by J. L. Drake
Regards, Vladimir
On Wednesday, the eve of the tournament:
My dearest Carter,
Overthinking your game is the kiss of death. Get ready for a relaxing evening at home. Meet me in the living room. I am waiting for you.
Regards, Vladimir
I tossed the note in the trash. Since our moment on Sunday, the boss had strategically kept his distance and set up diversions so he didn’t have to face me.
Hint: my passion was unrequited.
“Can you please take me home?” I asked Boris.
“Nyet.” He flung open the swinging door and nudged me out of the kitchen. Vladimir was seated on the sofa, sipping a golden drink on the rocks.
“Join me, Carter.”
I plopped down on the couch, keeping a cushion of distance between us.
“Feeling shy?” He swirled his drink. Ice cubes clinked against the glass.
I averted my gaze to a trio of candles glowing on the coffee table.
“About the other day—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.” I ripped a page out of his playbook and kept my emotional distance, too.
“Carter, if things were different—”
“Please stop. You don’t have to explain. I don’t need this right now—the tournament.” I picked up the remote. “Let’s watch a movie.” As I browsed the comedy list, I wrapped up in a throw blanket and wedged a pillow in the open spot between us.
I am such an idiot. Why didn’t I take the hint the first time he rejected me? How fucking humiliating…
He touched my shoulder and whispered my name. I pretended not to notice.
Chapter 23
Game Over
The next day, my teammates and I huddled around Coach for our pre-game pep talk. “Come out strong. Make them play your game. Be aggressive. Even if you make a mistake, they’ll be afraid of what you’ll do next. Go for high percentage shots, and keep the ball in play until you can put away a clean winner. And most important of all: Don’t back off if you’re losing. Make your opponent beat you. If you’re going down, go down swinging.”
Coach held out his hand in the center of the huddle.
We piled our hands on top of his.
“Bring it on three. One, two, three—”
“Bring it!”
We brought that energy onto the court. Our team finished strong in the first round and moved on to the finals. It boiled down to this: Court three won, and court two lost. On court one, Rakhi and I had won the first set and lost the second. The Super Tiebreaker—first to ten, win by two—would determine the winner.
We dominated and got the score to nine to six. If we won the next point, we would win not only the match, but also the trophy. It was our opponent’s serve. We came out strong and rallied cross-court, but I blew it when I dove for a poach and tipped the ball out, nine to seven. Then on their next serve, Rakhi blasted an easy put-away out, nine to eight. Our turn. We would win if Rakhi held serve on the next point.
I took a deep cleansing breath and looked up to the viewing gallery. Vladimir was standing next to Mr. Cusimano. He flashed me an open hand, which meant one of two things: One, he was waving hello. Or two, he was signaling for me to poach.
It didn’t matter. This was my game, not his. As Rakhi bounced the ball on the baseline preparing to serve, Boris’s stats revealed that when we played Australian—when I lined up in the service box on the same side as Rakhi—we had won the majority of points when she served from the deuce side. I jogged to the baseline. “Let’s do Australian.”
She continued to bounce the ball and nodded. When we lined up, I flashed her an open hand behind my back signaling I was going to poach. When she served, and the ball slammed down on the line, I shuffled left to field the return. When the ball came through the middle, I pounded back a punishing volley and nailed the net player in the gut.
Winners.
I knew we would take the trophy and, since it was a special occasion, I came prepared with a bottle of French champagne I’d taken from Vladimir’s wine cellar: What’s mine is yours. After our handshakes and post-victory pow-wow with Coach, I rounded up the team and led them out back to Rakhi’s minivan.
Once everyone piled in, I popped the bubbly. I poured the champagne into the mouth of our trophy cup, and the girls squealed. We laughed and passed the chalice, reveling in our triumph. The cup made it all the way around back to me. As I sipped, I saw Rakhi’s caramel skin blanch. Somebody banged on the car window behind me. Coach opened the door. Every single one of us was underage. We were stone-cold busted.
