Final Score
© 2020 Camellia Tate. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Chapter One
Everyone in the world had a soulmark. Or, well, almost everyone. For most people, it appeared just before puberty. A name somewhere on your body. The first name of your soulmate. No one really knew what the purpose of the marks was. Presumably, it would lead you to find the One. People’s opinions on that particular point varied a lot.
My soulmark settled in when I was twelve. The name ‘Maria’ curving slightly just below my ankle. I wasn’t the first or the last in my class. So in a way, it didn’t feel that special. It wasn’t until I moved to the US, years later, that I learned that some people had parties to celebrate the arrival of a soulmark. In Russia, soulmarks were less celebrated. They were something that people didn’t pay all that much attention to.
It was still a little exciting when my soulmark arrived. I was the only one in the whole class whose soulmark wasn’t written in Cyrillic. My excessive viewing of Cartoon Network came in handy; I could tell my classmates that the letters spelled ‘Maria’. Once they learned that, they quickly lost interest.
There were another three boys in my class whose soulmark read ‘Мария’. Apparently, having the word in a different alphabet didn’t make it that much more interesting.
My mama, at least, was slightly more excited. She said if not Russian - and it could still be Russian - at least it was a good Christian name. Not that I thought she expected me to meet the right Maria.
You never know what fate will bring, Lev, she’d told me anyway. Frankly, what my fate was going to bring was the NHL. It was my first love. And I was pretty sure it would also be my true love. At least at twelve that had seemed likely.
The first time I saw hockey, I knew that I wanted to always play it. To play it well and to play it against excellent people. It helped to have a father with a twenty-year career in the KHL. He liked to say that hockey was in our blood.
My dreams were always bigger than the KHL. But then, many players’ dreams were. The NHL was the ultimate achievement. So yeah, it’d be fair to say that when I got drafted at seventeen - fourth pick! - I was over the moon. Scared shitless, of course. Cartoon Network’s English could only get me so far. But I was also super excited.
I was lucky; the team that drafted me was the same team whose colors I proudly still wore. I had been on the Madison Howlers’ rota for almost a decade at this point. Every time I put on my jersey - ‘POPOV’ and ‘17’ plastered across the back - I felt proud to represent my team.
Sometimes, though, I missed home. My parents visited every few months and we FaceTimed often. But it wasn’t quite the same as having my mama cook for me. On the other hand, it was probably for the best. I would almost definitely gain far too much weight if she did. For someone who was married to a hockey player and had raised a hockey player, mama was not great at following good dietary plans.
After living in different countries for so long, we had a string of different customs. One of my pre-game traditions involved me chatting to both of my parents as I drove to the rink. Papa was the one to talk to me first. Once he was finished with his usual pep talk, mama took over.
So in a way, this was probably her fault.
“I don’t see how it could possibly be my fault,” her voice resounded through my car. “I’m in Russia, Lev. I am not responsible for the tire on your car bursting.”
She had a point. It didn’t change the fact that I was stranded on the side of the road with a busted tire and less than twenty minutes to get to the rink. “No, mama, I don’t need you to tell me how this would not be a problem if I left earlier,” I said like a petulant child.
There was a tut but at least she didn’t attempt to tell me how I was wrong. She didn’t have to. I knew I was. My time-keeping was shocking but I was never late. Not really. Not by a serious length of time. Except, today might be the first time because I didn’t even have a spare tire.
“What do you mean you don’t have a--”
“I’ve got to go, mama, I need to... something.” What I most needed was not to listen to her telling me off. Luckily, just then, a car pulled up behind me, probably having seen my hazard lights on. “Oh, good. Someone’s here to help me, I’ll message you later,” I promised before hanging up the phone.
Getting out of the car, I kind of expected to start by saying that yes, yes I was Lev Popov from the Madison Howlers. I figured that a guy stopping to help someone with a flat tire was a guy who was into sports. Except before I’d managed to offer my ‘please help, I’ll get you some tickets’ spiel, my mouth went dry.
My potential savior was very far from a burly, probably-a-hockey-fan guy. Instead, a tall blonde got out of the car. She was wearing jeans that hugged her hips just right and a sweater that...
“Is that an armless, fat unicorn?” I asked, frowning at the sweater.
“Unicorns don’t have arms,” she pointed out. “They’ve got four legs.”
I rolled my eyes at that. She obviously knew what I meant. The unicorn was definitely still legless, if not armless. Whatever. Language was dumb.
“It’s a narwhal.” I frowned, confused as to why that was supposed to mean anything. She huffed. “A kind of whale,” she explained. “They’re actually probably why people came up with unicorns. They found these huge horns, and -” she paused, her green eyes widening enough that I could see how they were flecked with brown. “I don’t know why they decided that of all the animals, it should be a horse,” she admitted.
I did not have any explanations to offer. Then again, I had never even heard of a narwhal. It seemed unlikely that there was a whale with a horn. But I had no idea why a stranger might make up such a strange lie.
And besides, my tire was still bust.
