Body Checked (Center Ice Book 1) (2 page)

“Oh, my god.” Red Star has the best imported vodkas, the best caviar, the best blinis, the best DJs, everything. Our Soviet Lit class went there once to celebrate the end of the school year and we got wrecked on their Russian Roulette vodka sampler, served in shot glasses on a metal tray shaped like the barrel of a six-shooter.

“Is Sergei actually going to be there?” Beth asks, shoving Todd out of the way. “What about the rest of the team?”

“Sergei has promised to make an appearance,” Monique says. “I’m
sure
some of the other guys will show up.”

Beth presses the back of her hand to her forehead and pretends to swoon.

The Washington Eagles have a shot at playoffs this year, thanks to Drakonov; and if I can survive the final year of school and my internship, I’ll be set for life. Who needs a man to help me design my five-year plan?

Second period: Magnussen scores for the Eagles. Drakonov takes a puck to the face, spilling blood on the ice, but he grins at everyone and is back with a small bandage after just a few minutes. Some nobody on the Forge catches our goalie, Brian Osbourne, sleeping and slides the puck right in.

But the third period. Oh, the third. One goal by Drakonov. A scuffle on the ice. The Forge are out for more blood. They’re careening into Drakonov, losing their footing, slipping and sliding all over the ice trying to block him. And he makes them pay. A slapshot straight down the middle.

Hattrick for Drakonov. Sergei rips off his helmet and jersey to reveal a glistening, unbelievably chiseled set of abs as he circles the ice amidst screams. My throat is raw from yelling his name. And the Eagles win it, four to two.

Monique’s parents are still busy impressing their investors in the corner of the box—did they even watch a minute of the game?—but Monique shoves my sweater at me. “To the Red Star, my dears,” she says. “Let’s catch ourselves some hockey heat.”

Red Star is built into an old palatial mansion overlooking Dupont Circle, all marble flooring and wrought iron and gilded light fixtures, but inside it’s like a socialist realist painting come to life. Statues of Lenin and Stalin, murals to the common man, and plush couches surround a dance floor. Every inch of it oozes with decadence and a sly wink toward the Soviet and Tsarist eras, like Anna Karenina on a bad acid trip. It’s over the top, it’s fun, and it’s just the sort of place I need to lose myself tonight.

Thankfully, it’s not too packed, thanks to the invite-only party, but the dance floor is already clogged with stick-thin, gaunt-cheeked models swaying to the hard rock of Mummi Troll, one of my favorite Russian bands. I tug self-consciously at the straps of my maxi dress and fluff out my curly hair. Monique and I are the darkest-skinned people in here by far, which is always awkward, but she never lets it detract one ounce from her cool stance, so I won’t either.

“You ladies wish a dance?” A lean guy in skinny jeans and a taut black tank top sidles up to us. The scruff on his face does nothing to conceal the hollow, cut-glass look of his cheeks, and despite the aviators he’s wearing, I can feel his eyes crawling all over my body.

A little creepy for my tastes, but Beth’s giving him the once-over, so I shrug. “Sure. Show us what you’ve got.”

We dance a couple songs with him, each fresh beat gliding through my veins, rocketing my pulse. But I feel directionless. None of these guys are appealing to me; there’s nothing here I want or need except to kill a few more hours of the weekend and revel in the high of the Eagles’ win.

I’m tired of feeling comfortable. Like I’m coasting. Even getting dumped by Todd wasn’t a shock to my system. It was all too easy to fall back into a life that didn’t include him.

A shock to the system—the last thing Todd Beckwith would ever advise me to do. Maybe that’s why I want it. But I don’t know how to find one.

Suddenly, everyone’s screaming and applauding, drowning out the music. Sergei Drakonov has arrived. And,
bozhe moi
, does he look even more amazing in person, standing on the upper balcony, surveying his domain. Dark wash jeans, an untucked pinstripe button down shirt, and his dark ruffled hair still damp from the showers. His shirt cuffs are rolled up to his elbows, just barely able to contain the bulge of his biceps as he offers us all a lazy wave.

