by Sophia Henry
“You’ve been gone for a week. I couldn’t let you come home to an empty fridge.”
The simple gesture of kindness shocked my dead heart back to life. “Thanks, Dad.”
He smiled. “How was the party?” he asked before taking a bite of his sub.
“A complete and utter mess.”
“What happened?” he asked, mouth still full of food.
“I found out Pavlos is a lying jerk.” I removed a carton of orange juice and set it on the counter. Then I opened the cabinet above the sink and plucked a tumbler off the shelf.
“I thought you were in love with this boy,” Dad said.
“I wasn’t in love, Dad,” I mumbled as I poured juice into my cup.
“Not in love, eh?” He gestured at my face with his sandwich. “Then why are your eyes all red and puffy?”
“I had a bad night.”
“Because of him?”
I nodded and took another sip of OJ.
“Do I need to kick his ass?” Dad asked.
I knew he was joking, but I nodded again anyway.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Yes, I do,” I admitted.
For most people, talking about relationships with their father might be uncomfortable, but as long as I didn’t have to go into too much detail, I enjoyed talking to my dad. He gave me the elusive male perspective I couldn’t get talking to my girlfriends.
Dad pulled out the chair next to him at the table. “Tell me what’s going on, kukla.”
“Pavlos was at the party. He lied about a bunch of stuff he told me on the cruise. He’s not a pilot. He’s a hockey player.”
“The Red Wings?” he asked, his voice perking up. I’d never gotten into sports, but Dad was a huge fan.
“No, the Aviators or Pilots or something.”
“So he is a Pilot?” Dad confirmed.
“Well, yeah, I guess,” I huffed. “But that’s not the point, Dad. He said he was a pilot, as in a person who flies planes.”
“Did he ever say he flew planes?”
I paused to think about it. “No.”
“Then why did you assume he flew planes?” Dad asked.
“Because he said he was a pilot!” I raised my voice as frustration took over.
Dad put his hand over mine to calm me. “I’m just trying to make you see something, Kristen. He said he was a Pilot, and he is. He never said he flew planes?”
“No, but he said he loved traveling to different cities and—”
“Hockey players travel to different cities,” Dad interjected.
I pulled my hand out from under his. “Whose side are you on, Dad?”
“Sorry.” He lifted his hands up in the air. “Continue. What else did he lie about?”
I contemplated my next move. I get my bluntness from my dad, the master. He tells it like it is—or at least like he sees it. In this case, his “honest” perspective ticked me off. In trying to help me, he only enhanced my frustration. Why couldn’t he just let me vent?
“I want to talk to Mom.”
“Oh no! Your mother will just agree with everything you say and you two will blow this out of proportion.” Dad’s voice softened. “Auden called us last night saying you left the wedding reception extremely upset. Your mom and I were worried, especially since we haven’t seen you in a week and last we heard you were staying in San Juan with a stranger you fell in love with.”
I leaned back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest.
Dad mimicked my posture.
“Ugh. Fine!”
“What else did he lie about?” Dad asked again.
“His name isn’t Pavlos. He’s not Greek at all. He’s Russian.”
“You couldn’t tell that he wasn’t Greek on the cruise?” Dad asked.
“I knew he wasn’t Greek, Dad. But he didn’t tell me exactly who he was. He’s the guy who was a huge jerk to Auden and tried to break up her and Aleksandr and—” The words spilled out of my mouth in a jumble.
“Whoa! Whoa! Back up.”
“I knew he wasn’t Greek. I called him out right away,” I began again. “I didn’t care about that. I know Mom will care, but I didn’t.”
“Okay. So why did he lie about being Greek?”
“He was on the cruise with his friend who is Greek. He lied to be part of our Greek singles group.”
Dad laughed. I glared at him. “What?” he asked. “I would’ve done the same thing if I hadn’t been lucky enough to be born Greek. Most beautiful women in the world.”
I let up on the glare to throw in an eye roll. “Why do I talk to you?”