“Did you stop to help me?” I asked instead. “I mean. Thanks for stopping to help me. Do you... watch hockey?” The fat unicorn had confused me enough that all my thoughts reverted to what I knew best - hockey. Not to mention that the longer I stood here, the later I was going to be.
The woman turned, directing her expressive face towards my busted tire. She did not look pleased. “Don’t thank me yet,” she advised. “I don’t think my spare is going to fit.” She was right. Glancing over at her car, I could see, even from a distance, that her wheels were bigger than mine.
“What does hockey have to do with anything?” she asked, turning her attention back to me. I was used to women having to look up, but she was nearly my height. She met my eyes easily.
Given, I was also used to women recognizing me. As the Russian playing first line for Madison Howlers, I stood out. Madison wasn’t the most hockey-obsessed city I’d ever been to but they loved their hockey enough. Except, apparently, this woman who had no idea who I was. Disappointing, but it couldn’t be helped.
“I play for the Madison Howlers,” I told her. “And I’m going to be late for the game.” A bit of a lie, but drama was important. “Do you think you could drive me?” I asked hopefully. “I’m Lev, by the way. Popov.” Her knowing my name would make her less likely to think I was some serial killer.
“Oh.” Her cheeks flushed pink as she glanced down at her watch. If she didn’t know hockey, it might actually work in my favor. Not knowing when the game was
due to start meant she wouldn’t know that my need wasn’t quite as urgent as I’d made it seem.
The sight of her nibbling on her lower lip was almost enough to distract me from thoughts of hockey. Almost.
Before I could press the issue, she seemed to come to a decision. “Alright, come on,” she agreed, gesturing towards her car.
I followed, squeezing myself into a seat which was much too far forward. Noticing my discomfort, she leaned across me, reaching for whatever mechanism allowed the seat to slide back.
Her hair tickled against my chin. For a moment, we were pressed together as she fumbled to find the right button. “I’m Maria,” she announced, just as I felt the seat slide back under me.
“Thanks for offering me a ride, Maria,” I said with a grin like we both weren’t aware that I had pretty much invited myself. I looked around the car. It was clean. A lot cleaner than mine and there was a light scent of... maybe cinnamon?
Her driving was also much better than mine. That wasn’t too impressive. Most of my teammates would assure anyone that most people’s driving was better than mine. It was hardly my fault that the way one drove in Moscow didn’t translate well to Madison.
“So, why do you like... nowhales?” I asked, with a frown. That didn’t seem right. “Sorry, my English, it not so good,” I added, making extra effort to layer the thick Russian accent on. We’d been having enough of a conversation for Maria to know that my English was perfectly fine. I was just an idiot who’d never heard of a nowhale.
She laughed. The sound made something warm bubble up in my chest. These days, I was pretty good at getting my teammates to laugh. I still remembered those first few months, when my English hadn’t been good enough to joke. It had been even worse around beautiful women. It was nice to be reminded of how far I’d come.
“Narwhals,” Maria corrected. “It’s not that I particularly like them.” Narrowing her eyes at the road ahead, she stepped on the gas, pushing the car forward faster. Apparently, she’d taken my dilemma as a personal challenge.
Once she’d overtaken the car in front, she leaned back a little. “My sister knitted the sweater for me,” she explained. “She said that my wardrobe made her sad and I needed something more fun to wear. To remind me that I’m not at work all the time, you know?”
I did know. I didn’t have siblings knitting me ridiculous sweaters, but I had a mother who was very good at reminding me that hockey shouldn’t be the only thing I had going on.
“What do you do? For work?” I asked. I’d already told Maria that I played hockey, something she disappointingly did not care more about. Then again, I always felt that people should be more into hockey than they were. Even when they were into hockey.
“I’m a financial advisor,” she replied. It was not the answer I had expected. She must have seen my eyebrows shoot up because she laughed. “You see, the sweater works!” She grinned in triumph, the smile making her even more attractive. “No one expects a financial advisor in a home-knitted sweater.”
It was true. But I liked the sweater. It made Maria seem more alive and interesting than I would have assumed a financial advisor to be. “I wear a lot of suits for work, obviously.” I tried - and failed - not to imagine Maria in a tight pencil skirt showing off her hips.
“I’ve been to a few Howlers games, with clients,” she informed me. “Not enough to know all the players. Have you been here long?”
“Yes.” I nodded because I had. “I’ve been playing for the Howlers for nine years.” Which was long enough to be considered a long time. “It’s not Russia, of course,” I proclaimed dramatically. “But it's okay.” Nowhere was Russia but Russia, but I didn’t mind Madison. At least it wasn’t scorchingly hot like some parts of America.
I don’t think I’d do very well somewhere hot. It always surprised me that they had ice hockey teams in places that never saw snow.
Shaking her head, Maria chuckled. “I could say the same about Moscow,” she informed me. “It’s not home, of course, but it’s okay.” I exaggerated my eyebrows down into a frown. Moscow was more than just ‘okay’.
