Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  “Yesss, I love this confidence. All right, I cannot stop saying how happy I am for the two of you.” Mom backs up, watching the two of us stand together. “All right, we have to watch the video.”

  “Ma, you and Zariah go start that video while I have a chat with the man,” my brother says, coming around our mom from the doorway.

  “Martin,” I sigh.

  He nudges his chin to the house, then his navy blue framed glasses land on Vassili. My husband kisses my forehead. “Go in.”

  “Okay…” I follow my mom up as Martin stuffs his hands into his pockets. I mouth, “What the heck did you tell him?”

  “The truth,” she whispers as we meander inside of the foyer, headed to the kitchen where I’ll be less anxious since a chicken enchilada in a casserole pan is oozing with cheese and toppings.

  I start to turn around, “Let me see what they’re talking about.”

  “No, you don’t.” My mom plants her tiny frame at the exit. “I made deviled eggs, your favorite.”

  I cock my head. “Just about every food is my favorite.”

  She starts to retort but we both turn around when hearing the front door close. Both men are holding a conversation at a respectable level while headed to the den. Kissing my teeth, I pivot on my heels and head to the granite island. The deviled eggs are perfectly dusted with paprika, I shovel one into my mouth while picking up the tray.

  “Do you think Martin is in the living room quizzing your husband?”

  “Humph, now you wanna know. Martin better not,” I reply.

  “Uhn-uhn, if Martin has something to say, you let that boy say it. I had a good first impression of your husband despite his tattoos—and I suppose, now, despite how muscular he is in the flesh…”

  I grumble under my breath as her imagination runs rampant.

  “But,” my mom accentuates the word while picking up the tray with a pitcher of ice tea and glasses. “Vassili must know that you have me and Martin to back you up.”

  “Only you and Martin?” I smirk, not daring to eat another one of these creamy delicious eggs.

  We head into the living room where Martin and Vassili are talking. Both men arise from the leather couches and the conversation shuts down.

  As paranoid as my mom is, her gaze ping-pongs between the two, before she finally asks, “Where’s my grandbaby?”

  “Rachel went to feed him.”

  “Hmmm, we need more grandbabies. This house isn’t loud enough yet,” she chortles and I breathe freely as my brother finally offers a smile that tells me everything will be okay. Of course, I know it will. I love Vassili, but having him meet their approval is important to me too.

  “Leave it to our mom,” Martin shakes his head, “every question segues into babies.”

  “Well, I have a handsome son and lovely daughter, and your mates are just as attractive, so bring on the children. When can I expect my next one?” She glances around at all of us.

  “I gave you two granddaughters and your first grandson. This conversation can't include me.” Martin shrugs.

  “Very soon,” Vassili speaks up.

  My cheeks burn. “Seriously?”

  As we all have a seat, Mom claps her hands. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout!”

  “Mr. Resnov,” Martin speaks up, his tone enough to sober up any drunk man. He asks, “What are your thoughts of a man who can hit a woman?”

  And here we are, back in left field! Damn! “Martin!” I hiss.

  “It’s okay, baby.” Vassili pats my leg.

  “No, that’s not an appropriate question to ask anyone. It’s like accusing and expectancy all wrapped in one shitty-ass bow,” I argue. “Damn, you never were the overbearing type when I was a teen.”

  Martin continues with a steady gaze on my husband, not offering me so much as a glance.

  “First, I don’t believe a real man will hit a woman.” Vassili says. “Secondly, only a dude who is offended by this question would be the sort to hit women. I am not.”

  Martin blinks before nodding his head.

  Vassili reaches between us to grab my hand.

  Later on, I corner my brother in the nursery. He places a stiff finger against his lips. “I just got the baby down.”

  My mouth is gritted as I whisper, “I should wake up Junior since you had the audacity to interrogate my husband earlier? You’re in HR, damn, you aren’t an asshole, it’s not your M.O.”