Oh, shit. I dumped it out and said I was the only one who had a sip. I didn’t want anyone else to get in trouble for my stupid idea. He dismissed my teammates with the threat they were not absolved of guilt yet.
“Give me the bottle.” Coach’s face burned with condemnation. “Looks expensive. Where’d you get it?”
I was sure he already had a pretty good idea of where I got it. “I take full responsibility. The girls didn’t know I brought it until we got out to the car.”
“I’m giving you a chance to come clean. Name your source or you’re off the team.”
I crossed my arms and stared at him with pursed lips. I was no squealer.
Coach waited a moment and gave me a chance to change my mind. When I didn’t waver, he pulled the trigger. “Turn in your uniform tomorrow.”
“What? Coach, please—”
“End of discussion. Is your father here or at work?”
My father? Another man treating me like a kid. Ridiculous. When I didn’t answer, Coach scanned his phone. I reached out and tried to lower his hand. “No.”
He held it out of my reach. “Underage drinking is a crime. I have to report this. Would you rather I call your father or the police?”
Hold your tongue, Carter, Sophia said. There’s still a way out of this. “Dad—but don’t tell him at work. Can you call him later tonight at home?”
After a searing stare down, he agreed to call him later. At least that would give me time to figure things out. “Thanks, Coach. I’m so sorry about this.”
“I’m not done with you, Carter. I’m not stupid, and I’m not blind. One way or another, you’re giving up your source. All I can do is kick you off the team. The police, however, can press charges.” He shook his head. “What you—what he is doing is not right.”
My loyalty took over. Vladimir had given me a job. He’d let me drive his Ferrari—his Ferrari. He even invited me to live in his mansion. Vladimir was the most right thing in my life. “I’ll never tell.”
“I’m sure your father will convince you otherwise.”
I pushed past him and ran off toward the park. There was no way I could face Vladimir after I took his alcohol without permission. He’ll be crazy mad the police could be involved. I wanted to evaporate.
When I reached the park, I heard a vehicle pull up behind me. Vladimir honked and rolled down the window. “Well done, angel.” When he caught a glimpse of my tortured face, he parked, jumped out of the Rover, and rushed over to me. “What’s wrong?” He squeezed my shoulders.
I looked down, ashamed to utter the words. Tears dripped on my uniform. He led me toward a park bench, wrapped his coat around my shoulders, and sat me down. By the way I was acting, he must have thought someone had died. “You won.”
Bawling, I squeaked, “I’m so sorry.”
“For what?”
No matter what he thought of me, I had to warn him. Once Coach called my dad, game over. I would never be allowed to leave the house again. “Coach caught me and my teammates celebrating with champagne after our match.”
“That’s it? You had a drink? What’s the problem?” He blotted away my tears.
I took a deep breath. “The problem is I’m nineteen. It’s illegal for me to have it. Coach said if I didn’t rat out my source, he’d kick me off the team. I told him I wasn’t a narc so…I’m out. He’s going to call Dad tonight and tell him.” I covered
my face to mask my shame.
He lowered his hand from my shoulder. Over the last few weeks I’d spent more time at his house than at my own. I’d gotten comfortable. He treated me like a princess. Nice way to repay the man—steal a bottle of his fancy champagne.
“Why didn’t you tell him where you got the alcohol?”
“Because I got it from you. I wanted to toast my teammates. Not to get drunk or anything, just to celebrate.” The weight of my shame could have squashed a rhino.
“You got kicked off your team to protect me?”
“You could get in trouble. I understand if you never want to see me again.”
He put his hands on my shoulders. “Your loyalty amazes me.”
“No. Don’t you dare be nice to me.” I pushed his hands away. “I did a horrible thing. You trusted me, and I let you down.”
He brought a finger to my lips. “Your coach would have let you stay on the team if you had named me?”
