Isn't It Bromantic?

by Lyssa Kay Adams

  It was clear from the notes her father left behind that he’d gotten close to unmasking Strazh’s real identity. And they’d killed him for it.

  A skittering noise made Elena whip around. Marta had appeared out of nowhere. She wore a dark green hoodie high over her hair and a threadbare pair of jeans.

  “I was worried,” Elena breathed, speaking quietly in Russian. “I thought you’d changed your mind or—”

  Marta rushed forward. “I don’t have much time.”

  “I know. You’re sure they didn’t follow you?”

  Marta nodded quickly and shoved her hand into her coat pocket. Her every motion was a frantic display of anxiety and fear, but the look in her eyes was resolute and determined. She handed Elena a tiny scrap of paper that looked like the torn edge of a pastry bag, the kind you’d get at a coffee shop with a bagel or muffin. A four-digit number and a name were scribbled hastily in pencil.

  Nikolei 1122. Elena looked up. “What is this?”

  “I don’t know.” Marta’s eyes darted around as if looking for them. “I overheard him say it on the phone last night. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but he—” Marta swallowed deeply.

  “He what?” Elena prodded.

  “He got very mad when he realized I had heard him. He grabbed my arm and shoved me and told me to get back to work.”

  Bile stung the back of her throat. This was what Elena feared most—that someone else would get hurt. “You’re not safe, Marta. You have to let me help you get out of here.”

  “And go where?”

  They’d had this argument a thousand times. “A shelter. The FBI. Anywhere would be safer.”

  Marta shook her head, much more slowly this time, as if the weight of reality had turned her muscles to lead. “Not until this is over.”

  “But I’m not going to be here much longer. A few months at the most. As soon as my divorce is final, my visa will be invalid. What happens when I go back to Russia?”

  Marta turned away. “I have to go.”

  “Wait.” Elena gripped Marta’s arm to try to keep her from walking away. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

  Marta paused, her face frozen in a hard mask of resolution. “You too.” Then she turned around and ran down the alley.

  Elena watched her go, once again feeling a connection to her father that had never been there before. The spark of excitement for this new piece of the puzzle flickered against a cold breeze of fear for Marta’s safety. Was this how her father felt all the time? Elena understood so much about him now that used to make her so angry—his long hours, his frequent absences, and most of all, his secrecy. She now knew why he would never tell her what he was working on. He wanted to protect her. She’d kept Vlad in the dark about this for the same reason. She didn’t want him to get hurt.

  She’d already hurt him too much.

  Several minutes after Marta left, Elena walked five blocks to a bar where she called for another Uber. It was midnight by the time she got home. Elena unlocked the door to her studio apartment and quickly locked it again behind her. After toeing off her shoes at the door, she donned her house slippers and walked the five short steps to her tiny kitchen. She filled her kettle with water and then set it on the two-burner stove. A few minutes later, she carried a steaming mug of tea to her cluttered desk, which was wedged next to a futon that doubled as a couch and a bed. She could have had a larger apartment; Vlad had offered to pay for something much more lavish several times over the years. But she could never bring herself to accept the offer. She didn’t want to be any more of a burden on him than she already was.

  But that, too, was a mistake she had vowed to correct. Elena tried to block out all the voices of recrimination in her head as she dug into the pile of notes and documents she’d been able to compile. She’d arranged everything chronologically—something else she’d learned from her father. Just start at the beginning and build the timeline. When gaps appeared, you knew where to focus your research. The problem was, there were still more gaps than not in the information. And this information Marta had given her tonight was no different. Just one more clue. One more unanswered question that would lead to more questions. And time truly was running out. Once she went back to Russia and got a job at a newspaper there, she wouldn’t have the same freedom to work on this. Literally.

  The sudden shriek of her phone sent her heart into her throat. She answered it without checking who it was because only Marta called this late, and it couldn’t be good. “Marta? What’s wrong?”

  “Um, Elena?”

  Elena pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the number on the screen. Josh Bierman. Confusion tugged her eyebrows together. He was the family contact for Vlad’s hockey team. Why would he be calling her?

  She returned the phone to her ear. “Yes, yes, this is Elena.”

  “It’s Josh Bierman. I’m sorry it took so long to call, but I wanted to make sure I had the best information. He’s being looked at by the trainers and the team doctor, so—”

  Elena shook her head. “Wait. Slow down. What are you talking about?”

  “Vlad.” Josh paused. “Weren’t you watching the game?”

  Guilt infused her blood like poison. She hadn’t been following Vlad’s team. She knew they were doing well, that they were pretty far into the playoffs, but she didn’t know details. She didn’t even know what city he was in. “No. I— No. What happened?”

  “Vlad got hurt in the first period.”

  She heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. Or maybe that was just her brain’s way of not accepting the news. “How—how bad?”

  “We’ve stabilized him for now, and then he’ll be taken to Nashville Orthopedic Hospital. I can get you a chartered flight out of Midway Airport at two thirty a.m., and you can meet us there.”