  He grabs my arm and yanks me out of the room. “Wrong. Checking on my baby sister wasn't my thing when I was home, and I can't apologize enough for leaving you and mom with that bastard throughout the years. Our dad hit mom from day one. I grew up with a goddamn tick every time Maxwell’s voice rose. I played every sport in the book to get outta that house and have a normal life. Then I had enough.” Martin mentions the one time he tried to go upside my dad’s head. My face mirrors his sadness as he recalls the day he lost our father’s respect and became our mom’s hero.

  “Vassili wouldn't…” I say, sadness on my face.

  “I went hard on him with the questions, like he was interviewing for his dream job, but he didn't back down. You did good.” My brother hugs me. He apologizes again to me for not being my protector. I smile telling him I have all the protection I need.

  ###

  After another week visiting my mother’s side of the family in Georgia, Vassili learns the shuffle after a few family gatherings and we return as newlyweds to Los Angeles. Our first stop is my father’s house. Law terms are on my mind since Vassili helped me study with flash cards on the plane. And him. My brain is consumed with Vassili. Damn, was I wrong about love? My only claim to real romance in the past were music and books. He's more than my favorite male character or even a multi-platinum R&B song.

  He is everything. Through good times and bad. He makes for an awesome ear to hear. My study buddy. I smile, walking up the slate steps in front of my home, while Vassili carries a few large empty containers in his hands for some of my clothing. As I unlock the frosted glass door, I say, “Um, I'll search out my father while you drop those off in my room.”

  I've got to run interference and have a quick chat with my dad. Vassili nods and heads upstairs.

  I huff, meandering down the sconces studded hallway. Maxwell was vague during our conversation about my marriage, and I want to ensure him that he hasn't lost his only daughter, which is exactly what he said. His tone was melancholic while congratulating me.

  “Dad,” I call out passing the formal sitting room and kitchen.

  “In my office,” he says.

  I place a smile on my face, a respectable one, not the mega-watt one I've had since Vassili and I jumped the broom.

  When I step inside of the room, my dad is relaxing, head to the chandelier, mouth dragging ever so softly on a cigar.

  “Hey, Dad,” I attempt to gather his attention. He knows full well that I'm not a fan of smoking.

  “This was to be my celebratory cigar for winning the election.” His gaze never meets mine; O’s continue to ascend.

  “I'm sure you have an entire box of Cuban’s.”

  “I do. I also had intentions of purchasing a box solely for your wedding. To smoke with the groom and his groomsmen.” He sits straight, smashing out the cigar with a frown. I feel Vassili approaching as I lean against the doorframe. I place up a subtle hand to my husband, while offering all my attention to my father.

  “I'm sorry you weren't invited to the wedding, Dad.”

  Maybe he doesn't hear me, but Maxwell continues with his story regarding cigars and the groom. “I’d pat the man’s back, congratulate him on the fortune of engaging such a sophisticated young lady. But you gave yourself to that Russian scum, a Resnov.”

  The sneering makes me cringe. My husband’s blood is boiling. He stands just outside of Maxwell’s line of vision. I hurry to find my voice. “Dad, do me a favor and get to know Vassili.”

  “Get to know him?” Maxwell arches an eyebrow, grunting whi
le arising. “No, thank you, Zariah. You’re the one who isn’t versed on the fucking bratva—brotherhood. Hijacking weapons, extortion, drugs and human trafficking. Sleeping in the bed of the Mexican cartel. I suppose the billion dollars a year in loan sharking might cloud your mind or you haven’t even done your homework. They’re a secretive family, but this is all common knowledge. Oh, but perhaps he’s only introduced you to the Resnovs in banking or who run state companies in Russia. Now, the two of you must go. I'll have movers gather the rest of your things. The security system has a new pass code and word to the wise, the locksmith will be here by evening.”

  “Are you serious?!”

  “I love you, Zariah. It's disconcerting what you've done. I need time for it to really penetrate that my daughter has spoiled herself for a piece of shit!”

  My lips aren't hardly set for a comeback when Vassili stands before me.

  “Take your time, Mr. Washington,” Vassili speaks, tone lethally low. “Evaluate yourself as well. Why exactly did Zariah choose to marry me without so much as calling you first?” Vassili storms away.

