“Doesn’t really fit the neighborhood, does it?” I observe.
“Yeah, the city councilor from this district loves hockey, so he decided to push through this community center and ice rink. Only problem is kids in this neighborhood don’t play hockey.”
“Well, some of them must because we’re here to coach their team, right?”
Deke is climbing out of the car at this point, so he conveniently ignores my question. But I know him, and something’s up.
I follow him up the path to the front doors and manage to catch up with him before he opens one. “Hey.” I put my hand on the glass preventing him from swinging it open. “There is a team here to coach, right? A bunch of thirteen year olds? With skates and sticks?”
“Technically, yes,” he mumbles.
“Deke. Spill.”
He scratches the back of his head nervously and refuses to look me in the eyes.
“There is a group of thirteen year olds in there. They have skates, and they have sticks, and they love hockey.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“No problem. Just…they’re girls.”
I stare at him as my mind processes what he’s said. Hockey has been a male-dominated sport for decades. Doesn’t mean women don’t play it. They do. And in fact, my cousin, Anya, in Russia, played all over Europe in the women’s semi-pro leagues in her twenties. But as a general thing, there aren’t a bunch of little girls playing hockey in America. And I know nothing about girls and hockey. Especially not thirteen-year-old girls.
“Okay,” I say slowly, my heart rate picking up a touch.
“See, here’s the thing,” Deke winds up for his pitch. “These girls come from across town where there’s a great private rink that turns out some of the best teams in the state. But the owner gives the boys’ teams priority for ice time.”
“You’re kidding?” I ask, incredulous that in 2017 shit like that still happens.
“I’m not. So the parents of the girls got together to find some other practice space, and discovered this facility sitting here unused. Problem is, their coach refused to come across town for practices, so now the team has a rink, but no coach.”
“And the Norsemen heard the story and volunteered you?”
“Pretty much,” he admits.
I think on it for a moment. If what Deke is saying is correct, there are a group of kids in this building who love the sport enough to travel an hour across town at the crack of dawn five days a week in order to practice. They’ve lost their coach, and are probably paying a boatload of money to rent this ice space. All I can think is that there are kids here who get it, get what I always did—the rush of speeding down the ice, slicing at that little plastic disk, and being better than anyone else while you do it.
“Well, we’d better get moving then,” I say as I reach past Deke and pull open the door. “Sounds like our team is waiting for us.”
16
Solana
The punishment from Adrienne for showing her up in front of Mr. Petrovich has lasted longer than I thought it would. I don’t regret speaking up and telling Mr. Petrovich about the campaign, and I’ve been meeting with Dave and the rest of the team regularly to get the project moving, but Adrienne has been relentless in her persecution of me, giving me every crappy, low-ranking duty in the department. Today, she’s handed me a list of forty thousand—yes, thousand—files that need to be deleted from the department’s server. Lucky me.
I’m resting my chin on my hand as I highlight rows of file names—fifty at a time, because that’s all the system will allow—and then click delete. Over and over. When my cell phone dings I dive for it, relief flowing through me that something—anything—can take me away from the monotony of trashing files.
It’s a text from Mick. I glance around before I open it, as if someone might be able to tell that I’m getting messages from the CEO’s son at two pm on a Friday.
Mick: Hi. Remember me? The guy who abandoned you in the hallway a few nights ago?
I stare at it. Wow. So now he wants to talk?
Me: I think I can place you.
Mick: I appreciate you not deleting my number from your phone.
Me: Only because I forgot it was in here. I’ll take care of it now.
Mick: Wait. Please. I owe you an apology and an explanation. But first I need some advice.
I can’t help being intrigued by what he’ll try this time, so even though I shouldn’t, I let him go on.
Me: Okay.
Mick: What motivates a thirteen-year-old girl?
I pause, wondering what the hell Mick is doing with a young teen girl.
Me: Um, should I be involving the police at this point? You do know what the age of consent is, right?
Mick: Really? You think I’m a pervert?
Me: I know you’re a pervert, just wasn’t sure if that included young girls.
Mick: It doesn’t.
Me: K. Sorry. Had to ask. So, what IS this about?
Mick: I’m coaching a team of girls at the Southside Community Center. I need to know some good ways to motivate them. I tried what my coaches always did when I was that age—yelling—and two of them cried. The rest stopped talking to me.
I can’t help but laugh out loud. This guy. He has enough trouble handling grown women, much less teen girls.
Me: This requires more than a text. Teen girls are complicated.
Mick: I’m starting to understand that.
Me: Meet at home about six? I’m leaving work early tonight.
Mick: Ok.
I start to put my phone away when it pings again.
Mick: And thanks, Solnishka. I know I don’t deserve your help.
I stare at the words for a moment, unsure how to respond, then decide on no response, and slide the phone back into my bag. I’m not sure what Mick Petrovich deserves.
I haven’t been home for even five minutes when I hear a knock at the door. I open it to a repentant-looking Mick, and as always happens, when I lay eyes on him, my breath catches in my chest.
“Hi,” he says sheepishly.
I arch an eyebrow at him and sweep my arm aside to gesture him in.