With his finger on my lips like a loaded gun, I nodded. He hugged me as if I’d taken a bullet for him. Then, he pushed me back and towered over me. “I’ll speak to your coach. He won’t call your papa. Go to practice as usual tomorrow. I’ll take care of your problem.”
I sucked in a mouthful of air. “Oh, no. I made a mistake. I’ll suffer the consequences.”
My rambling didn’t deter him. The pakhan pulled out his cell. I felt sick as I listened to him bark out orders in Russian. He sounded as angry as he had on my first day of work.
“Who are you talking to? What are you going to do?” What have I done?
He ended the call. “Go home and rest. Celebrate your victory. I give you the day off.”
“Please—”
“Coach is a reasonable guy, right?”
I nodded like a wind-up monkey.
“You look pale. What has your coach done to you?” He brushed my cheek in the exact spot where Coach had whacked me with a tennis ball a few weeks ago.
“Really, I’m fine. I’m going to go now, you know, in case Coach calls.”
An expression as sharp as the tip of a knife sliced across Vladimir’s face. With those cold blue eyes boring through my soul, my heart pounded in my chest.
“I told you, Coach will not call.” The pakhan gave my shoulders a tight squeeze. It seemed kind of hard for a “don’t worry” gesture. Then I brushed off the thought. He was strong and really agitated. He would never intentionally hurt me. Slowly he relinquished his grip and forced a smile. “Everything will be fine. Trust me.”
Chapter 24
Hooks
The next day was Friday, and I showed up to practice just as Vladimir had instructed me to do. When I walked on the court, the girls were huddled around Coach. He stood on the baseline with a splint taped across his nose.
“Calm down, ladies. I’m fine. Just tripped on a ball.”
“How many times?” Rakhi asked. “Looks like someone cracked a racquet across your face.”
Coach glanced at me. “No. Just an accident.”
I had never seen fear in his eyes before, but he was looking at me, and that was fear.
“Start warming up.” He held his ribs as he made his way off to the sideline.
“I can’t believe you didn’t get into trouble,” Rakhi said.
I pretended I didn’t hear her. My hands were shaking so badly, I could barely hold my racquet. Did Coach and Vladimir get into a fight? Or did Boris rough Coach up to teach him a lesson for threatening the boss? I was ticked at Coach for treating me like a kid, but I never wanted any harm to come to him—and he certainly didn’t deserve broken bones.
Rakhi fed the ball to me in the service box. I couldn’t move. The ball bounced and hit me in the gut. Coach was lucky to be alive.
My stomach churned. Enough. People were getting seriously hurt because of my twisted game with Vladimir. This thing, our arrangement, my weird dance with the boss had to end.
Confession time: I was an idiot for not trusting my dad from the start.
High on fear and adrenaline, I bolted from the club and headed home. I had over an hour before I was due to meet Boris, and in that time, I had to steal Dad away from the boss before Boris figured out I’d bailed on him.
When the house came into view, I gasped. The Cadillac was parked in the driveway behind Dad’s Camry.
Plan B: I burst through the front door. “Dad!” I ran into the kitchen.
“You’re home early, pumpkin. Look who’s here.”
My gaze drifted to Boris.
“Privet, Miss Cook.” He popped the cap off a bottle of beer.
Karen sat next to him. “Hi Carter, how was—”
“What’s he doing here?” I panted, winded from my run.
Dad wrinkled his happy face. “Vladimir and I knocked off early today. I invited the guys over for dinner tonight to celebrate your big win.”
“Where’s Mr. Ivanov?”
“He’ll be here after he wraps up a conference call. Something wrong?”
Boris zeroed in on me and drummed his prison-tatted fingers on the table, and with the other hand he patted his side where Vladimir kept his gun tucked. I understood his silent threat. If I ratted him out, I would pay with the blood of my family members.
“Sorry, that didn’t come out right. I was surprised to see you home so early, Daddy.” I crossed into the kitchen and gave him a hug.
Boris nodded, congratulating me for sparing him the task of murdering my family.
