by Sophia Henry
“You don’t have the wind in your hair because you don’t have flow.” Blake rubbed his dark, shaggy hair.
Pasha whipped his head around and shot Blake another sharp look.
Were hair jokes off-limits? Maybe Pasha had recently had a hair catastrophe that forced him to get an unwanted cut. He hadn’t been snippy with me during our joint shower when I mentioned how he used better hair products than I did. But then again, I’d followed it up with a hand job, so maybe he’d let the teasing roll off his shoulders. He seemed like a guy who’d be super-intense about his perfectly coiffed hair.
“You guys better be ready to eat, because I’m about to gnaw my own arm off,” Blake said.
“Yep. Let’s go.” I grabbed my beach bag from behind Lena’s chair and slung the straps over my shoulder. Pasha slid an arm around my waist, pulling me close as we waited for our friends to pack up their things. I placed my hands on his chest and rose on my toes to plant a soft kiss on his lips. He smiled and wrapped his arms around me.
—
“How can you eat so much and still look like that?” Sia asked Kristen with a look of utter disgust on her face.
Instead of reacting, Kristen shrugged and dug straight into a double bacon cheeseburger that was bigger than her head. “All the fresh air from zip-lining made me hungry.”
Sia opened her mouth to say something, but I prevented her from making another ignorant comment by launching into the story of our exhilarating zip-lining experience. My timing wasn’t perfect, but at least I shut Sia up and got her off Kristen’s back.
Suddenly Kristen dropped her burger and reached around for her bag. She dug in it, frantically searching for something.
“Shit,” she mumbled.
“You okay?” I asked, placing a hand on her knee and leaning closer.
“Yeah.” She shot me a quick, appreciative glance. “Just can’t find my medicine.”
Lena, who was seated on the other side of Kristen, peered into her bag. “Did you pack it?”
“I always pack it,” she answered without looking up.
I saw the panic in her eyes as she began removing things from her bag. She’d taken out a scarf, a wallet, and a bottle of sunscreen from her bottomless beach bag, but still hadn’t seemed to find the item she needed.
“Shit,” she said again.
I squeezed her knee. “What’s wrong?”
“I forgot my enzymes,” she said, though she seemed lost in thought.
“What can I do?”
She smiled, lifted her hand, and touched my cheek. “Nothing. I’m good.”
“Is everything okay?” Blake’s eyes shifted from me to Kristen. His puzzled expression reminded me of someone looking at a monster with three heads coming out of one body. Which annoyed the fuck out of me, even though Blake didn’t know what Kristen had to deal with.
“Yeah,” she assured him. “Don’t worry about it, guys. It’ll be fine.”
Kristen rose from her seat and took her beach bag off the back of the chair. “Excuse me, but I’m gonna head back to the ship and get my medicine. Relax in the air-conditioning for a bit.”
I stood, pulled out my wallet, and handed Blake a few bills, saying, “For our lunch.”
Blake nodded.
“What are you doing?” Kristen asked me. “Stay and finish eating.”
I dismissed her with a shake of my head. “I’ll go with you.”
“No!” she exclaimed.
I took a step back, confused at her vehement refusal to let me help.
“Thank you,” she said, taking my hand and squeezing it. “I’ll be fine, I promise.” Then she addressed the rest of our friends. “See you guys back on the ship.”
Lena whispered something to Blake about stomach issues. He didn’t know Kristen had cystic fibrosis, nor did I think he would know what that meant even if he did. I appreciated that Lena respected Kristen’s privacy by not telling a stranger about her personal business.
“What are you doing?” Kristen asked without turning around.
“Going with you,” I said, quickly matching her strides to catch up.
“Seriously, Pasha, I’m fine. This has happened a ton of times. It’s part of my life.”
Instead of responding, I took her hand and laced my fingers through hers as we headed toward the ship together. I’d made myself a part of her life for this week, and if she was in distress, I’d be at her side.
A few seconds later, Kristen grabbed her stomach and doubled over.
Panic tore through me, but I reined it in because I needed to help. I placed a hand on her back. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. I—”
She tried to look at me, but something stopped her and instead she winced. She reached up and grabbed my shoulder, trying to use me to bring herself into a standing position.
I couldn’t bear to see her in so much pain, so I scooped her up and secured her in my arms, in crossing-the-threshold style. Her beach bag had fallen off her arm when she doubled over, so I lifted it and swung it over my shoulder. Then I carried her until we reached the ship.
I dug into Kristen’s bag for her cruise card, the card we used to identify ourselves as passengers, and flashed it as we boarded. I brought her directly to her room, unlocked the door, and carried her to the bed.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked, leaning over her. Concern tore my insides apart. I didn’t know how to help, only that I would help.
“Can you check the counter for a pink pill bottle?” She pointed toward the bathroom.
I did as she asked immediately, grabbing the bright pink bottle off the counter and returning to her side. “These?” I held the bottle up for confirmation.
Her cheeks, usually so bright, had a pale green tinge to them, but she nodded and reached out. “Thank you.”
