people to the back wall of the locker room. He stopped behind a group of reporters and tapped a short cameraman on the shoulder. I couldn’t see the player who was being swarmed by the media, but judging from the nameplate attached to the locker, it was my client.

V
ARENKOV.

“Excuse me,” Orlenko interrupted the stream of questions being directed at the guy I still couldn’t see. “Aleksandr is done with questions for today. Thank you.”

I rose up on my toes, craning my neck to get a glimpse of my client before the crowd dissipated. No such luck, until the two men in front of me who’d been blocking my vision excused themselves and inched past.

“Couldn’t resist my package?” a voice asked in Russian.

I jerked my head up and locked eyes with Crazy Hair from the karaoke bar.

And he was half naked.

Chapter 3

I’m pretty sure there were only two ways Crazy Hair could have looked better than he had at O’Callaghan’s. The first was as he did right now: sitting on a bench in the locker room wearing nothing but the lower half of his uniform, including his skates, sweat rolling over his sinewy pecs and creating a happy trail all the way into his hockey pants.

The second way—I can only assume—would be if he were completely naked.

“Aleksandr, this is Auden Berezin. She will be your translator.”

“I don’t need a translator.”

I almost laughed, because he’d said he didn’t need a translator in Russian.

“You must talk with the media at some point, Sasha. They’re riding my ass to get better answers from you than ‘was good game.’ ”

Aleksandr Varenkov, hot Russian hockey god, laughed, showing the perfect set of white teeth I’d noticed at the bar.

“You have your teeth in, but you haven’t even showered yet?” Orlenko asked.

Was Orlenko a mind reader? I sure hope not, because I would be fired for thinking about my client naked.

“I wanted to look good for pictures.” Aleksandr winked at me. Then he stood, and drops of sweat raced down the hard planes of his chest.

I’d never been so envious of perspiration in my life.

“Sometimes I talk in the shower. Will she translate for me in there?”

My cheeks began to burn, so I averted my eyes, lowering them to the black Cyrillic script tattooed down his sides, then thought better of that line of sight and studied the soiled beige carpet below my feet.

“Aleks—” Orlenko sighed, rubbing his forehead.

“Zhenya,” Aleksandr began. “You know I’m kidding, yes?” He shoved a towel onto the shelf above his nameplate and walked away without waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Orlenko hissed. He’d said it under his breath, but I heard him and wondered what my grandpa had gotten me into. “Well, that was Aleksandr Varenkov, your client. He’s a talented player and a good man. But he can be a little—”

“Douchey?” I offered in English. I shouldn’t have said it, considering Grandpa’s professional reputation was in my hands. Then again, Evgeny Orlenko was Grandpa’s friend first, so maybe he wouldn’t be too hard on me. Besides, Grandpa knew what kind of mouth I had, and he’d sent me for the job anyway.

Orlenko laughed, and continued in Russian. “
Wild
was the word I was looking for, but your adjective may not be that far off.”

“I’ve got it, Mr. Orlenko.”

“Are you sure?” He inspected me through thick black-rimmed glasses that were too small for his puffy face.

“As a college student with an active social life, I’ve learned how to handle arrogant douche bags.” This time I was being paid to handle one.

“I shouldn’t be having this conversation about one of my clients,” Mr. Orlenko said, his lips quirking up, then back into a tight line. At least he was
trying
to keep a straight face. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, Audushka. I hope you stay that way even with his off-ice antics.”

Off-ice antics?
What the hell did that mean and why would I have to deal with them? “Will I have to hang out with him outside of the arena? I thought I was here to translate for media interviews after games and some practices.”

“Aleksandr speaks very little English. He’ll need your assistance in all aspects of his career; interviews, community service. At least, until he gets acclimated. Vitya said you were here for the month, is that correct?”

“Yep. All of winter break.”

“You’ll be putting in a lot of hours.”

“I’m a hard worker. And I need the cash. Got cut from the soccer team, and I have to replace the scholarship money I lost.” I was running my mouth again. Maybe I did need to tone it down.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that. The being-cut part.” He cleared his throat. “Here’s my card. I wrote my cell number on the back. If you have any trouble or if Aleksandr makes you uncomfortable in any way, please give me a call.”

“Thanks.” I scanned the card wondering if I should try to memorize his number now, since I wasn’t sure how stable this client sounded.

After Orlenko left the locker room, I realized I hadn’t asked him what I should do next, and he hadn’t given me instructions as to where I should wait while Aleksandr showered. Since I wasn’t part of the media, I was extremely aware of being the intruder standing in a room of half-naked men. A shower shouldn’t take very long, so I dug my e-reader out of my messenger bag and sat down on the stool that Aleksandr had just vacated.

“Ewww.” I jumped up and skimmed my palm against my damp backside. Hadn’t even thought about any runaway sweat that might’ve dripped from Aleksandr’s lean, hard body onto the stool.

Stop. Just stop thinking about the shiny, wet flesh covering his impeccably carved frame.

