Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1) (2 page)

A tall, blond, blue-eyed girl with freckles splashed on her heart-shaped face stood before him. They stared at each other. Time slowed and then stopped altogether. He thought for a moment he might be dying. An electric buzz in his stomach sparked through his lungs, flaring into an impulsive smile even as it shorted every circuit in his brain.

“Um, hi.” Her voice was like falling snow. “I-I’m Stephanie Hartwell. Welcome to Montecito High School.”

They clasped hands. Somehow, he had always known her, as though the future had been speaking to him in his dreams, from a time in which he and she were already together.

His knees shook with a frisson of exhilaration, and moisture flooded his mouth. He hoped he wouldn’t start drooling. “My name is Aleksandr Dmitryevich Volynsky. People back home call me Sasha. But you may call me Alex if you like.” A more American name, which he hoped to hear falling from her lips as often as possible. Here, Sasha was a girls’ name.

“Like Ovechkin.”

“You know hockey?”

She was still holding his hand, and he prayed she would not let go. “I play on our school team. I heard you’re a star in Russian juniors. So why Sasha?”

“Sasha is short form of Aleksandr. Like…how do you say? Nickname.”

“We, um…We’re in the same classes, so I’ll help you with your English. Hockey practice starts in October. The season starts in November.”

“Okay,” he said. It sounded stupid, but words, especially English ones, had fled him. “I mean…thank you.”

She smiled, and it was more beautiful than anything in heaven or on Earth.

His heart would not hurt, he was certain, had she remained a fantasy, a photograph in his mind whose bright colors and sharp lines time would have faded had they never touched. Had he not fallen so utterly and pitiably in love with her, that love a work of art she’d chosen to abandon rather than complete.

He’d returned
home after his exchange year to play another season with SKA-1946 in the Junior Hockey League, and in that final year of juniors had captained Russia’s World Junior Championship team, where the Buffalo Gladiators had scouted him. His parents had demanded he focus on hockey; they’d given up so much for him. They required tangible results, not a teenage boy sullen over the ephemerality of high-school love. After all, she had stopped emailing him less than two months later. He had battened down the emotional hatches after that. Become the thing everyone now believed he was.

The Gladiators drafted him that June. He made the training camp cut to start his career as their second-line left-winger instead of being sent to Rochester or juniors like most of the new kids. He would accept nothing less. He had earned his top-line spot by the end of the season, at nineteen, and became captain at twenty.

Sasha crossed the open living room to the kitchen, grabbed his favorite shot glass, a tourist souvenir from his first trip to Niagara Falls, and filled it with Chopin. Gulped it, refilled. Better.

At least until tomorrow.

Chapter Two

Stephanie

The Seattle Earthquakes’ public relations department had a reputation for being one of the best in pro sports. Most writers speculated it was a suck-up for good coverage of a team that had failed to meet expectations. At seven thirty a.m., Stephanie received an email with the password for Amazon Arena’s wireless network, as well as parking information for both the morning skate and the game itself.

Stephanie set her phone back on the nightstand. The wedding was a few months away and larger than she’d have liked, to match Joe’s conception of appropriate nuptials. And on Valentine’s Day, because he wasn’t above a little sentimental cheesiness. The dress, the flowers, the cake, too many guests, and never-ending drama.

“Tonight’s the big night, huh?” Joe emerged from the bathroom. He’d been up for forty-five minutes already.

“It’ll be a big night if he agrees to an exclusive interview.”

“Of course he will. Who could resist that face?” Joe grinned and kissed her.

“I’ll have to be pretty damned irresistible. The guy doesn’t like media.”

“Or anyone, from what I’ve heard.”

Except for her. Or at least, he had. But it was a long time ago. “Every jerk has a weak spot. I’ll find it. I just have to get the initial yes.”

“You’re so ruthless. It’s kind of sexy.” Joe bent over to kiss her again. She tossed the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. “Good luck. I’ll make sure I watch the post-game show.”

“He’s six feet five. I’ll be the blonde with the stunning forehead.”

Joe chuckled. “It
is
stunning. Now go get ready. Make me proud.” He shooed her into the bathroom.

***

Stephanie pulled out her notepad and pen as she and the other journalists entered the arena to watch the morning skate. There she’d find out the starting goalie, the scratches, and the projected lines. The team coasted by the glass, warming up, and her subject sailed past with them. Six feet seven on skates, impossible to miss. The infamous Number 19. He stopped short of the boards, spraying snow, then looked right at her. She had watched him play for years during nationally televised games but hadn’t seen him in person for a long time. And time, as
People
had proven, had been nothing but kind and generous to him.

