Happily Ever After: A Contemporary Romance Boxed Set

by Piper Rayne

  Not that the CSA would ever let me go. They weren’t interested in giving up their young, talented players. They only allowed old guys past their prime and at the end of their career to go to America.

  The memory of the night we escaped still haunts my dreams. Alhough I’ve been here for a few years now, I remember it like it was yesterday. I’d never had such a mix of emotions. Fear, disbelief, and finally relief.

  Well, there was relief for a brief moment—until the weight of what I’d done to my twin sister hit me. Despite living my dream—and making more money than I ever thought possible—guilt and grief overshadowed relief and joy.

  I promised Stasya I’d take her to American with me if I ever got the chance. I promised I’d remove her from a life of abuse in Russia. But when we talked about those plans, I’d assumed I’d get to American legally, with the Central Scarlet Army’s permission.

  Involving her in an intense plot to defect that was concocted by the mafia was not something I was going to do.

  I rake my hands through my hair, willing myself to stop thinking about it. The defection, Russia, my betrayal.

  Stasya’s been here for years. She’s safe and successful—having opened her own clothing store in New York City. We’ve discussed the situation at length, and she forgave me once she understood my reasons.

  Yet, I can’t leave the past behind. Despite having an amazing life here in America, I still feel homesick—like I’m missing something.

  I lay lazily on the couch for a few more minutes before standing up. The event is more of a “team function” than a party, and I’ve already scheduled a car to be here at 6:30 p.m. to pick me up.

  Plus, I know I’ll have a good time once I get there. I can always have fun at a party.

  I sigh and lift myself off the couch. Guess I better shower and get ready.

  2

  Vanya

  By the time the Town Car pulls up at the Roostertail, a stylish and sophisticated event space on the Detroit River, my foul mood from earlier has been replaced with excitement about the event. It’s a fundraiser for the local children’s hospital where some of my teammates and I volunteer every month. I love visiting the kids—taking photos, signing autographs.

  Some of the guys get to read them stories, but I’m not at a point with my English where I can read a book, not even a children’s book. Actually, maybe I should bring a picture book for the toddlers, it might be a good learning experience for both me and them.

  This event is for Chargers season ticket holders. They get to mix and mingle with players and other special guests. All the money goes to the hospital.

  When I arrive, it’s still cocktail hour. Later, there will be a DJ and people on the dance floor, but right now, there’s an older guy hunched over the piano, fingers dancing across the keys. Guests mull around, chatting happily, snapping photos, and sipping their drinks.

  “Ivan! You made it. How are you enjoying the party?” Brookins appears from nowhere, dressed in a dark blue Italian suit and holding an almost-empty glass of wine. Our GM looks the same as he does any other day. The only exception is that his hair is styled a bit differently.

  “I wish Viktor is here,” I tell him honestly. My interpreter, Viktor Berezin, is only around after games to help me talk to the press or during events when I need to interact for team business purposes. I’m on my own for fundraiser mixers with fans.

  “He’s a beauty, right?”

  “Yes, s—" I haven’t even finished forming the words when he speaks again.

  “Wait, you don’t have a drink? Where’s a waiter when you need one?” He looks around and whistles at one of the several people carrying trays of drinks. “Here you go.” He hands me a glass and points to the largest crowd in the room. “That’s where you need to be.”

  When I look again, the majority of my teammates are in that group, and fans are gathered around. Flashbulbs go off every few seconds, creating flickers of light in the dim room. I take a sip of the wine and head toward the group.

  “There’s our favorite Russian left wing!” Erik Simmons, Chargers captain, greets me as I approach, alerting everyone around that I’ve arrived.

  “I am here,” I say, holding my arms out and flashing a smile at the fans.

  Within seconds, I’m mobbed with hugs, handshakes, and photo requests. Over the next hour and a half, I’m having a blast interacting best I can with the partygoers and my teammates, who help rescue me from the questions I can’t understand.

  The Chargers fans are really cool and respectful. No one pressures me or expects more than I can give. They’re actually extremely forgiving. It’s like they understand that I only know so much English and go out of their way to make me feel comfortable.

  Though I’m enjoying myself, I need a break before I can take another flash blinding my eyes. I excuse myself quickly and move across the room toward the wall of floor to ceiling widows.

  The Roostertail has a huge patio and a gorgeous view of the skyline. I missed the sunset over the river, but I can still take in the sight of the lights twinkling off the water. I drop my wine glass on a table and step outside.

  The atmosphere outside is much different. I can still hear the faint sound of the piano, a quiet, soothing melody. The night breeze seems chillier than usual, and it smells like it’s going to rain. I lean my arms against the rail and take a deep breath, looking across the river at Canada on the other side.

  Suddenly, the peace and quiet is interrupted by a woman’s voice saying something in English.

  “No English,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.

  Standing at the door is a woman with the most beautiful set of bright, blue eyes I’ve ever seen. She’s got long blonde hair, rosy cheeks, and an infectious smile. I’d recognize her anywhere, but I must be wrong because there’s no way the woman I'm thinking of would be here tonight.

  When she moves closer, I see her face properly and realize it is her.