Dad smiled but stayed silent. It was funny how talking to Dad made me feel better, even when he was being honest and blunt and trying to get me to see things from a logical perspective.
“He said he lived in Charlotte, so I mentioned Auden and Aleksandr. He was weird about it, but he said he didn’t know them. Total lie. Straight to my face.”
“So, he didn’t tell a beautiful Greek girl he was trying to impress that he knew the friends he’d tried to break up years ago. Especially when he knew this girl would automatically hate him and not give him a chance. Got it.”
I stared at my dad, shaking my head in mock disgust. “I hate you sometimes.”
Dad pulled me into his side. “You could never.” He kissed the top of my head. “You’re the biggest daddy’s girl.”
I snuggled under his arm and into his side. Dad was right. I could never hate him. He was my rock—my soft, snuggly rock.
Burrowed into the warmth of his embrace, I realized that Dad reminded me a little of Pasha. Or Pasha reminded me a little of Dad. Both men were blunt, honest, and unapologetic.
“Can’t you just see it from my perspective, Dad?” I asked.
“I know you’re upset, kukla. And you have every right to be. But that’s not why you talk to me, is it?” He rubbed my hair. “What drew you to him?”
I pulled out of his arms. “He’s really sweet and fun. We did so many amazing things together. Zip-lining and cliff-jumping—” I stopped there. Dad didn’t need to know all the fun things.
“Excuse me?” Dad’s eyes widened. I’d gotten his attention by telling him Pasha put his little girl’s life in danger.
I continued. “And he wasn’t even fazed by all my CF stuff. He sat by me and held my hand during my oscillation treatments. When I forgot my enzymes and got really bad stomach cramps, he carried me onto the ship. He opened up to me about his past.” I paused and looked down as everything Pasha had told me ran through my head. “Which was actually pretty horrible.”
“He sounds like someone very special.”
“Yeah,” I whispered. A tear slipped down my cheek.
“I know it hurts to be betrayed.” Dad reached out and wiped my face. “I’m not dismissing your feelings or condoning his lies.” He tilted my chin up so we were eye to eye. “But people make questionable choices when they’re trying to survive. It sounds like this guy may be trying to survive right now.”
I nodded again. “He is.”
“He allowed you to break through a pretty thick wall.”
“He did. I honestly don’t think he’d ever let anyone through before. His feelings were so raw, so painful.”
“What made you tell him about your CF? You were only on the cruise for a week.”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I mean. We started talking as a way for me to get away from Spiros.” I looked up to judge Dad’s reaction to that admission. His lips had curled into a small smile. “Sorry.”
“You really don’t like Spiros, do you?” he said with a chuckle.
“Nope.” I laughed, too. “The more time Pasha and I spent together, the more we talked. And it wasn’t stuff like ‘What’s your favorite movie?’ It was deep. I opened up to him because I knew it was only for a week. He was a safe place with a built-in expiration date.”
Dad leaned back, interested in my response. Maybe I should mention that Dad owns a di
vorce mediation practice. He spends his days asking the hard questions that people don’t usually ask themselves, especially during exceptionally emotional times.
Which explains our bluntness and honesty, eh?
“Maybe he felt the same about you?”
“I think he did.” I took a deep breath. “But I’m still so angry. I wish he’d told me. After the cruise. On the phone. In a text. Why didn’t he come clean before making a fool of me at the reception?”
“I don’t know, sweetie. Sounds like he’s a little immature in how he handles things. Give it some time. Let the hurt settle. See how you feel in a few days.” Dad tapped the end of his sub against his plate. He seemed to be contemplating his next question, so I knew it’d be a good one. “Did who he was ever cross your mind? Maybe when you talked about Auden and Aleksandr?”
“Honestly, Dad? No. I don’t know if I had blinders on, or if I was so caught up in finding someone as cool as him on the cruise. But it never did. I feel like an idiot, ya know. But I’d never met him before, so I didn’t know what he looked like. And I don’t follow hockey at all. How would I know who a freaking minor league player is?”