As I didn’t see a cleaner choice within reach, I pinched the funky-smelling towel Aleksandr had shoved into his locker with my thumb and index finger and removed it with caution. Then I batted at any remaining sweat drops on the seat, though I was sure my skirt had absorbed most of the moisture.

I’d always been under the impression that guys were fast at showering, but Aleksandr took forever. Forty-five minutes had passed according to the clock on my tablet. I couldn’t help but scan the room a few times, catching odd looks from some of the guys. I ignored their questioning eyes and kept my head down.

When Aleksandr finally came out, an hour and a half later, the locker room had cleared significantly.

“Couldn’t find your lipstick?” I asked.

“Excuse me?” Aleksandr readjusted the strap of the messenger bag slung over his shoulder. He looked like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, in a gray, high-neck military-style peacoat; a crisp, white button-down; and dark blue jeans.

Though I’d asked my original question in Russian, I clarified with my next sentence. “You took so long. I thought you were putting on your face.”

“Funny,” he said without a smile. “I always ride the bike after the game.” He reached over me and shoved something onto the shelf above my head. “What are you doing?”

“Reading.” I held up my e-reader as proof.

“At my stall?”

“Well, neither you nor Mr. Orlenko told me where to go, so I waited for you. Right here, where you both left me.”

This time Aleksandr laughed. “I’m glad Zhenya got me a devoted translator.”

“So, what now? Looks like all the media is gone. Should I come back tomorrow?”

“No. Now, we get to know each other.”

“Do we have to?” I knew all I needed to about the jerk who left me sitting in this smelly locker room for over an hour while he “rode the bike” and showered. Like I was supposed to know he rode the bike after games.

Aleksandr cocked his head, the skin around his eyes wrinkling like he wasn’t sure if he believed I’d said no. He must’ve been used to women falling all over him. Well, I’d met a hundred like him, and though he was the best looking, I’d never give him the satisfaction of letting him know he’d affected me.

“Yes, we have to.” He turned, taking long strides toward the door. I followed, since there was only one way out of the locker room. I could bolt when we got to the arena doors.

Aleksandr didn’t speak as we navigated our way down the concrete hallways. He pushed open the same doors I had come through earlier that day and started descending the stairs. I continued to follow him.

“Do you park out here, too?” I asked. I thought players would have a secret parking lot, or at least gated. Sure, most of them just made a decent wage, but a few of the guys had NHL contracts, and the paycheck that accompanies it.

“I’m walking you to your car,” Aleksandr said without turning to look at me.

“Oh, well, thanks,” I stammered. An arrogant douche bag who walked women to their cars. In the middle of the day. Never had one of those, but I could roll with it.

Since he didn’t know where I’d parked, I hurried to match his long strides, which was a bit difficult in my skirt. Once we arrived at my old black Taurus, he stood by the passenger side with his hand on the dull, silver handle. He shook it up and down a few times as he stared at me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Waiting for you to unlock the door so I can get in.”

I pressed the button on my key fob twice, and the doors unlocked. “Do you need me to drive you to your car?”

“No. I need you to drive me home.” He set his bag on the floor before sliding in to the passenger seat.

I paused before getting in, counting to ten in my head. The nerve of this guy. Leaving me at his locker. Making me drive him home.

“I wasn’t aware chauffeur was part of the job,” I said, slamming my door shut.

“Your eyebrows are almost one.” Aleksandr pointed to my forehead.

I rubbed the skin above my nose. Couldn’t be. I’d had them waxed last week.

“You were so mad, they were like one line.” He wiggled his index finger in front of my eyes.

“I’m not mad,” I snapped. I knew I didn’t have a unibrow. And why would I care if I did? I didn’t need to impress him. One month and this assignment would be over. “Where to?” I asked as I turned the key in the ignition and the radio came on.

“Coney Island on Seven Mile and Mack.” He sat up straighter, digging into the inside front pocket of his coat and pulling out his cell phone. As he leaned over to turn down the volume on my radio with one hand, he swiped his thumb over the front of his phone.

“You live at the Coney Island on Seven Mile and Mack?”

Aleksandr caught my eyes, shaking his head as if my question had been serious. “I’m hungry.”

I was a bit perturbed that I wasn’t taking him straight home, but if the man had to eat, I was glad he chose Coney Island. It was my favorite place.

As I navigated Mack Avenue toward our destination, Aleksandr made a phone call. While I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I did hear most of the conversation. He was telling the person on the other end about last night’s game, where he’d had two assists, but “Couldn’t get the fucking rubber between the motherfucking pipes.” When I heard “Not as annoying as the last bunny,” I cranked the volume on the radio. He looked at me with one raised eyebrow.

Sorry,
I mouthed but didn’t turn the radio down. I wasn’t trying to be rude. Cranking the volume for an Arctic Monkeys song was mandatory.

Once we arrived at Coney Island, my annoyance grew as I circled around the block, unable to find a parking spot on the street in front of the restaurant or in the dedicated lot around back.

“Park there.” Aleksandr reached across me, his arm brushing against my chest as he pointed out the driver’s side window.