  Ekaterina Novikova, Russian tennis phenom. She’d taken the sports world by storm when she won a Grand Slam last year at only fifteen. Tennis is my favorite sport to watch, and her career has been exciting to follow since she broke onto the scene. A comrade who’s doing so well in her sport is always something to pay attention to.

  Not to mention, she’s absolutely gorgeous—as evidenced by her face gracing every magazine cover from Sports Illustrated to Cosmopolitan over the last year.

  “No English? Russian maybe?” she asks in our native tongue. “Are you Ivan Kravtsov?” Her thick, perfectly-shaped eyebrows veer together as if she’s trying to figure out if she’s got the right person.

  “In the flesh,” I answer, grinning. “What is a beautiful, Russian tennis champion doing at a random party in Detroit?” I ask, taking her shoulders in my hands, and kissing her cheeks three times, as is custom.

  Her tan skin flushes pink at the apples of her cheeks. “I’m one of the special guests.” She uses her fingers as quotes when she says ‘special guests.’

  I’d been so busy with the team and fans, I didn’t even look around the rest of the party. Usually, the special guests are athletes from other Detroit sports teams. Nice enough people, but I wouldn’t recognize them from any of the paying attendants.

  “I’ve been looking all over for you,” she says.

  “You’ve been looking for me?” I ask, puzzled. “Why is that?”

  “It’s not every day that I’m at a party with someone I can talk to in Russian. Translating English all the time can be so exhausting.” She waves toward the door, then rubs her temples.

  “You’re very good with the language. I’ve seen enough of your interviews to know that.” I laugh.

  “You’ve seen many of my interviews?” she asks, tilting her head down and giving me a coy smile. She flips her hair over her shoulder then turns to rest her elbows on the railing. “Are you interested in me, Vanya?”

  I watch as she looks out at the river. “I’m always interested in a talented comrade who
made it out.”

  “So am I.”

  “Yes, Zhenya told me,” I say, mentioning the name of my former teammate who came to America a year after I did. Last I heard, he and Katya were seeing each other.

  She turns to me and pushes my chest lightly. “Oh! You boys were sharing locker room stories, yes?”

  I shake my head innocently and meet her teasing eyes. “Never.”

  “Zhenya is a wonderful man, but we’re not together.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “You don’t have to be. We both knew it wasn’t going to work out, so we went our separate ways. He moved on, I moved on, and now everyone’s happy,” she says, facing me this time as the words leave her lips. “Enough of my private life, though. How are you doing with everything here?”

  “I could ask you the exact same question,” I reply.

  She lets out a small laugh, then continues softly, “Your defection was international news, Vanya. I just want to make sure everything is okay for you here. Are you getting harassed?”

  “That’s quite a forward question, Katya,” I say, stiffening and backing away slightly. “For two people who just met.”

  “I wasn’t trying to offend you.” She steps closer and places her hand on mine. “I’m genuinely concerned.”

  My gaze moves from her hand on mine to her eyes. “I have no regrets about my decision.”

  I may feel homesick sometimes, but I’m proud I made the decision to do what was best for my career and my life.

  “Good. I know how difficult it must have been, but your bravery to go against the system paved the way for Russians, not just in sports, but all Russians.” She squeezes my hand. “I’ve never met a more courageous man, Vanya.”

  “I—” I pause, searching for the words to say after such an amazing compliment. But I can’t think of anything, so I turn the tables on her. “Being in America looks good on you.”

  “How so?” She tilts her head, eyes sparkling as she waits for my answer.

  “You haven’t stopped smiling since we started speaking. I bet you didn’t smile like that back home.”

  “Ahhh, you think my smile is an American influence?”

  I nod. “Smiling all the time is very American. Have you ever met a Russian with a permanent grin?”

  “Well, no, but that’s because there’s nothing to be permanently happy about over there.” She laughs, then adjusts her elbows on the railing. I catch the scent of baby powder mingling with vanilla. “Maybe I can’t stop smiling because I enjoy the company.”

  Before I can respond to her compliment, one of the waiters comes out and addresses us. “Excuse me, Miss. You’re needed inside. Charlie requested you.”

  “That’s my coach. But you already know that from all the interviews you watch,” she teases. “I’m sorry I have to go.”

  She stands straight, smooths imaginary wrinkles at the hips of her simple, yet elegant, cocktail dress, and flashes me that beautiful smile of hers one more time before following the waiter inside.

  I’d gone out to have some alone time, and now that I’m finally by myself, I don’t want to be alone anymore. The conversation with Katya was just starting to take off, and I don’t want it to end.

  I liked her already. I like the mix of confidence and innocence—the latter of which reminds me that she’s only sixteen-years-old. Then again, winning major tennis championships at fifteen and ranking as second in the world a year later requires a lot of confidence and maturity.

  After being so apprehensive about attending earlier, I’m glad I came. Though I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself, meeting Katya has been the highlight of the night. Not only because she’s beautiful and has the most gorgeous smile, but because we understand each other on so many levels. Like me, she’s a foreigner in a strange, overwhelming land. As professional athletes, we live similar lives, and she understands the pressure and expectations.