Dad nodded as he chewed, which made me paranoid, so I continued, “Does that sound really dumb? Do you think I knew subconsciously and let myself go with it?”
“No. I don’t think that at all. I just wondered. You two have a very small degree of separation. He knew you’d be at the reception.”
“Here we go.” I pulled my chair closer to the table and leaned in. “Dad’s gonna kick some ass.”
“I’m not going to kick anyone’s anything, Kristen.”
“Oh.” I sat back in my chair and downed my orange juice. Dad had brought up a good point. How stupid was I that I didn’t put two and two together?
“It sounds like he wanted you to judge him for who he really is, not the preconceived notion you had from his past actions.”
I thought about that for a minute. “He did say something about that—about people judging him for his past without giving him a chance to prove he’d changed.”
“What did you say?”
“Well, I didn’t know he was talking about me. I thought he meant his family or something.”
“So what did you say when you didn’t realize you fit into that group?”
“I told him to fuck those people.”
Dad rolled his eyes at the curse I’d used. “What would you say now?”
I shrugged and picked up the empty juice glass, bending my wrist and sending the remaining liquid at the bottom pooling at the side.
My father’s silence persisted, and I knew from experience he’d be able to hold out much longer than I would.
“I don’t know, Dad.” Instead of answering, I reached out and plucked a banana pepper off his plate.
Dad didn’t react, he just watched as I chewed.
“Now, I would tell him that if he doesn’t want to be judged by the things he’s done, don’t do shitty things. Be a better man.”
“Can he be forgiven?” Dad asked.
“Anyone can be forgiven. It doesn’t mean I want to open myself up again.”
“You’re in for a long and lonely road if you don’t open your heart, Kristen.”
Tears blurred my vision. Before I met Pasha, I’d never felt lonely when I didn’t have a boyfriend. I’d skated through my college years keeping everything about my life easy and positive. I liked being the ray of sunshine on a cloudy day, being the one who made enthusiastic suggestions when negativity began.
Once I overheard Auden describe me to a guy she wanted me to hook up with. She said I was “smart, strong, independent, and fun.” Then, in a low, wistful tone, she added, “Everything I wish I could be.” I’ve never been given a kinder compliment.
“I’m not ready to open up again at this moment. Everything just happened. It’s not like I’m swearing off men forever.”
“Good. Because there are a lot of Greek boys out there who would be honored to marry such an intelligent, gorgeous woman.”
“It all comes back to marrying Greek boys. Typical Greek father!” I teased. When I smiled, it pushed the tears onto my cheeks. I brushed them away. “I love you, Dad.”
“And I love you, kukla.” He squeezed me. “Love is hard. It’s crazy and unexplainable and amazing. Take time to heal, but don’t let it make you shut down. You have too much fire inside. Too much life to live.”
The entire discussion made me realize that I’d fallen in love with my father. Not literally, of course, but the similarities between the two men were scary. It came out in the respectful way Pasha had treated me, the compassionate way he’d taken care of me, and the introspective, honest way he’d made me see things in a different light. From the start, I’d felt comfortable being myself around Pasha. His powerful presence had wrapped me in a blanket of safety, security, and serenity.
Which made the loss even more difficult.
Chapter 33
DAY 60
CHARLOTTE, NC
“Pack your shit, Gribov.”
Mike Kingston, Charlotte’s coach, sat behind his desk, still sporting the black Aviators pullover he’d worn during practice.
“Excuse me?” I asked, leaning forward in my chair. I’d heard him, but I needed clarification because I thought he’d said to pack up my shit.
“What the fuck is going on with you?” He squinted, peering at me with a look of concern rather than anger.
I swallowed and slumped back. Drops of water from my sweat-soaked hair dripped down my neck and into my shirt. “Just having a rough time finding my groove.”
“Do you want to play in the NHL?” Kingston leaned forward.
“Yes, sir. Why would you ask me this?”