  “Baby!” I call back to him. I turn to my father. “We are in love. It was spur of the moment. But, dad, don’t ever talk negatively of my husband again. There will be no more warnings and change all the locks you'd like. I no longer live here.”

  Maxwell stares straight through me again.

  Outside I hear Vassili talking. Who is he speaking with? When angry, he is either mute or beating someone to within an inch of their life.

  Not talking.

  “Phil was surprised too,” Maxwell mumbles, returning to his desk.

  Damn, I almost slip on the marble, arms out to steady myself in the foyer as I hurry to the door.

  “So you're the man fortunate enough to marry Zariah?” Phil’s facing me, slimy smile slapped on his mouth. Vassili’s back is to me. Muscles stacked purposefully.

  “Get the fuck out my face!” Vassili saunters down the curved pathway. His words were literal, Phil almost falls in the grass while moving over. My husband doesn't stop while heading for the Mercedes, not so much as waiting for a response.

  “So you refuse to address me? I’m Phillip Everly the fifth!” Phil scoffs. Then he steps toward me as I start down the pathway.

  “Stop!” I push away from Phil.

  “I’m the man who had her first.” Phil’s arm is heavy around my shoulders as Vassili comes back up the steps. “Actually, I only had those lips. Now, you're interested in a conversation. I just tried to shake your hand.” Phil removes his arm. “All I strove for was to shake the hand of the man who fucked her first. Or did you sleep with this thug before leaving for college. Or was she spoiled already?”

  Vassili makes a fist.

  “You can't fight him,” I argue with Vassili. He picks me up and sets me aside.

  “Hit me, you animal.” Phil’s voice rises as I again beg Vassili not to hit him.

  Finally, my husband utters his first word, low, Russian accent thick, “Bitch, if I hit you, your fucking spine dislocates.”

  His fist raises. I grab hold of his forearm, my fingers not connecting, not a good grip at all. I’m almost lifted by the sheer strength of his arm. I don’t even believe that Vassili notices me. I try to talk to him, but he’s in some sort of zone. My right heel slips from the slanted steps, wedges into the rolling grass. Losing my grip of his bicep, I start to fall.

  “He hit her!” Phil shouts.

  The cloud covering Vassili’s face wanes instantly as if he hadn’t even noticed I was here before. He catches me. “Zariah,” he mumbles as Phil shouts about him hitting me.

  “No he didn't!” I screech. There's a look of hurt on his face that I haven't seen since our first night together. Man, how I had misjudged him.

  Something is off about my husband’s demeanor. Vassili picks me up. With all my curves he's always picked me up with ease; this time, it's like he's afraid to hurt me. Almost too careful, as one would be with a newborn.

  Maxwell is at the door and Phil is telling him that Vassili hit me. For all my dad’s wishes to become a white man, he is acting like the ghetto folks he always has something to say about. These two are trifling punks, and I'm too embarrassed to cuss them out.

  “Place my daughter down!”

  My husband turns to glare at him before carrying me to the car.

  “Zariah, you are my daughter!” Maxwell starts down the stairs, I ignore him.

  “I'm sorry.” I tell my husband as he places on my seatbelt. “I'm sorry.” I know that my father invited Phil over to start something.

  All Vassili will say is, “I'll take you home.”

  My body is alight with fear at the thought of him not talking to me.

  ###

  The drive to Vassili’s beachfront home is one met with infinite silence. In the past three months, he has more than become my everything. I've delighted in his happiness. His handsome carved features softening, and his smiles. Genuine, good smiles all for me.

  Now, we should be completing our honeymoon with him carrying me over the threshold. I expect him to walk away, leave me in the garage alone. But Vassili gets out and then he comes around to open the passenger’s door. I hold my breath, praying we can return to our raw goodness. We’re still on our honeymoon!

  He massages the back of his neck. “Why'd you stop me from bashing that man’s face in, Zariah?”

  “What?” My eyebrows furrow. His speaking was so out of the blue that I hadn’t anticipated it. I’m still cognizant of how unapproachable Vassili was while Phil aggravated him. He seemed a billion miles away from me.