Pained recognition dawned over his face. His lips became a thin, grim slash. He skated away.

“Let’s go!” Coach, an ashen-haired, gum-chomping former defenseman named Eric LeClair, shouted. The men gathered as he displayed the whiteboard with a drill drawn on it. Mouths moving, voices out of earshot. Nods.

Three forwards played below the tops of the circles against two defensemen. The forwards attacked on a three-on-two rush played out in a down-low cycle. Once the defensemen gained puck possession, they passed it to a new set of forwards, who attacked two new defensemen.

Coach shouted, “Attack through the neutral zone! Attack through the seams! Okay, good! Cycle! Take it to the net! Get out in front!”

Volynsky did, being an effective goalie screen based on size alone. Then he hopped off the ice with a glance over his shoulder at her and spoke to one of the assistant coaches to discuss his options on the play. The drill continued. His glances became glares.

She debated approaching him after the skate rather than waiting until tonight. If he didn’t look as though he’d choke her, maybe. His stare pierced her as he swooped past before retreating to the flock of reporters gathered by the short glass.

***

At five p.m., Stephanie, her press badge displayed on her suit jacket, rode the elevator to the press box overlooking the ice. After she entered the arena through the media-and-press door, a staff member greeted her and handed her a folder of pertinent Earthquakes information as well as a pregame press meal ticket and an Earthquakes pen.

Dinner consisted of Dungeness crab-stuffed chicken breast, which she picked at as nerves pushed her stomach into her throat. She ate alone. She preferred it, because she could study the team information folder without being forced into small talk.

Afterward, Stephanie filed into the press box with the broadcasters, scratched players, and the rest of the writers and took her appointed seat. She jotted notes for a lead as the Jumbotron broadcast one of Volynsky’s countless interviews from over the summer. Naturally, he would be the focus of the pregame video, but she did not watch. Bad enough she could hear his accented voice.

As the team hit the ice, the PA system pumped out their chosen warmup playlist, heavy on hip-hop and cock rock with a little electro house thrown in. Volynsky’s pick, she guessed. Clubs were one of his favorite haunts. Easy to show off there, and he could in fact dance.

She did not gaze up at the monitors or out at the ice. She wasn’t ready yet.

Aleksandr Volynsky is a leading NHL scorer and notorious bad boy; now the Russian superstar opens up about his career and the trade that stunned the sports world.

“Stupid,” she muttered.

Russian hockey star Aleksandr Volynsky talks about his new team, his reputation, and the sport he loves.

A slight improvement.

The Zamboni had disappeared down its tunnel and a red carpet had been rolled out for the anthem singer. They came in one of two varieties: washed-up local opera singer or wannabe pop star with too much vibrato. The latter this time, and Stephanie wrinkled her nose at the caterwaul echoing through the PA system. The crowd roared as programmed to do once the singer reached “O’er the land of the free,” then took their seats, the anticipation palpable as team introductions began. She twirled the pen in her fingers instead of tapping it so as not to distract the writers beside her.

“Number nineteen, left-winger Aleksandr Volynsky!”

The crowd’s cheers shook the building as he glided onto the ice in the Earthquakes’ blue-and-gray uniform, his stick raised in salute. The Seattle Earthquakes’ savior and salvation, expected to pull the team from last season’s last-place toilet overnight, the weight of an entire franchise on his broad shoulders. Forget coaching. Forget chemistry. The Earthquakes sank or swam, as it were, with his performance tonight.

He had his work cut out for him, because they happened to be playing the defending Stanley Cup champions. No pressure.

The Earthquakes lost the opening faceoff, and it went downhill from there. Forwards not marking their men in the defensive zone, leaving players wide open to fire shots at a goalie well known for his leaky five-hole. Defensemen caught standing around watching the puck. No sustained forecheck. Nonexistent backchecking. Blown power-play chances. Sloppy passing and careless penalties they couldn’t kill off. If Coach had a system in mind, no one seemed to know what it was. Only Volynsky flew over the ice as if he belonged there, each movement fluid and effortless despite his size, and barked commands at his new teammates, admonishing them to communicate with each other on the ice.

Stephanie glanced down the row at the nearest broadcaster, who was pinching the bridge of his nose. No doubt everyone had plans to hit the bar across the street and hit it hard. Another long season.

When the final horn sounded, she left the press box and pulled up the voice recorder app on her phone as she rode the elevator to the lower level. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, then walked down the corridor to the locker room. It already buzzed with voices and smelled of fresh sweat and opportunism.

