by Piper Rayne
“You don’t like the attention?” I ask, popping a chili and cheese covered fry into my mouth. It’s absolutely delicious. So much so, that I make an audible, “Mmmmm” sound.
Vanya’s right eyebrow raises. “That good?”
I can only nod in answer because I’ve just shoved three more fries into my mouth. It’s not very lady-like, but they’re so good, I can’t help it.
“I’m glad I waited because I’m happy you were with me for it.” He glances at the walls. “There are thousands of photos with me and my teammates all over the place. But this will be the only photo with you and I.”
“For now,” I tell him. “But we’ll have plenty of time for photos, Vanya.”
“Yes?” he asks.
“Of course!” I smile and slap his leg lightly. My grin falters as I realize Vanya might not think the same way. “Unless, you don’t want to continue seeing me.”
“Are you kidding me?” Vanya reels back as if offended. “I love every minute with you. You ground me.”
His response warms my heart. I wipe my mouth off on a napkin before I speak. “Ground you?”
He leans back. “It’s been difficult here since I arrived. It’s hard not knowing anyone and not being able to communicate as effectively as I’d like. I have hockey in common with my teammates, but our backgrounds are so different. They don’t know what life was like where we’re from.”
“Have you had anyone to talk to, Vanya?” I grab his hand and hold it with both of mine.
“I actually became really good friends with my translator. The one the team hired for me when I arrived.” He laughs and shakes his head. “He’s a good guy. A professor at a local university. He was born in Russia but came here as a child. Still, he’s someone I can speak to freely.”
“It feels good to have someone to talk to, doesn’t it?”
He nods. “That’s why I like being around you. Growing up as athletes in a severe system, we have similar backgrounds. You know what it feels like to have intense pressure on your shoulders. And we can speak without miscommunication.”
“Well, language-wise, yes,” I tease, picking up my fork, ready to dig into the main course. “But women and men can be on different wavelengths.”
He places his hand on my back. “What about us? Are we on different wavelengths?”
“After this conversation, I don’t think so.” I point to his plate with my fork. “Now eat before it gets too cold. I have a feeling cold Coney dogs aren’t as magical.”
Vanya nods. “You’re eating a hot dog with a fork?”
“Look at it!” I say, glancing down at plate. The bun is filled with so much chili I can’t even see the actual hot dog. And there’s a line of mustard and onions to top it off. “I can’t possibly pick it up without everything dripping all over me.”
Vanya glances at my chest, rather than the food. “I’d be happy to help you clean up.”
“I bet you would,” I say before clearing my throat and getting to work on my meal. He smiles at my eagerness.
“Cheers,” he says, raising his overflowing fork. I tap it with my own, and we both take our first bites.
“Oh my God, this is fantastic!” I exclaim. “It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in forever.” I wanted to catch Vanya’s reaction, but instead, I dig in for another bite.
“Better than milkshakes?” he asks.
“Mmmm.” I shrug, then hold up a finger until I finish chewing. “It’s a totally different taste. Like comparing apples to oranges.”
“Does your coach know you wolf down the milkshakes and Coney dogs at every chance?” he asks quietly, looking around as if Charlie will pop out from a corner.
“This stays between us,” I say, lowering my voice and throwing a glance over my shoulder. “I tell him I eat salad at every meal.”
“I bet he’s not fooled.” He laughs again.
I join him this time. Other people in the diner steal glances at us, probably wondering what the people speaking a foreign language are laughing about.
“Do they even serve salad here?” Vanya asks, craning his neck to see the menu.
“They don’t. Just junk food,” I reply. “Tell me something, Vanya. What’s your guilty pleasure?”
The question makes him choke. His eyes bulge, and he brings a napkin to his mouth.
“Food, Vanya! Food,” I confirm, rolling my eyes and folding my arms across my chest. “You’re like a fourteen-year-old boy.”
He bursts out laughing. I like the way he laughs—deep, throaty, and it makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“My guilty pleasure, Ekaterina, is ice cream.” He lowers his voice and brings his mouth to my ear. “In a cone. I enjoy sweeping my tongue across it and letting it slide down my throat.”
“Ice cream, yes?” I swallow hard, shifting in my seat and squeezing my muscles to hold back the lust pulsing between my legs.
“There’s an ice cream place around the corner. We should stop there before we head back to my place.”
“I’d like that,” I tell him, trying to keep my composure. I want nothing more than to be with Vanya tonight. I want to shove him onto the couch, crawl on top of him, and make out for hours. But I want to take things slow. I’m already head over heels for him. I don’t want to go too fast and get my heart broken. “But I’m staying in a hotel tonight.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Whatever makes you comfortable, Sunshine. No pressure here.”
Once we finish, we set our napkins on our plates, and Vanya throws cash on the counter. “Come on, let’s go check out those ice cream flavors.”
6
Vanya
Saying goodbye to Katya last night gave me massive blue balls, but I’d never rush her into doing anything she wasn’t ready for. When I woke up with massive morning wood, I had to relieve it before my morning run. Running around the neighborhood with my shorts tented might get me arrested; though in Detroit, I’m not sure.