“You don’t look like you do. When we drafted you it was because you’re smart and fast. You have a sixth sense of what’s going to happen before it happens. You know where to be. You make your teammates look good.” He leaned back and slapped a cup off his desk. Water sprayed across my T-shirt. “But I haven’t seen any of that over the last two weeks. You’re slow, at least a second or two behind everyone else on the ice. And you couldn’t score on an empty net from five feet away.”
“I know. I’m—”
Coach interrupted me. “When was the last time you fought, son?”
“I don’t know. Juniors, maybe.” I shook my head. Every night I got into verbal fights because I’d been chirping to guys, but I couldn’t recall the last time I’d gotten into one with my fists.
“And you probably didn’t even win that one, because you’re not a fighter, Gribov!”
His words sliced through me, and I winced, though Coach Kingston couldn’t have known how I would interpret his words, nor how much they affected me.
I’m not a fighter. If I were, I would have kicked the shit out of that guy last night, like my father had done to me and my mother.
I’m not a fighter. If I were, I would have fought for Kristen.
I’m a coward.
“I like you, Pavel, I really do,” Coach Kingston continued when I remained silent. “I know you have the skill to be here. I’m just worried about your desire.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands.
It took every ounce of my self-control not to put my fist through his desk.
For the last month and a half, I’d woken up in a haze and gone through the motions of the same basic routine I’ve had for more than fifteen years: Rink. Skate. Practice. Game. Workout. Home. Travel. Rink. Skate. Practice. Game. Workout.
I’d worked my ass off for years so I wouldn’t be labeled by people based on an anti-Russian mindset that still persists despite the fact that Russians have been in the NHL for over three decades.
Fifteen years I’ve been doing this. And this was the first time a coach had ever accused me of being lazy and uninspired, traits that fit the North American stereotype of a Russian player. Worse, I agreed with him.
“I’m gonna be honest with you, kid. Jimm
y’s offering you in the deals when he’s talking to other teams.”
Jim Miller was the Aviators’ general manager. This was the first time they’d come right out and said they were actively trying to trade me. “So I’m done?” I asked. As if my confidence could be screwed any more.
“You’re going down to Detroit. I’d like to see you back, kid. But I want to see the player you’ve developed into over the last few years. I guess we’ll see what happens.”
And by “see what happens,” he meant I needed to get my shit together or I’d be traded before I could say dasvidaniya—goodbye.
Two months ago, I’d been flying high after getting the call that the Aviators wanted me to start the season with them. I’d broken the lease on my apartment in Detroit, sure that I’d spent my last stint in the minors. I’d finally achieved my goal of starting the season on an NHL roster. But getting sent back to the minors within the first two weeks of the season diminished the accomplishment.
Maybe it would have been different if I could’ve kept my brain on hockey instead of on how royally I’d fucked up with Kristen. If I’d kept my head down and focused, I wouldn’t be on my way to the Aviators’ locker room to collect my shit.
“What’s up, Drago?” Luke Daniels asked, using the nickname I’d picked up last night after getting my ass handed to me in the fight. It didn’t bother me that my teammates chose to use the surname of the Russian boxer Rocky had knocked out at the end of the fourth movie in the series. They did the best they could with what they had to choose from about Russians in North American pop culture.
The part that bothered me was how the fight itself had come about. I’d taken the bait from the guy, who’d chirped something ignorant and generic about my mother. Normally, shit like that doesn’t bother me. In fact, it gives me an excuse to respond with one of the clever comebacks I’m known for. But this time I couldn’t think of one, and that’s what set me off.
“Clearing it out,” I said.
“Aw, shit, man.” Luke’s jovial tone took a downturn. “Sorry, Gribsy.”
“Don’t worry about me, Lukey,” I teased, ignoring his sympathy. “I’ll go back to Detroit, find my groove, put up some numbers. And I’ll be back.”
Luke swung his bag over his shoulder and walked over to me. He held out his fist and I bumped it. “Work it out, man. And get your ass back here, where you belong.”