“So, I have to admit, I wasn’t sure if you’d still be speaking to me,” he says quietly as he bends over to pet Ambrose, who’s got his front paws up on Mick’s knees. Damn cat hasn’t gotten within ten feet of me in days.
“I shouldn’t be,” I answer, arms crossed in front of my chest. “But there were teenaged girls involved. You’ll totally screw it up if I don’t help.”
He stands to his full height and takes a step closer to me, his eyes dropping briefly to my chest. I see him trying to control the grin that wants to take over his gorgeous face. “So you’re doing it for the kids?” he asks.
“Exactly,” I answer, marching off toward the kitchen.
He follows me, Ambrose hot on his heels. Cats are bastards. Maybe I’m a dog person.
“Do you want something?” I ask as I open the fridge. “I’ve got water, half a Gatorade and a two week old bottle of Chardonnay.”
Mick mumbles something under his breath, but then declines my generous offer of a beverage.
I lean back against the counter, still in defensive mode, although it’s mostly an act, because all I can really think about are those pecs and abs that his thin white Henley shows so well.
“So, about the other night…” He gives me a long look, and if I’m not mistaken there’s some pleading for mercy in it.
I turn and start brushing invisible crumbs off the counter. “Yeah?”
He sighs. “You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?”
I pin him with a stare. “Should I?”
“No. You shouldn’t. I was an asshole, and you didn’t deserve any of it.”
I feel my heart softening. “Is your… I mean, you didn’t reinjure anything, did you?”
“Just my pride,” he admits, and I can’t help the small smile that turn
s up the corners of my mouth. “Look, I screwed up, I know it. And my buddy Deke told me the next day that I’ve been screwing up a lot lately.” He takes a deep breath. “So I’m working on doing better. On being better. And I think I might like coaching these kids.”
I grin. Big, grumbly Mick Petrovich with a bunch of middle school girls is a pretty charming image.
“So,” I gesture toward the living room where we sit on the sofa, him on one end, me on the other. I wonder if this is all we’ll be now—acquaintances. I don’t like the idea, but I know, rationally, it’s a lot safer for my career.
“You need to understand the inner workings of a teen girl’s mind, huh?”
He nods his head. “You have no idea. I wasn’t any good at it when I was that age, and I’m definitely no better now. They’re good little hockey players, and I think they could be great, but I can’t get them to push through to that next level. I don’t know how to motivate them, and like I said, my go-to methods backfired in a big way.”
I fold my legs up to the side as I lean back against the arm of the sofa to face him more fully. I see his eyes dart to my bare legs underneath my skirt, but it’s a split second, and his expression doesn’t change.
“First off, assume that everything you say or do could upset them, so get over worrying about it. If one of them melts down, don’t panic. You probably didn’t do anything wrong, and they’ll recover faster than you might think.”
He nods briskly, and judging by his expression I wouldn’t be surprised if he were to take out a notebook and start writing down everything I’m saying. It’s kind of adorable.
“Second thing, do not ignore their in-fighting. If you want them to function well as a team you have to keep them from bullying each other.”
“You sound like you know team sports,” he observes, leaning toward me a touch. I catch a whiff of his soap, clean and citrusy, and suddenly I want to lick him like a lemon Popsicle.
“Yes. I played soccer all the way through high school. The best coach I ever had was the guy who made it clear that we played as a team or he’d be happy to show us the door. It didn’t matter how good you were, no prima donnas were allowed. That doesn’t mean you get involved in their disputes—that’s always a ticket to disaster—just don’t allow any.”
He scratches his head. “Okay. I think I understand.”
“As for motivating them, it’s pretty simple. You’re The Czar, they’re a bunch of impressionable little girls. The only motivation they need is your praise.”
“You’re kidding,” he deadpans.
I put my hands out to either side, palms up. “Swear to God. It’s that easy.”
“Where were you a week ago when I started this gig? In the last five days I’ve hollered, I’ve threatened, I’ve offered cash, and box tickets to the Norsemen games. Nothing worked. And now you say all I had to do was tell them they did good?”
I laugh. “Find something each girl did well every practice and tell her. When the team does well, tell them. When they screw up tell them what they did well anyway.”
“And why will this work?” He looks at me in disbelief.
“Because girls that age love nothing more than pleasing people. It’s like a disease. They crave approval. They’re so worried all the time that they’re not good enough, that their new bodies aren’t right somehow, that boys won’t like them, that they’ll have no friends if they’re not pretty enough, or popular enough, or rich enough. Someone who tells them over and over again that they’ve done something right will be a hero in their eyes and they’ll work their hardest to please him.”
He gives me a sweet smile and my heart zings in my chest like a Ping-Pong ball. Keep the job, keep the job, keep the job, I chant in my head.
“You’re amazing, Solnishka,” he says, reaching for one of my hands resting on the back of the sofa. “Thank you.” He plays with the tips of my fingers and my entire body sighs like I’ve just finished a marathon.
“You’re welcome.” My voice is huskier than normal. I need to stop this, but it’s like a runaway train, this attraction I feel to him.