After my run, I’m tired, sweaty, and in dire need of a shower. Probably has just as much to do with the run as it does my thoughts about Katya. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. We had a great night eating and talking. The best night I’ve had in a while, actually.
I head straight for the master bathroom, removing my soaked shirt and tossing it on the tile floor. That’s when I hear the doorbell. I’m not expecting anyone, so I ignore it. But it goes off again as I’m turning the water on.
“Damn it!” I let out a loud sigh and shut the faucet off before heading to the stairs. When my impatient visitor presses the bell again, I yell, “I’m coming!”
With furrowed brows and a deep frown, I yank open the door hoping my face scares off the unexpected caller. When I see Katya standing there, holding paper bags from the market down the road, my frown quickly dissolves. She’s looking as beautiful as ever in a flannel shirt tucked into designer jeans.
“Why are you naked?” she asks, confused.
“I’m not,” I begin, then glance down at my shirtless chest and chuckle. “I was just about to hop in the shower.”
“Are you going to keep standing there, showing off your sexy physique to the neighbors, or are you going to invite me in?” she asks, holding the bags up.
Now, I’m the one confused. She was supposed to be on a plane to New York this morning. “Please, come on in.” I move back giving her room to enter. “I’m just surprised. What are you doing here?”
“I wasn’t ready to leave you yet.” She pauses to kiss me quickly, almost as if she’s not sure she should. Then she strolls toward the kitchen, dropping the paper bags on the table in the dining room. “Is it a good surprise?”
“Absolutely.” I follow her to the kitchen where she’s unpacking the bags. She pulls out meat, onions, and noodles.
“What’s cooking?” I ask, placing my hands on her hips and peering over her shoulder.
“No offense, Vanya, but you stink.” She waves me back. “Go upstairs and shower. By the time you get back down,
I’ll be almost finished making dinner.”
“Okay, okay!” I hold my hands up and back away, watching her dance around as she unloads groceries. “I look forward to it.”
“Need someone to wash your back?” She calls over her shoulder.
I pause in the doorway. “You’re more than welcome to join me, Sunshine.”
She shakes a bag of noodles like it’s a maraca. “I might surprise you.”
It takes me less than fifteen minutes to shower and dress. I don’t want to miss out on too much time with her since I don’t know how long she has here. As I race down the stairs, I almost pass her up, thinking she’d still be in the kitchen. Instead, she’s standing in front of a painting in my hallway—one of many throughout the house.
“You’re into art?” She turns to me.
“No, not exactly. That came with the house,” I reply, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my shorts and leaning against the wall. I smile as I watched her admire the oversized painting.
“What does it mean?” she asks with eyes full of curiosity.
“I bought this house—and everything in it—from the owner of the Chargers. He has,” I lift my eyes to the ceiling as I count. “I don’t know how many properties he has. I think he owns most of Detroit.”
“So, this art means nothing to you?” She tilts her head.
“Well, I mean, I did research this one. The name of that painting is ‘War.’” I clear my throat and move closer to her. “It’s about two lovers, warriors, who fought against the society they lived in because of the love they had for each other, to protect that love and be free,” I add as I trace the delicate brush strokes on the piece of art.
Her gorgeous eyes meet mine, and my heart speeds up. “Did they win the war? The war of love?”
“I think that’s up to interpretation,” I say, brushing her hair behind her shoulder so I can see her face. “What do you think? Do you think they won?”
“I don’t know for certain, but what I do know is that love is freedom. People should be allowed to love freely,” she replies, looking from me to the painting. She swallows thickly, as if nervous—or excited.
“I agree. What if obligations get in the way?” I cup her cheek in my palm.
She closes her eyes for a brief moment, seemingly enjoying the feel of my hand. When she opens them, she says, “Nothing gets in the way of real love. You make time to see people. If you really love someone, you make them a priority.”
I lean closer, so close I’m breathing her breath when I whisper. “Am I a priority?”
She nods, her lips brushing mine when she says, “Am I priority?”
Instead of answer, I close the miniscule distance between us, and press my lips to hers. She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into her warm, lithe body. My fingers graze her hips, as I gently hold her in place and increase the pressure on her mouth. I part her lips with my tongue and explore gently. She responds with a soft moan and moves her fingers to my hair, tugging on the roots as she sinks into my arms.
When she pulls away her plump, pink lips glisten. Between the taste of her and the delicious aroma in the air, my stomach growls with want.
“Is dinner ready?” I ask, looking over her head toward the kitchen.
She slaps my shoulder. “After that amazing kiss, all you care about is food?”
“Don’t worry, Katya.” I pull her hips toward me, knowing she can feel how hungry I am for her by the erection pressing against her belly. “Even after we eat, I’ll still be starving for you.”
“It’s ready,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the kitchen.
While Katya dishes out dinner, I remove two wine glasses from the cabinet. “How did the Glonex commercial go?” I ask.
She sets each plate on the table and sits down. “It was wonderful,” she gushes, smiling brightly. “I absolutely love modeling, Vanya. It makes me feel beautiful and free.”
“Free?” I ask, scanning the wine cooler for a specific kind. Once I find it, I grab the bottle opener and glasses and bring them to the table.