  The night breeze rustles through my hair, and I feel the first drops of rain. Time to get back inside and hang out with my teammates and fans. I fasten my suitcoat and slip through the door before the sky lets loose.

  3

  Katya

  ONE YEAR LATER

  * * *

  Today’s training was grueling. Charlie hadn’t worked me this hard since the qualifiers for Wimbledon last year. I’ve never shied away from the hard work it takes to win championships, but my coach is on a different kind of rampage today.

  “We need to work on your serve. It needs to get harder and faster. It would be the most valuable advantage to your game,” he’d said earlier this morning.

  For the better part of five hours, all I’ve done is serve, serve, and serve some more.

  “Again! Harder! Harder!”

  I’m hitting the ball as hard and fast as I can, but I know he wants more. I’ve been working with Charlie since I was fourteen-years-old. He’ll push me to go harder and faster until I’m so exhausted I can barely lift my arm.

  “Good job, Champ. You did well today,” he says, wrapping an arm across my shoulders and squeezing me into his chest. I smile and allow myself to enjoy the praise.

  One of the best things about having Charlie as a coach is this. Despite the fact that he’d pushed me hard all day, he calls me champ and tells me I’ve done a good job.

  I know some players on the circuit who have coaches from hell. There are people out there who think the best method to train athletes is to break them down completely to build them into a champion. I know that, not just from conversations with other players, but also because I had one of those coaches for years. Back in Moscow, the coach who taught me how to play wouldn’t stop practice until he had me in tears.

  Charlie has always been hard on me, but he takes my personality into consideration. He knows I shut down in that kind of environment. In fact, if my parents hadn’t trusted my desire to become a professional player, I would have quit if I’d stayed with that coach. Instead, they talked to multiple tennis directors in countries all over the world and found Charlie. They even moved us to Florida so I could work with him.

  I’d thought I’d gotten used to Charlie’s unpredictable methods, but he never ceases to surprise me. Today was serving—which isn’t that crazy—but last week he had me lifting weights with his fifty-pound English bulldog. He said I had to get out of the gym and do something fun. Let me tell you, holding a heavy, smelly, furry thing that wiggles and passes gas is not my idea of “fun.” But once I got going, it actually was—except the passing gas part. And lifting a dog while doing squats felt just as good as doing it in the gym, Plus, I got some slobbery kisses as a reward.

  No matter what crazy technique he tells me to do, I never argue, because I get results.

  After an intense day of training, I sneak away to my favorite lunch place in Chicago. It’s a cute, little diner-type place that has the best milkshakes. The retro décor looks authentic but it’s bright and shiny like it’s been updated recently.

  The hostess recognizes me as a regular customer immediately and leads me to my favorite spot, a booth in the front window. I love looking out at the hustle and bustle of downtown Chicago—any cold, busy city, really. It reminds me of home.

  As much as I love my life in America and wouldn’t change a thing about it, I miss Moscow. I miss the snow in the winter and the flowers in the summer. Sure, other places have both of those things, but there’s something about home.

  As I wait for my milkshake, I pull my first aid kit out of my duffle bag and tend to the blisters on my hand. I haven’t had a blister in forever. If I would have realized I’d be doing an entire day of serving, I would’ve changed my grip before practice.

  “You okay, honey?” The waitress asks as she sets a glorious vanilla milkshake in front of me.

  “Yes. This is nothing.” I wave my hand and give her an appreciative smile. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your shake.”

  Thankfully, I have a rest day from practice tomorrow. I don’t think
I’ve ever looked forward to a rest day the way I looked forward to this one. Instead of “rest,” I have a photo shoot with Glonex, the company who makes the tennis rackets I use. I’m excited and nervous. I love modeling—maybe even more than I love tennis. But I’d never tell Charlie or my parents that.

  “Hey.”

  I jump and almost spit out my shake when someone taps my shoulder.

  I’m so engrossed in my thoughts I didn’t even hear anyone come up behind me. When I turn, I see a familiar face. “Vanya? Hi!” I greet him, doing little to hide the excitement in my words. “What are you doing here?”

  “We had a game last night,” he replies, then points behind him. “This is the guys favorite lunch place.”

  There’s a group of men gathered at a table in the back of the restaurant. A few are talking, but most have their heads down, eating their food. “What about you,” he continues. “What are you doing in Chicago?”

  “I’m training here this week because I have a shoot with Glonex tomorrow,” I tell him with a proud grin. We only met a once, but I haven’t stopped thinking about him since that day. And I can’t keep the smile off my face now that I’m around him.

  “A shoot?” he asks, then gestures to the booth. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  “Y-yes, please,” I kick myself for not thinking of offering him a seat before he had to ask.

  Instead of taking a seat opposite me, as I expected, he slides in next to me. My heart flutters as I scoot over to give him more room.

  “I have an endorsement with the company that makes my racket. We’re shooting a commercial tomorrow.”

  “Katya! That’s brilliant! Congratulations.”

  His praise makes my stomach swirl and warmth rush to my cheeks.

  “So, how was the game?” I clear my throat and change the subject to take the attention off myself.

  “It was close, but we won,” he replies with a proud smile. “How’s training going?”