by Aliyah Burke
“Guess we’ll find out in a few hours.”
Chapter Five
Boarding—checking a defenseless player in the back, causing them to violently impact into the boards. Usually a penalty.
Sergej laced up his skates, mood south. They’d lost the second game and were now in New York to play the Rangers on their home ice. Ranger fans weren’t the greatest in the world to opposing teams, but he understood. Their home fans weren’t either. All part of the game.
Across the room, talking to the goalie, was Victor. The two men had hardly spoken since the incident at the hotel before the first semi-final game. Only when necessary, and even then, it didn’t take a genius to notice there was an issue between the two men.
Their animosity was only curbed by the fact they could go out and slam other men into the boards. He still had the remnants of a black eye from Victor’s punch. Sergej missed his friend, one of the few. He was a private man and tended to keep to himself, but Victor had always been one to include him in things. Well, until the incident.
Then, Vale had gotten involved. She’d shown up at his apartment—he knew Victor had given up the location—and proceeded to yell and threaten him for a good hour.
It’s no wonder she’s so damn good on the ice. She’s a force from hell. After the yelling had finished, she’d slapped Constantine’s number down on his dining table and marched out, talking about castrating him if he didn’t make it better.
He hadn’t done more than program her number into his phone. He’d not called her, hadn’t tried to even dial the number. No, Sergej was trying to be pissed and blame her for everything. And in doing so, he understood what she had been trying to get him to see. He missed her. Everything about her.
“Markovich! Davidson!”
He snapped his head up when Coach Philmen hollered his name.
“Get over here. Rest of you, get ready to leave and crush these fuckers!”
A resounding cheer rose and fell in the locker room. He made his way over to their coach. A man who’d played with the likes of Gretzky, Philmen still retained his fit physique.
“Yeah, Coach?” he asked as he saw Victor arrive in his periphery.
“You two,” Philmen growled in his perpetually graveled voice. “Whatever the fuck is the matter between the two of you, when you leave this room, it’s left behind, as well. This is the goddamn finals, and I won’t have you two ladies screwing it up for the rest of us. If you think I won’t bench you, you’re dead wrong. You may be our top two players but whatever is going on between you is making our rookies look like rock stars. So, fix it before you step on the ice. Be the goddamn cohesive unit you’ve been for years. Get us that fucking cup.”
“We’ll be fine,” Victor said, not once looking in Sergej’s direction.
“You’d better be. I don’t give a damn if it’s a lover’s quarrel or you fucked each other’s sister. Nothing but the Cup matters. Get that in your head. Nothing but the Cup. Now, go out there and get it for me.”
“You got it, Coach.” Sergej turned to Victor, but the man had already spun away.
As he skated on the ice toward their bench, he stole a look up to where he knew Vale would be seated. Sure enough she was there, decked out in Raptor’s gear. From the look on her face, she’d already gotten into it with the Ranger fan beside her.
Eyes on the ice, he skated to the bench, grabbed a swig of water then did a few warmups on their half of the ice. As the Rangers came out to a huge fanfare, he watched the Raptors second and third string take their seats and wait for the rest of the welcome to be finished. Then, the National Anthem. Then, the game.
His heart pounded, and he ran over everything he’d done to get here. All the sacrifices, all the pain and bruises. The hours of practicing. The games, both away and home. All of it came down to this one moment. Game seven of the finals. In a little over an hour, one team would be given the Stanley Cup, and the other would have nothing to show for a long sweat-filled season.
Behind him, he heard people chanting his name, intermixed with those telling him where he could go and what he could do with himself when he got there. He stopped skating and faced the flag along with everyone else for the National Anthem. The thrum rushed over him once more, and his adrenaline kicked in; it was well trained, aware of what was to follow. Puck drop. Then, game on.
The lights lowered, the spotlight on the young recording artist who was handling the honor. A prickle ran up Sergej’s spine, and he fought the urge to look over his shoulder. As the crowd cheered at the completion of her singing, the lights lit the arena, and he watched Victor set up for the start of the game. Sergej flexed his grip, got into position and waited.
The sound faded as he focused in on the puck. He could hear his heart beating and his breathing, but that was it. Right until the puck hit the ice, then the noise came flooding back in with the force of a tidal wave. Pushing off, he shot down the ice. Victor had won the puck and sent it off toward him.