“With tennis, everything is structured, you know. I have to remain calm and perfectly poised all the time. The only ways I can be myself are in the outfits I wear. And even those have to be a certain brand.”
“A certain brand that pays you a lot of money to have you endorsing them.” I set the glasses down on the table.
“Of course, they do, Vanya. Have you seen how good I look in tennis skirts?” She stands up, places both hands on her hips, and shakes them playfully.
“Oh, I know. I’ve been watching you for years. Supermodels have nothing on you,” I reply as both of us laugh. She sits back down.
I hold the opener over the neck of the wine bottle, push down on the lever, then pull it up. The cork comes out with ease. “You’re the face of a major sports brand, not too many Russians can say that.”
“They say it’s because of my looks, not my play.” She pushes noodles around on her plate.
“You won a Grand Slam two years in a row. You’re the second ranked female tennis player in the world. Whoever ‘they’ are can shove it up their ass.”
There are always going to be people who want to downplay her talent because she’s beautiful, but her success on the court isn’t something that can be faked. You don’t win on looks.
She snorts then wipes her mouth with her napkin. “What do you have there?”
“You like wine, yes?”
“Yes, I like wine.”
I pour her a glass before filling mine. “This was a gift from Mr. Popovic, the Chargers owner, when I arrived in America. I always thought it was sad to drink such a great wine alone, so I saved it for a special occasion.”
“That’s so sweet, Vanya,” she says genuinely.
“Let’s make a toast,” I clear my throat as I slide into the seat beside her. “Let’s make a toast to you, a beautiful, talented woman, fulfilling her dreams.” We clink our glasses and sip.
“We should toast to you, too.”
“Toast to me? Why?” I ask.
“You made it out of the USSR. You have this huge house. You play for a great team. You have everything we never had growing up. You’re living the American dream.”
She’s right. I have everything—or do I? Why is there a gnawing reminder that the American dream isn’t my dream?
“What is it?” Katya asks. She’s quick to notice the change in countenance.
“Nothing,” I reply, quickly pushing the thoughts aside as I raise the glass to my lips again. I don’t want to ruin the moment. “The wine’s really good, yes?”
“Best wine I’ve ever had.”
“You want more?” I point to her glass, which is nearly empty.
“Please.” She happily slides it toward me. “So, tell me something, Vanya.” She looks at me through thick lashes, coated in mascara. “Do you have many women in your life?”
She brings the glass to her lips and crosses her legs at the knee as she waits for my answer. Her sultry gaze sends chills up and down my spine.
I’ve dated a few girls since arriving in Detroit, but nothing serious. Mostly just someone to spend time with during the off season. I don’t even try to mess with a relationship while I’m playing. There’s no time to give a woman the attention she deserves.
The connection with Katya was instant, from the very first moment I laid eyes on her. She’s irresistibly beautiful, confident, and extremely fun to be around. She is just so vibrant and full of life.
“Are you counting in your head?” Her voice jolts me out of my thoughts, her sexy blue eyes meeting mine again. “Is it that many?”
“It’s not many at all, Katya,” I finally reply. “I have no one in my life at the moment.”
“No?” She reaches out and tickles my ribs. “Not one woman?”
“Hey!” I catch her hands, pull her into my lap and wrap my arms around her. Then I nuzzle my nose into her neck. “There is this one woman.”
&nb
sp; She laughs and tilts her neck, giving me access to cover it with kisses.
It’s getting hot and heavy, when Katya puts her hands on my chest. I have to go,” she says breathlessly.
“You want to leave?” I ask. “Now?”
“It’s not that I want to leave.” She clutches my T-shirt and pulls me closer. “But if I don’t, I won’t be able to control myself.”
“I am one hundred percent okay with that.”
She laughs. “I need more time.”
“I’ll wait as long as you need,” I tell her, placing a kiss on her forehead. “Come on, I’ll drive you to your hotel.”
7
Vanya
My eyes jolt open, awakened by the phone. There’s no trace of light, not even the dull early morning glow that usually seeps through hotel-room curtains. With half-open eyes, I turn over and check the small clock on the nightstand. Ugh! 4:56 a.m.
It has to be a wrong number. We rarely get calls to our hotel room when we’re on road trips. Mainly because no one even know where we stay.
Though there’s an odd feeling in my stomach, I’m not going to dwell on it. Maybe my roommate, Petr Novotný will answer. With that prospect in my head, I reposition the duvet and try to go back to sleep. I’ve barely shut my eyes when the phone rings again.
“Who the hell is calling at four in the morning?” I mutter to myself, pulling the duvet over my head this time, trying to ignore it.
The sound of the second ring still echoes in my ear when it goes off a third time. I have every intention of ignoring the call, hoping the person at the other end realizes they’ve dialed the wrong number. But when it keeps ringing, my brain goes into panic mode.
A call at five a.m. is either the wrong number or something urgent.
“Damn it,” I sigh as I shove the duvet off my body, the cold air hitting my bare chest as I sit up and reach over to grab the receiver.
“This better be good,” I say as I answer, throwing an annoyed glance at Novotný who’s dead to the world.