  He keeps his distance, not offering a hand as I get out. He asks, “Why'd you stop me from bashing that piz’da’s face in?”

  “Vassili,” I scoff, searching my husband’s eyes for some form of sentiment. “What? Do you think I have feelings for him? Was it the bullshit he mentioned about me giving him…”

  His thumb nudges against my chin so, I’m unable to glance away from him. My mind is muddled with thoughts, and I need to think. But our eyes lock. Vassili argues, “No! This is about him not respecting my wife. I don't give a fuck what you two have ever done as long as it was consensual. You could never one up me in that regard, sweetheart. But I'm your husband. You stopped me from handling it. You made me look like I…”

  There's an imaginary vice grip over my throat. “You're angry with me?”

  My tone is so low that I'm not aware he heard me until Vassili slams a hand down onto the roof of the car.

  “No!” His shout vibrates through my chest. And then he steps back from me. “I apologize, Zariah.” The fighter’s voice lowers to its usual tantalizing accent. “I didn't hear half the words that mudak said. I just saw him touching you. You pulling away from me when I should've handled the situation.”

  “Aww, baby.” I reach out for him, yet there's a fence between us that was never there before. Whether he subconsciously stops me or I feel like I can't reach the fighter standing less than two feet away from me.

  “I apologize, Zar. But where I'm from, a man touches your wife or looks at her oddly he is handled.”

  “I think my dad brought Phil over. They expected you to overreact. Your hands are registered, so you can't fight civilians. Why play into their trap? Vassili… Vassili…”

  “I did nothing.” He hikes his leg over his Harley. “I'll be back.”

  “Please, don't let a dumb-ass—” the engine drowns my words out.

  “I love you,” Vassili says before he places the helmet over his head. With that, he pulls out of the garage.

  Tears sting my eyes, I reach over for the keys to the Mercedes. “Damn!” I frown, Vassili has them. I pick up my purse, head to the garage door leading into the house, and open it. Quickly I turn off the alarm and then sink down onto the accent chaise in the den.

  I dial my father. It goes straight to voicemail. “Dad. Grow. Up. I am not your little girl anymore. What did you expect?” I argue. “I swear if
you ever do anything to ruin my relationship with Vassili again I will never talk to you. And FYI: I married a good man because he is not like my father!”

  My hands shake as I hang up. He better listen to this entire voicemail too!

  Since I deleted Phil’s number, I dial it from memory. Mid-first ring he answers, “Well, hello, beautiful. Have you returned to your senses so soon?”

  “What was the meaning of that?”

  “To save your life, Zariah. I'm sure by now you've only seen the finer things that a Resnov can offer.”

  “What?”

  “Obviously, I've ruined things with us so long ago. I swear I had no idea you perceived me so—”

  “Cut the bull, Phillip!”

  “Okay, this isn’t about us. I was merely assisting a friend. Who better to show your husband—yuck, I actually just vomited in my mouth—that fuckers true colors than myself.”

  “You are such a bitch. A simple-ass bitch!” I hang up, cackling. Why do I imagine myself in the court of law, backed against the corner with no intelligent rebuttal?

  Vassili

  Rarely does my mother cross my mind. My tattered knuckles are white from straining so hard against the handlebars. Fuck me, only for this girl. Only for Zariah will my stomach tie in knots over emotions long ago forgotten. And for fuck’s sake, I spent so long forcing these memories from my mind. I didn't even have hair on my balls when my mother ran off on me and Sasha. Leaving us with one of Anatoly’s bitches, who was pregnant with his third or fourth son.

  I saw images of her and I shut down. It took the grace of God for me not to murder those two mudaks. On the drive from Mr. Washington’s, I concentrated on removing the images of my mother from my mind. I tried not to give a damn about the woman who at the very least could've taken six-year-old Sasha with her.

  She was too selfish, too fearful of Anatoly. She left Sasha.

  The bitch left me too, but I survived. Sasha didn't.

  When I pulled into my garage, I kept thinking, Make this about Zariah. My beautiful wife had already apologized for shit she hadn't even slung.