It surprised me that Maria had been. Not many of the Americans I met had traveled to Russia. “I lived there for a year after I turned twenty-one,” Maria added. “My mom was very keen for me to go. Whereabouts in Russia are you from?”
“Outskirts of Moscow,” I answered, not quite dismissively, but I was more interested in her having been to Russia than me. Sometimes I met people who wanted to go to Russia, maybe even some who had been there for like a week, ‘seen the sights’, but a whole year!
“Do you speak any Russian?” I asked in Russian. My words were slow and clear. I couldn’t imagine her Russian being very advanced if she’d only been there for a year, but still! I never got to meet Americans who spoke Russian, not ones who weren’t at least partially Russian themselves. “Are you Russian?” I added, my excitement building.
“No, I am not Russian.” She answered my last question first. Her Russian was slow, like she had to hunt through her mind for each word before she said it. I remembered when my English had been like that. “Sorry,” she added. Her smile was more teasing than apologetic.
She shrugged and switched back to English. “I learned enough to get by, but I was never fluent. Your English is much better than my Russian ever was.”
It was my turn to shrug. Sure, my English was better than her Russian, but I remembered when it hadn’t been. Moving to a different country when the language and culture were so different took guts. “It’s impressive anyway,” I told her honestly. “Even if your Russian is pretty awful,” I joked.
She didn’t seem to mind that, turning to favor me with another smile. “Thank you. I like to think I’m a pretty impressive person.” Her tone was confident without being arrogant. It made me want to know what else Maria thought was impressive about herself. We were still ten minutes from the rink. Somehow, I didn’t think that was going to be enough time.
“I take it there aren’t any other Russian-speakers on the Howlers right now?” she asked. “Otherwise, you would’ve been a lot less excited by me and my basic Russian.”
That was both an astute and a correct presumption. “Sadly, there isn’t,” I nodded. “Seryozha retired a few seasons ago. There’re two guys on our AHL team, but I don’t get to see them that often.” We made time to get food once or twice a month, but they had each other. They didn’t have the same need to be around Russian speakers as I did.
“I speak to my parents pretty regularly. I was actually on the phone with my mama just as the tire burst,” I explained and then shrugged. “It’s obviously her fault,” I informed Maria, assuming that she’d be as convinced by that fact as mama had been.
Instead, she gave a serious nod. “Obviously,” she agreed. “Is she always encouraging you to go out and meet a nice girl? Maybe she burst your tire hoping someone like me would show up to rescue you.” That made me give a surprised bark of laughter. Mama was very keen for me to meet a good girl. She probably would burst a tire if she thought that could happen.
“My mom’s always trying to get me to practice my Russian,” Maria added. “So I guess your tire could be her fault.”
“Why? Not that I object to you learning Russian. It’s the best language to know.” I grinned. “But why is your mom so into you learning Russian?” Some people I’d met were Russophiles. I’d not met someone who made their kid learn Russian. Or sent them to Russia, for that matter.
There was a small pause before Maria answered. “My soulmark is in Cyrillic.” My eyes definitely widened. I almost asked her what the name was that was written on her skin. Then I remembered that in America, it was generally considered very rude to ask someone.
In Russia, people didn’t tend to ask either, but for very different reasons. The way soulmarks were romanticized here was still odd to me. Sending your kid off to Russia just because of it seemed a pretty good sign that in America soulmarks meant too much.
�
�When I first saw it, I didn’t even know that Russian used a different alphabet,” Maria admitted. “I thought that was just China and Japan. I had to do some research to work out what it even said.”
It made me think back to how different my own experience had been. My soulmark was in a different alphabet but I had immediately been able to read it. “Must’ve been weird,” I commented. “Not to even be able to read it.” I didn’t know anyone else who had a name written in an alphabet they couldn’t read.
Another thing struck me then; I knew how different cultures viewed soulmarks differently but Maria probably hadn’t. “Were you shocked? By how little people care about soulmarks in Russia?”
She hummed, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as we got caught at a red light. “I was… upset. At least at first,” she answered. “I mean, I’d come all that way and I’d spent so many hours learning Russian. If I was going to meet my soulmate, I wanted to at least be able to say hello to him in his own language.” It was a sweet thought. Something that probably not everybody would have thought of.
“And then I got off the plane. So many people in the airport didn’t even bother to wear stickers to cover their soulmarks. It was weird.” She gave a smile, her gaze still on the road but something softening around her eyes. “I had to work up the nerve to ask someone why.”
I could imagine how that conversation had gone. In Russia, Maria had probably been told that soulmarks didn’t matter. “It made me feel stupid. Like a little kid who’d got their hopes up only to find that the real word isn’t as simple as I’d thought.” She shrugged one shoulder. “But maybe going to a foreign country where I didn’t know anyone would have felt like that anyway.”
“If it helps, I found it weird just how much people here do care about soulmarks,” I offered sympathetically. There were a lot of things in America that were different from Russia, but that was one of the most noticeable ones. The culture, in general, was different. People’s values varied, of course. But soulmarks being a huge and important thing? That had taken a while to get used to.
Final Score (Madison Howlers #5) Page 1