  Her brain finally caught up. “A hospital?”

  Most professional teams in America had on-site medical units that rivaled emergency rooms, which said as much about the state of American health care as anything. They only sent players to hospitals for bad injuries.

  “We’re going to wait for the doctor to see him before making any predictions.”

  “How. Bad.” She barely got the words out over her clenched jaw.

  Josh’s voice was resigned. “He broke his tibia. He’s going to need surgery.”

  Bile choked the back of her throat as she whipped around, found the remote to her TV, and clicked it on. “What channel was the game on?”

  “Elena—”

  “I have to see.”

  “Don’t do that to yourself.”

  She found a sports network, and as if the broadcast crew knew she was there, they broke into a replay of Vlad’s injury. She watched as he went after the puck toward the wall, battled for a second with a player from the other team, and then it happened. A freak accident, the commentator said. Vlad’s pants somehow got tangled with the stick of the other player, so when he turned to skate, he lost the edge and went down, his leg wrenched beneath him in an awkward, unnatural way.

  There was a split second of anguished surprise on his face, and then he dropped to the ice. The play continued around him as if no one realized he’d been injured. And why would they? Vlad never got hurt. He tried to stand, but his leg gave out, and he fell again. A hush fell over the crowd as they began to realize he was down and not getting up, that he was pounding the ice and yelling to his teammates, his face twisted in an expression of someone in agony.

  “Oh my God,” Elena breathed, her hand fluttering to her mouth. She had to grab the back of her desk chair to keep from losing her balance.

  “Elena,” Josh said gently. “I promise you, he is being taken care of. All you have to worry about is getting here.”

  “Does . . .” She stopped. There were a million questions behind that one word. Does he know you’re calling m
e? Does he want me there? And then another question. Did the team even know yet that they were getting a divorce? They had to know. Her visa was linked to Vlad’s and had been arranged through their immigration attorneys. Once the divorce was final, she would be deported. But if they knew, why were they sending for her?

  Josh let out a frustrated sigh, and this time, his voice took a hard turn. “Look, Elena. I don’t know what’s going on with you two. I’ve never understood your marriage, but it’s not my business. All I know is that he’s scared, and he’s going to need someone to hold his hand and to take care of him. Someone who really knows him, someone he trusts. I can’t get his parents here in time. That leaves you. So are you going to get on that plane, or not?”

  He was right. Vlad shouldn’t have to go through this alone. Vlad had wonderful friends, but this was different. And maybe it was selfish, but suddenly the answer was staring her in the face. How could she ever pay him back? How could she ensure that they parted as friends?

  This. She could do this.

  She was going to take care of him.

  Elena straightened and swallowed away her doubts. “I am on my way.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  At just before four thirty a.m., Elena walked into the dark, empty lobby of the hospital and approached the lone security guard sitting at the half-moon reception desk. Her heavy backpack full of all her story research and her laptop dug into a large knot on her shoulder, and her arm throbbed as she dragged her small suitcase behind her. She’d packed quickly, focusing more on getting all of her notes than clothes. She wasn’t even sure if she remembered to grab pajamas.

  “I’m here to see a patient.”

  The guard—a youngish woman with a hard edge to her—barely looked up when Elena spoke. “Visiting hours don’t start until seven.”

  “But it’s my husband. I just got in.”

  The woman glanced up finally. “Name?”

  “Vlad Konnikov.”

  The woman snorted and rolled her eyes. “Nice try.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re the tenth fan who has tried to get in here to see him.”

  Elena had barely registered that bit of information when she heard an out-of-breath voice behind her. “Elena, hi, sorry.”

  Josh Bierman jogged to the desk in a disheveled dress shirt and jeans. He waved at the guard. “It’s okay. This one is actually his wife.”

  Elena wanted to nurture the small flame of resentment that she’d been dismissed as just another puck bunny, but what right did she have to feel slighted? She hadn’t even been watching the game. She’d never been a real hockey wife and never would be.

  Josh reached for her things. “Let me take those from you.”

  Elena clung to the backpack. “I—I’ll carry this.”

  Josh nodded and took the handle of the suitcase from her. “He’s on the fourth floor. The elevator is around the corner up here.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s in recovery.”

  “Did you call his parents?”

  Josh hit the button for the elevator. “Talked to his dad about an hour ago.”

  It would be late afternoon in Omsk, the Siberian town where she and Vlad had grown up and where Vlad’s parents still lived. Elena had spent countless hours as a child and teenager in their home to escape the emptiness and the silence of her own.

  As they exited the elevator, Elena tugged her backpack higher on her shoulder and followed Josh down the hallway. Their sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor, a chirping chorus to the drumbeat of her suitcase’s wheels. Josh settled his hand gently on her back and guided her around a corner. Two automatic doors whooshed open at their approach. Inside, a nurses’ station sat at the center of a star-shaped intersection of hallways. A man in blue scrubs sat behind the tall counter, studying a computer screen. He glanced up briefly and then nodded in recognition at Josh.