Her intestines pretzeled at the sight of him. Volynsky was easy enough to spot, standing in front of the whiteboard that listed the player interviews and towering over the throng of reporters who thrust phones and digital recorders in his face. He’d be the Earthquakes’ new spokesperson, like it or not. A square-jawed, high-cheekboned model’s face, TV-ready. Borealized eyes in a dramatic shade of green, a Greek nose, black hair rare for northwestern Russians, who were usually blond. An impertinent quirk of his lips at one corner, daring someone to ask him a stupid question. Five-o’clock shadow that, along with the deep scar on his right cheek, complemented his bad-boy image. Not that she was looking. Stephanie jockeyed for position and with a firm grip on her phone raised it toward him.

“…and we obviously didn’t play the way we wanted to, but it takes time. We all want this team to succeed as much as you do.”

“Do you think Coach will be in the hot seat this season?”

“I’m not commenting on that. Everyone knows he’s a good coach. We just need to play our game, tighten up defensively, and stop giving up so many chances.”

“How do you feel about coming to a struggling team after the name you made for yourself in Buffalo and winning the Cup there two seasons ago?”

“I’m grateful for every day I get to play professional hockey.” Lips tight, teeth gritted. Lying through them.

Then his gaze fell on her. They held each other’s stare, compelling her to endure the turmoil in his expression. Not the hostile, challenging glare he leveled at everyone else in the media, but despair the depths of which she could not begin to plumb. The truth, for those endless seconds, of what he thought she had done to him, before he hardened his stare and repaired the inadvertent damage to his wall. His body had gone still until he wiped his thumb across an invisible smudge at the corner of his mouth. He puffed out his chest a little in a subconscious, primal display of alpha-male dominance.

“Stephanie Hartwell.”

Her heart crawled into her esophagus at the sound of her name on his lips. “Um…hi.” Wow, so professional. She might as well have been sixteen again.

“Thank you,” he said to the other reporters and edged his way out of the crowd toward her. His damp hair dribbled water down his neck.

“Coach’s press conference in five,” someone shouted, and the media swarmed out of the locker room.

“My agent told me you were coming,” he explained when the noise subsided. He raised his baseball cap, scrubbed a hand over his forehead and thick, black hair, and jammed it back down. She was grateful he did not attempt to shake her hand. The memory of their first meeting was too potent in its resonance. “I didn’t think people still read print.”

You didn’t used to be an asshole.
“How’s the eye?”

“Fine. He had it coming, so it was worth it.” He crossed his arms. Already closing himself off. “My agent said you want an exclusive story.”

“On your terms, of course. We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“Good. You probably wouldn’t want to hear it. Listen, Stephanie, this is no offense to you, but I don’t know if—”

“This is a good idea. Yeah. But I need this story, so…”

Those eyes searched her face. Her soul. “You can still do it. Finish my sentences.” He dropped his arms to his sides.

Unable to hold his stare any longer, she fiddled with her phone and stuffed it into her purse. Not like this. Not after so many years. Yet her emotions rose to the surface like a bloated, waterlogged corpse, in defiance of everything she’d done to stamp them out. “Alex—”

“I don’t go by that name anymore.” He shook off whatever had passed between them and tapped his phone’s screen. “I’m not free until late afternoon. Let’s do this over dinner.”

Stephanie analyzed each word, the way his expression had darkened at the mention of his old nickname. They were twenty-five years old. He couldn’t still be angry, not after so many years.

Not over her.

“Six o’clock?”

He jabbed a finger at the screen several more times. “Sure. Let me have your number. I’ll call you.”

“Yeah. That’ll be great.” She rattled off her number and rubbed her sweat-slicked palms on her pants. “Listen—”

“We’ll talk tomorrow. I have to go. Team meeting after Coach’s conference.”

“Oh…yeah. Of course. Tomorrow, then.”

He lingered too long, an excruciating moment in which she relived every word, every touch. “It’s nice to see you again, Stephanie. It’s been a long time.” Aleksandr offered a halfhearted wave before leaving her and rejoining the rest of the team.

What just happened?

Stephanie followed the last stragglers to the parking lot. The team store had already closed. Outside, a cold drizzle misted her face and hair. An appropriate match for her mood, for a reunion she hadn’t expected a few months ago. She’d followed his career, hard not to as a hockey fan, but the prospect of reconnection had been dismal at best. Besides, they had both long since moved on. Or so she’d believed.

She turned up the radio to drown out her thoughts and headed for the comfort of home.

***

Aleksandr

Sasha twisted the ring. She hadn’t noticed it. Better to treat her the way he treated all reporters. Protect himself. It would be easier if she had changed in some appreciable way, but she was the same beautiful girl who had been his peer language partner and, within minutes, his everything. Just grown up.