“Do you want me to stay?” I asked. I didn’t want to leave, but the decision was hers. I knew all too well about wanting to take care of things myself.
She shook her head, confirming the answer I knew she’d give. “No. But I really appreciate you helping me like this. I feel bad that you had to leave the group.”
I watched with an equal mix of concern and interest as she emptied a few pills into her hand and tossed them into her mouth, washing them down with a swig of water from the bottle on her bedside table.
“Enzymes,” she explained before I asked. “They help my body digest food. I’m supposed to take them before I eat, but—” She took a deep breath and clutched her stomach with one hand. Then she sat up and tried to get off the bed. “I forgot.”
I put my hand on her shoulder, gently letting her know I was here to help. I hated seeing her in pain. I had to do something. “What do you need? I’ll get it for you.”
“I need antacids. I have some in the sparkly pink bag on the bathroom counter.”
“Lie down,” I commanded before leaving her side to retrieve the bag. I set it next to her on the bed. “It’s not my place to rummage around in there.”
“Thank you.” She quickly found the antacids and popped a few.
Curious, I picked up the pink bottle filled with enzymes and inspected it. “You take these every time you eat?”
“Yep.” Her halfhearted smile told me she was tired. If I had to do everything she needed to do to be healthy, I’d be tired, too.
“Every time?”
“Even snacks,” she confirmed.
“That’s bullshit.” I set the bottle back on the nightstand.
Why should someone as amazing as her have to suffer that kind of pain just for eating a meal? Why should someone who made everyone around her happy have to go through so many things just to stay alive for who knows how many more years? How did she deserve that kind of life?
Kristen laughed. “Complete bullshit,” she agreed. “But they’re a necessity so that I don’t end up like this every time I eat something.” She rubbed her stomach, as if that would help the antacids kick in sooner.
She was too nice to
say it, but she wanted me to stop asking questions—and to leave. I could tell by the way she kept shooting glances at the door. Color had crept back into her cheeks, bringing them back to life.
“Thank you so much for all your help, but you don’t have to stay with me,” she finally said.
“You sure?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I swear, this is common.” She paused. “And if you stay much longer, I’m going to be mortified. Can you please spare me some dignity?”
I reached out to brush the hair off her forehead and felt the thin line of sweat at her hairline. “Leaving you doesn’t feel right.”
“Please?” she asked. This time it was a plea.
“I’m in room six forty-two. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you. I’ll call you as soon as I feel better.”
“You will,” I told her. “Or I will pound on your door until we dock.”
“I promise.” Her tight smile morphed into a grimace, and I knew the pain had come on again. “Please?” she croaked.
Every instinct told me I needed to stay and help, but I respected her enough to heed her request. I backed away slowly and closed the door softly behind me.
It killed me to walk away, because whatever was happening had her in so much pain. I had to trust that she would let me help if there was anything I could do.
Instead of going to my room, I slid down the wall next to her door and planted myself there. If I heard anything—a scream, moan, any sign of distress—I’d pound on that door until I busted through. I refused to leave her. And she’d just have to deal with it.
—
“Sir! Señor!”
When I opened my eyes, a short man was standing over me, shaking my shoulder, waking me from the unexpected nap I’d taken.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked the time: 4:57 a.m.
“Is this your room, sir? You forget key?”
Lying crossed my mind, but then I realized that Kristen might not appreciate me barging into her room. So I chose to respect her wishes.
“No.” I shook my head. The man gave me a curious look, so I added, “It’s a friend. She was sick, so I…” Fuck it.
I got up and stretched my arms over my head. Then I pressed my ear to Kristen’s door, listening for signs she was awake.
“She okay?” the man asked.
“I hope so,” I told him. “Do you have paper? Pen?” I mimicked writing onto my palm in case he didn’t understand.
He held his thumb and pinky up to his face, a makeshift telephone. “You call, okay? You call her?”
I nodded. She’d be getting up to run soon, but it wasn’t quite time, and I didn’t want to wake her.
The man, who I realized now was an employee of the ship, because he had a uniform on, still hadn’t left my side, and it occurred to me that he probably thought I was some crazy piece of shit waiting to attack a woman when she opened her door, so I saluted him and headed toward the elevator. The last thing I needed was some kind of alert warning women about me.
I popped the elevator button with my thumb. I should have brought Kristen to my room last night. She’d have been more comfortable lying in my bed than in that shitty twin bed in her cabin. She could have looked out onto the ocean, gotten fresh air on the balcony.
And I would’ve been there to watch over her.
Chapter 16
DAY 4
ST. LUCIA
I didn’t want to miss Kristen when she showed up to run, so I got to the track at 5:15 a.m. As I waited, I jogged two laps to warm up and did three sets of push-ups. I was halfway through my first lap of walking lunges when a bright pink top caught my eye. I jumped to my feet, excited to see her. To hold her. To make sure she felt better this morning.
She waved animatedly and her face lit up, her smile visible even at the distance between us, which I closed quickly by running to her.
“Morning!” She greeted me with her arms open, ready to accept a hug.
I wrapped my arms around her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around once before kissing her.