His voice drops too as he keeps touching me, just the tips of his fingers on the tips of mine. The smallest touch, but it sends frissons of heat and energy through my whole body.
“The other night—before the stuff in the hallway—was I making any progress?” His gaze pins mine, and I swallow, unable to get the words out of my throat for a moment.
“You know you were.”
“And my temper tantrum—did that ruin any chance for me?”
I squirm a little, dislodging my hand from his. He shifts in response, sitting forward and putting his elbow on his knee, head resting on his hand.
“I’m guessing that’s a yes.” His eyes look randomly around the room as he stands up, “Thanks a lot for the advice on the girls. I appreciate it.” His eyes are soft, and if I’m not mistaken, a little bit sad.
I nod without saying anything and he makes his way to the door. Before he can get there though, he stops and just stands there.
“Mick?”
“Yeah.” He turns toward me and takes a breath. “Look, I’ve made a lot of mistakes with you. But I’ve also tried things with you I haven’t with any other woman since I started the NHL. And I feel things for you I haven’t felt for any other woman in all that time either. If this were baseball I’d have two strikes. If you’ll give me one last time chance, I swear to you I won’t blow it. I think you’re beautiful, and smart, and a hell of a lot of fun. I know for a fact that you’re a rare commodity in this world, and I don’t want to miss out on the chance to be rare to you too.”
My heart is pounding as he crosses back to me, his eyes locked on mine the entire way. Warning bells are going off, my breathing is stuttered, my head is swimming. No. I can’t. But, God, I want to. I shouldn’t. But I deserve to.
“Solana?” he asks as he reaches me and cups my face in his hand.
I clear my throat. “What would have happened the other night, if you hadn’t hurt yourself?”
He smiles. “What do you wish had happened, Solnishka?”
I think about it for a second, and I have to tell the truth, because what I wish had happened and what should have happened aren’t at all the same thing. “I wish we’d kept making out in the hallway until we were both breathless and then you’d asked me on another date.”
His eyes narrow in thought, and he nods slowly before stepping even closer. He brushes his knuckles along my cheekbone and I melt into his touch, my heart still beating a mile a minute.
“Will you go out with me again?”
I’m an idiot. A total idiot. “Yeah, I guess I will.” My voice is breathless. He makes me fucking breathless.
He rubs his thumb along my bottom lip, our gazes fixed on one another, the only sounds in the room our heightened breathing.
“I’ll see you Saturday night. Eight o’clock. Be ready for me.”
After he leaves I’m still rooted to the place he left me, I’m sweating and I can hear his gruff voice reverberating in my head—be ready for me. I don’t know that I’ll ever be ready for Mikhail Petrovich.
Marissa answers my text with a phone call.
“Why are you so freaked out?” she asks through a mouthful of something.
“What are you eating?” I’m alone in a conference room stuffing envelopes with invitations to a Petrovich banquet for key customers—restaurant chains, hotels, that kind of thing. It’s a task that normally would fall to an intern or an administrative assistant, but since I pissed off Adrienne at the meeting with Mr. Petrovich, all mundane, clerical tasks in the marketing department are given to me.
“Flan,” Marissa answers. “Now stop trying to dodge the question. Why are you so freaked out about going on another date with hot hockey man?”
I sigh. She knows the answer to this. “It’s self-destructive. I can’t date him. But whenever he’s standing there looking at me all puppy-dog sexy-eyes, I can’t seem to sa
y no. It’s such a simple word. No. No. No. Look how easily I say it now. No, Marissa, I can’t go on a date with Mick Petrovich. No, Mr. Petrovich, I’m not dating your son in violation of company policies. No, Mick, I can’t be around you because you make me fucking crazy!”
“You got the crazy part right.” Marissa smacks her lips together.
“M, a little help here?”
“What do you want me to say? I think you should go out with him. He got over himself after his temper tantrum on the last date. I get it, he’s been this big pro athlete his whole life, and now he can’t even walk around normally, he got embarrassed, it’s a guy thing. But if he was willing to apologize, then I think you should give him another chance. And before you ask, no, I don’t think the bullshit personnel regs at your office should keep you from doing him. It! I mean doing it. Dating him. Whatever.”
I suck on my index finger for a moment where I have a paper cut from all these damn envelopes. “You’re no help whatsoever, just for the record.”
I hear the spoon clank against the dish as she finally finishes her custard. “I know what you want to hear—that you can’t risk your job, that the mature thing to do is forego the likelihood of a night of sweaty sex in order to be a corporate clone, but I’m not going to say that because I don’t believe it.”
Sometimes I really resent the fact that Marissa has her own opinions and is so willing to express them.
“Sol, you were like the most amazing superstar in your whole MBA program. You already have a better resume than half the people who’ve been out of school for two or three years. I don’t for one second think that something as harmless as going on a date with someone who’s related to your boss will get you fired, and even if it did, I sure as hell don’t think it’ll keep you from getting another fantastic job faster than Mr. Petrovich can say, ‘nostrovia’.”
“Do I want to know what nostrovia means?” I ask.
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