  “He’s in room 414,” Josh said in a hushed tone. “It’s a VIP room, so there is a couch you can lie down on until he wakes up, if you want.”

  Her heart thudded erratically at the assumed intimacy in the suggestion. Just because Josh knew their marriage was unusual didn’t mean he knew the whole story. It was their little secret. What would people think if they knew that after six years of marriage, husband and wife had kissed exactly once? Just a chaste brush of lips after saying their vows.

  Josh stopped outside the door to his room and moved aside to make room for Elena. She wrapped her hand around the knob but didn’t turn it.

  “He’ll play again, right?” Her voice shook.

  “Not this season.”

  “But what about next season?”

  Josh got the kind of expression that people use when they want to break bad news gently. “I think you should wait to talk to the doctor.”

  No. Elena was done waiting, and Vlad had spent enough time waiting for her.

  She hoisted her backpack high on her shoulder and opened the door. Josh set her suitcase just inside the door and then raised his eyebrows to ask if that was okay. Elena nodded, whispered, “Thank you,” and waited for him to back out of the room before shutting the door. With a quiet click, she was alone, finally, with her pounding heart and her soon-to-be ex-husband.

  She lowered her backpack to the floor and slowly turned around, allowing her eyes to land on the farthest object in the room—a large window with a view of the city that probably would have been beautiful in any other circumstance. Josh wasn’t lying. This was a VIP suite, three times the size of a mere mortal’s room and more hotel suite than medical unit. Built-in cabinets along the walls hid all medical equipment from view, and beneath the window, a full-size couch faced two plush chairs.

  Elena sucked in a breath, held it for a beat, and then turned her eyes to the center of the room. And there, like a felled giant, was Vlad. Flat on his back in an oversize bed. All the air in her lungs evacuated in a shaky puff. His six-foot-four frame somehow managed to look small with his broken leg wrapped in an Aircast and held aloft by a harness attached to the ceiling.

  His face was tilted in her direction, his eyes closed and lips parted. Along his jaw was a thick layer of whiskers that probably would have taken other men a week to grow. For Vlad, it was likely just a day’s worth of growth. A thin white blanket covered his good leg and . . . Elena gulped. Very little else. It stopped just below his belly button, leaving bare to her gaze a hard, flat stomach and a broad, defined chest covered by more dark hair.

  The room seemed to shrink in half as she inched forward. She realized that someone had at least attempted to dress him in a hospital gown, the kind that tied in the front. But at some point in the night, the ties had come undone, and the two sides had fallen open. He was essentially naked under that blanket.

  Elena cautiously approached the side of the bed, where the arm had been raised presumably to keep him from falling out in his sleep. His chest rose and fell in a deep rhythm, accentuating the valley between his pecs. It was voyeuristic, the way she stared at him, but this was the first time she’d seen her own husband shirtless in years.

  Elena shut her eyes and pressed her hands against her closed lids until spots danced in her vision. This was wrong and inappropriate. Vlad was hurt and had no idea she was even there. And they were getting a divorce. The least she could do was give him the dignity of not ogling over his naked body while he slept.

  Elena peeled her hands from her face and gingerly picked up the edge of the blanket so she could tug it higher. When she gently draped it across his chest, he stirred and turned his head in the other direction on the pillow. Elena froze, hands hovering atop his body. She stayed that way until his breathing resumed its heavy rhythm.

  Easing out a breath of her own, she backed away from the bed, turned around, and tiptoed back to where she’d left her things. She toed off her shoes, picked up her suitcase and backp
ack, and carried them to the seating area. The cushion creaked when she sat down, and once again she froze, breath locked in her lungs. She watched him as he stirred again, this time letting out a small moan as he rolled his head back and forth twice on the pillow.

  Elena leaped up and quickly walked back to the bed. Was he in pain? Was he having a nightmare? His head rolled again in her direction, and his breathing picked up. Beneath his closed eyelids, his eyes moved rapidly. Elena reached out her hand and, after a moment of hesitation and second-guessing, lowered it to his forehead. She smoothed his thick hair back.

  “It’s okay, Vlad,” she whispered in Russian.

  He relaxed beneath her touch, so she repeated the gesture and the words. But instead of falling back to sleep the second time, his eyes opened. They were glassy and red, but he appeared neither confused nor surprised by her presence. He held her gaze, blinking slowly, before saying, “My leg is broken.”

  Elena ran her fingers through his hair again. “I know. But everything is going to be okay.”

  “I can’t lose hockey. I can’t lose that too.”

  The pain on his face combined with that one word—too—broke her heart in half. This beautiful man deserved so much better than her. “You’re not going to. You are going to heal stronger than ever. Just go back to sleep for now.”

  “Don’t want to,” he said, but it was a losing battle. His eyelids were dropping again. “Don’t want you to go.”

  “I’ll still be here when you wake up,” she said, but she had no idea if he’d heard her.

  He’d already fallen back asleep.

  * * *

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