At that point, the Russians had officially sunk their hooks under my skin as far as they would go. I was in, and there was no way out. The lives of my family rested in my hands. Until I could figure a way out of the mess I created, I had to play their game.
It was like a tennis match; it wasn’t the hardest hitter or best server who came out on top, it was the player who recognized her opponent’s weakness and used it to her advantage. With Boris, there was no way I could beat him, but the boss? His weakness was me.
Game on, Vladimir.
Chapter 25
Neon Sign
“Can you pick up a few things from the store, Carter? Something vegetarian for you and Vladimir?” Dad wiggled his fingers in the air like vegetarianism was some mystic concept that required a black cauldron, eye of newt, and a bat eyelash to conjure up. He held out the car keys, but Boris stepped up and insisted on driving me.
Once we were in the Caddy, my rambling began. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to screw up. I know what happened to Coach is all my fault. What’s going to happen now?”
He pulled into the parking lot and turned off the car. “You know what my job is, dear?”
Your dagger tattoo says you’re a hit man. “It’s none of my business.”
He came around to my side and opened the passenger door. I stood, but he blocked me before I could take a step. “My job is to protect the boss.”
I looked down at my feet.
He lifted my chin. “And to clean up his mess when things get out of hand—including dirt his pet princess drags him through. By all means necessary. Want to find out what happens if you cry to papa?”
I shook my head.
“Good girl.” He patted me on the back and steered me toward the store entrance. “Remind me to pick up champagne.” He softened his ominous tone. “We haven’t celebrated your team’s victory. Unless, of course, you have any more of the boss’s fancy bottles stashed?”
I sucked in a deep breath. “No. I’m clean.”
***
When we got back from the store, Dad and Vladimir were in the kitchen, talking, laughing, and drinking. The boss appeared to be in a good mood, despite all the bullshit I’d dumped on him in the last twenty-four hours.
“Hi, Mr. Ivanov. Great to see you again.” I met him in the kitchen. “What are the odds you and Boris are here, and I’m free on a Friday night?” Sorry, Ryan. No bowling and burritos for me tonight. I set down a grocery bag and moved in for a hug. Partly to let him know everything was cool and partly to f
eel if he had his gun tucked at his side: affirmative.
“A beautiful girl with no date? The boys must be crazy.”
I slunk away before Dad took notice of the neon sign flashing, “I’m having an inappropriate relationship with your daughter” above Vladimir’s head.
I survived dinner that night with Boris and Vladimir—and so did the rest of my family. The boss fawned on me the way he always did, but he also doted on Megan and Karen. Although I knew what the pakhan was capable of, Vladimir was a joy to be around. I wished there was a way to extract the dark side while keeping the goodness intact. My family adored him, and Boris.
The next day, Vladimir treated the family to dinner at a fancy restaurant downtown, and on Sunday, he took us on a private cruise up and down the Ohio River. By the end of the weekend, the Russians had fully immersed themselves in our lives. Megan even started calling Boris Ded, which he taught her was Russian for Grandpa, and she dubbed Vladimir Dyadya which meant Uncle. Based on appearances, we were One Big Happy Family.
Nyet.
Chapter 26
Cocky
On Monday, I had one goal: get through the rest of the week without getting into any trouble. Dad was taking the family on the road to Karen’s parents’ house on Friday. It was an annual pilgrimage I dreaded, but at least it would put separation between the Russians and me for four glorious days.
When we got to the house, I dove into a steamy romance novel my teammates and I were reading in our book club. I usually worked on homework, but the semester was over.
“Congratulations.” Boris dumped a pile of household bills and a checkbook on the bar in front of me. “You’ve been promoted to Household Bullshit Manager.”
“Gee, thanks.” I thumbed through the bills—cable, electric, trash. “Got it.”
I made out the checks and slid them across the bar for Boris to sign. As I finished up my task, the boys out back started hollering. I turned and looked out the window. It was a reaction. I didn’t care or want to know what they were up to. “Anything else I can do?”