Her lips curled into a smile underneath mine, so I pulled back. “Good morning.”
“I’m so happy to see you,” she said. “I thought about you all night.”
“You thought about me?” I asked, floored that I’d even crossed her mind given the pain she was in. I lowered her feet to the ground but kept my hands at her waist.
“I really appreciated your help last night,” she said. Then she looked down. “I don’t know if I could have walked back to the ship without you.”
I placed my fingers under her chin and tilted her face to mine. I didn’t want her to feel embarrassed. “I would’ve carried you to the next island.”
“That would’ve been really challenging, with all the deep water,” she teased.
“You underestimate my strength and stamina.”
“I could never underestimate your stamina, Pasha. The last few days with you have completely exhausted me.”
Her sexy smile told me she was joking again, but the words still concerned me. After everything she’d told me about cystic fibrosis, I’d realized we’d have to take it easy. And I had to be the one to spearhead that effort, because I was pretty sure she’d do anything to keep up with me.
“We’ll relax today. And when you are exhausted, I’ll carry you on my back like a pig.”
Kristen laughed—an eyes-closed, body-shaking kind of laugh.
I let go of her and took a step back. “What is it?”
“Piggyback?” she asked.
“Yes, I’d carry you piggyback. That’s what I said.” I still had no clue what had made her laugh so hard.
“Actually, you said you’d carry me like a pig. Which sounds mean—not heroic, as you intended.”
“Sure, make fun of the foreigner for getting the term wrong. Why do you say ‘piggyback’? Where is this phrase from?”
Kristen just shook her head. Her laugh had subsided, but her smile remained as bright as ever. She held my head in her hands and brushed the close-cropped hair on the sides. “I don’t know. All I know is that you make me laugh. You make me feel special. And I really like hanging out with you.”
Before Kristen, I’d never had a woman look at me with admiration and kindness. It felt good to finally have someone get to know Pasha, the real person. Not Pavel Gribov, star center for the Detroit Pilots—or the Charlotte Aviators, as it would be in October, when I started the season on an NHL roster for the first time in my life.
For a brief moment, the thought of sharing the information I’d withheld about knowing Auden and Aleksandr crossed my mind. This was my chance to come clean. Maybe she wouldn’t even remember the deplorable incident I’d orchestrated.
But I was too selfish to confess.
Which was my problem in the first place, according to the media—and a few coaches and teammates. Selfish—though I’ve led every team I’ve ever been on in assists each year. Arrogant—because I celebrate the goals I work my ass off to score in professional hockey. Flippant—because I have a sense of humor and don’t let things bother me.
Everyone needs a villain, a person they love to hate. I’ll be the villain because the things I’m called out for are part of my defenses. I built my walls with brick to keep people away for good reason.
I don’t want to be an angry, abusive asshole like my father. I don’t want to waste my life pretending to be something I’m not for people I don’t give a fuck about.
Let the media hate me. Soon enough Kristen would hate me, too. But this was now. And right now I could be Pasha, the good person who would protect her, help her, and care for her until the moment we parted ways.
I patted Kristen’s backside, prodding her onto the track. “Let’s get our run out of the way so we can get off this boat and find more island adventure.”
—
The first place I took Kristen in St. Lucia was a colorful beach shop advertising swimsuits, towels, and h
undreds of souvenirs. I had to get my girl out of those frumpy one-piece suits she wore. Sparkly or not, they did nothing for her. I wanted to see more skin. Plus I owed her a new suit since I’d ruined her “tanning suit” the first day we met.
After flipping through multiple racks, I found a crimson suit that would look amazing against her tanned skin. I shoved the hanger into her hand.
She held it up, squinting at the tiny red bikini hanging off it. “I can’t try this on.”
“Why not?” I asked without looking up. I kept pushing through a rack of black bikinis.
“You saw my scar, Pasha,” she said in a hushed tone, glancing around the small store to make sure she hadn’t drawn any attention. “I don’t wear two-piece suits.”
I stopped pushing hangers and gazed at her. “You serious?”
She nodded and hung the bikini back on the rack.
“You have one small scar. I’ve seen much, much worse.” I picked the hanger up again and pressed the suit against her chest.
She scowled and slammed the hanger onto the rack again. “Way to make me feel like an ass.”
“What did I do?” I asked.
Instead of answering, she shuffled away. I sighed and followed her, wondering how I could have offended her. I knew she had some insecurity about it, but the scar itself wasn’t that noticeable.
“I know people have it worse than I do, Pasha. But I can’t help but be self-conscious. I battle this alone every single day. The validation of a random guy telling me I have a nice body doesn’t erase twenty years.”
“I didn’t say that.” I cupped her shoulder and tried to turn her toward me, but she wouldn’t budge. “Kristen, you are gorgeous. Every part of you. Even that scar you are so worried about. I don’t know why you hide it. It’s part of who you are. It’s a symbol of strength.”
“It’s disgusting,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around her stomach as if the scar were visible through her cover-up.
I hated that she didn’t realize how strong she was, or if she did, she didn’t own it. Was her bubbly, positive outward persona just a front to the world?