For a second, I let myself wonder what life would be like with a lovely, empty bit of mancandy like him.

But it doesn’t last. Within moments, he’s surrounded by groupies, caressing his shoulders, offering him trays of vodka shots and caviar. He laughs and disappears into the adoring masses, and I turn away with a roll of my eyes.

“Jael?” someone shouts from the bar. It’s Antony, one of our classmates. “Hey! Jael Pereira!”

“Hey, Antony.” I slide onto the empty stool next to him. “Didn’t know you were a big hockey fan.”

Antony gives me a big shit-eating grin. “Yeah, well, someone’s gotta comfort all these lovely ladies when Saint Sergei doesn’t pick them.”

“Gross.” I flag down the bartender and order a Moscow Mule.

“I’m just kidding,” Antony says. “I don’t know why everyone’s fawning over him anyway. What kind of moron dumps Anastasia Fillipova?”

Right—Sergei’s former fiancée, the multiple-gold-medal-winning gymnast. They’d actually set a wedding date before the press leaked a bunch of photos of him partying with supermodels on the Mediterranean. Then there was the whole photographer-punching incident, and the time he showed up drunk to a morning show, singing the Russian national anthem . . . Ugh. Why was I drooling over him, again?

I scan the Red Star. Beth’s stalking the crowd, looking for her sexy Swedish defenseman; Monique is flipping her hair and touching the arm of a slender Asian girl on the edge of the dance floor. They’re not wracked with existential angst, so what’s my excuse? I throw back half of my Moscow Mule in one gulp.

“I’m kinda surprised you’re here, actually,” Antony says.

I raise one eyebrow. “Why’s that?”

“Well, you’re just so . . . you know. Buttoned up.”

“I’m not . . .” I glance down at my maxi dress and adjust it again. Don’t want to show
too
much cleavage. “I’m not buttoned up.”

He snorts. “Okay.”

Then his eyes widen; he chokes on the sip of the drink he was taking. “Dude.” I toss my napkin at him to soak up the vodka that’s slopped onto his shirt. “What’s the matter with you?”

Then I hear the voice beside me, husky and warm like a furnace. “
Izvinitye . . . davaitye mne Putinku, pozhaluista.
”

My toes curl up around the edge of my sandals. My god, that accent. It is ice cracking and a fire roaring and adrenaline pouring through my veins. He leans against me as he tries to angle closer toward the bar, and his rock-hard pecs brush against my shoulder blades.

I swear I don’t mean to. But a tiny moan escapes my lips. Oh, fuck. I’m a goner.

“I am sorry,” Sergei Drakonov says. “I am not meaning to bump you.”

I swivel around on the high chair and his face is mere inches from mine. His skin is freshly scrubbed from the showers; those deep blue eyes draw me toward him like a magnet. He smells so fresh and soapy, and I just want to run my fingers through the damp locks of his dark hair. His grin widens, revealing that missing tooth, and I realize too late that I’m staring. That I’ve
been
staring.

“
Nichevo ne strashnovo
,” I tell him—
Don’t worry about it.
Something about drinking vodka makes my accent flawless. I swear, Russian is only meant to be spoken with at least half a percentage BAC.

The smile fades on Sergei’s face. Have I done something wrong? But instead, he cocks his head to one side, regarding me like a curious piece of modern art that he’s just now figuring out. “‘Is there anything more beguiling,’” he quotes in Russian, “‘than flawless Russian speech?’”

Aleksandr Pushkin.
Yevgenny Onegin
, one of his most famous poems. I have to physically restrain myself from reaching out to touch this man to make sure he’s real. “I took you more for a Lermontov guy.”

He laughs to himself and ruffles his hair with one hand. “And I thought all you Americans were supposed to be uncultured swine.”

I shrug and lean back. “My parents are Brazilian.” I smile coyly. “Guess that’s my excuse.”

Am I seriously flirting with Sergei Drakonov? Well, I wanted a shock to the system. Here’s my freaking chance.

“And yet you speak perfect Russian.” Sergei looks me over, eyes still sparkling, like he’s amused. He reaches out and twists one finger around a springy dark brown curl that’s fallen into my face. “I hear the Brazilians have great b . . .”

“Oh, god, don’t say it.” I groan. Not that same stupid comment people always make—

“—Beaches.” He grins. “I’d love to see them sometime.”

I arch one eyebrow. “You haven’t had enough of the paparazzi stalking you and your gaggle of supermodels on the beach?”

Sergei winces and releases my hair. “Yeah, well. It’s part of the profession. In Russia especially, I had a certain image to maintain.”

“And what about now that you’re here?” I ask.

His gaze drifts away from me, toward the darkened corners of Red Star.  Am I imagining it, or did that devilish smile start to dim? “America brings its own set of expectations for me.”

I can feel the music throbbing through me, but it seems so far away. As if Sergei and I are all alone, as if nothing else matters. Just Sergei and that strong edge to his jaw, chiseled like a steelworker on a Soviet mural. Those eyes, turning back toward me, staring through me as if he actually sees me—the real Jael, not the girl who fell off of her five-year-plan wagon. And those biceps that must be oh, so perfect for pinning me against the wall—

“There you are!” one of the groupies squeals in English, pressing up between Sergei and me, her pert butt planting itself in my lap. The moment shatters. Sergei’s panty-soaking grin comes roaring back as he regards himself in the mirror-finish shine of her lipstick. “You’re going to miss the toast!”

“All right, all right, don’t wad the panties, I’ll be there soon,” Sergei tells her. I stifle a snort. “What?” he asks, looking at me over her head.

“It’s ‘Don’t get your panties in a wad.’ Although . . .” I switch back to Russian. “Pretty sure she’s not wearing any.”

Sergei grins again. “I guess I’d better go find out.” He makes a show of pantomiming like he’s biting at her neck, and she laughs and squirms away.

Aaaaand that’s my cue. I turn away and pound the rest of my Moscow Mule. I’m done here. I don’t know what I came here looking for, but I’m not finding it tonight. I should relish the high of the Eagles’ win and go back to reality. I’ll hunt down Monique and Beth, make sure they’re all right, and go grab a cab.

But then Sergei lopes back toward me, dark eyebrows furrowed. “Wait.”

I fold my arms over my chest. Whatever flirtatiousness I’d felt earlier is gone, along with my buzz.

“Why do you think I’m a Lermontov guy?” he asks.

I narrow my eyes. “‘We survive on novelty,’” I quote. “‘So much less demanding than commitment.’”

“Ouch.” Sergei clutches at his heart and staggers backward as if I’ve wounded him, but I don’t have time for his douchebag theatrics. I drop a twenty on the bar, sling my bag over my shoulder, and stomp away.

“Hey!” Monique screams at me, as I approach her on the dance floor. “What’s the matter? You look like you swallowed a frog!”

I try to wipe the scowl off my face, but it pops right back. “I’m just not feeling it tonight. You and Beth good?”

They both flash me thumbs up while bouncing up and down to Polina Gagarina’s newest techno hit. “Call me in the morning?” Monique asks.

“Will do.”

I duck into the back corridor of the Red Star that leads toward the restrooms and pull out my phone to hail a cab. There’s a text waiting from Todd Beckwith. I deleted his contact from my phone, but I’d recognize that number anywhere.

Glad to hear you’re back on track. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you with your goals.
 

I clench the phone in my hand and smother a scream. It’s no fucking wonder I’m drooling after meathead hockey jocks. I need a palate cleanser after a year of sleeping with a guy who’d appointed himself to be my personal life coach.