Bringing it under control, Sergej wove around defenders and sent it back to another teammate with a smack. Angling sharply to the left, he whirled about and headed back up the ice to intercept the return shot from the Rangers, who’d stolen it from another Raptor. Getting his stick on it, he sent it along the boards.
Victor recovered it, and again, they were headed toward the goal and the impressive Ranger goalie. A man who’d been there for years, he wasn’t easy to score on. This time proved to be much like the others. The result in this attack was knocking the goal off and having a face off.
With the line change, he got the opportunity for a breather. Sliding down the bench, he took a bottle of water and gulped some of the refreshing liquid. Victor bumped him as he claimed space beside him. They would have been talking now, but lately, no words passed between them, and Sergej didn’t do anything to change that. For the time, they worked together on the ice, and that’s what was important. Right now, all his focus and energy had to be on the acquisition of the Stanley Cup. He would be the perfect teammate, then whatever happened, happened.
Victor bumped him again, and Sergej narrowed his eyes. If you don’t like me, fine, but keep this up, and there will be issues. He steadfastly ignored him, pushing to his feet, ready to hop the wall and get back in the game as soon as the change happened.
“Sergej.”
Seeing his replacement heading back to the bench, he readied himself, ignoring Victor. As soon as he could, he jumped the low wall and took the ice, racing to the puck. Get it. Keep it. Score with it. The mantra looped through his mind as he fought to keep him team in contention.
By the end of period one, he skated off with their goalie, Adamsson.
“Sergej!”
He cracked his neck and faced Victor. “What?” The word fell from his lips in a snarl.
“Christ, man, been trying to get your attention all period, I—”
Sergej waved him off, cutting his statement short. “If you want to fight, you have to wait. I’m not wasting energy on you, right now. After, fine.” He turned back to the coach who began talking and outlining the plan for the second period.
Victor moved beside him and leaned close. “Has nothing to do with me and you. We’ll figure it out on our own time. Has to do with Constantine.”
He clenched a fist. “Insinuate she’s a whore again, and when the game’s over, I’ll kill you.” If I wait that long.
Victor muttered something under his breath, and the coach pinned them both with his glare. Neither man moved, just waited for coach to continue. As they made their way back to the ice, Victor leaned closer again.
“She’s here with Vale.”
His heart skipped a few beats then hammered harder than when he’d come off the ice. Even though he couldn’t see her or the seats where she and Vale would be, he still turned his head in that direction. His friend brushed by him and strode out ahead of him.
The moment he cleared their tunnel and he could see those seats, he locked onto them with th
e speed of a missile. Sure enough, beside Vale, there she sat, wearing a Raptors t-shirt. Renewed energy slammed him, and he skated onto the ice and took his forward position.
Constantine’s belly clenched with a mixture of emotions when she saw Sergej appear. Even with the helmet and all the pads, she still couldn’t get over the dashing and sexy figure he cut.
“Why isn’t he beside Victor?”
“They had a falling out. I told you, Victor hit him.” Vale gripped her arm. “You’re in the stands; you can’t go down there. Short of being on the ice, we can’t get any closer. Trust me, he’s seen you, and he’ll be by to give you a look or twelve.”
She leaned back, unaware she’d been heading toward him. God, I missed him. She had. They’d not had a falling out, and she didn’t want to see him with other women, but it wasn’t like they’d had a huge fight before she’d left. She’d just chosen not to confront him about the bitch in his arms.
“I doubt it.”
Vale choked. “Want to put money on it? I don’t mind taking that from you.”
She hit her friend. “You make more than I do. You should be giving me some, not taking it from me.”
“Not a chance. I’m crazy and psycho, but that’s when I’m on the ice. I’m watching a game; I’m going to be good.”
They had definite differences in the meaning of that word. “Which is why that guy beside you is pissed to no end?”
She shrugged. “Not my fault he is rooting for a subpar team. Our Raptors are going to beat them in this game.”
Constantine covered her mouth and kept her laughter contained. Those two had been going at it since before she’d arrived. She didn’t expect it to stop anytime soon. Not someone who’d gone to many professional sports games, she wasn’t used to this type of behavior between people. Man, woman, child—didn’t seem to matter. All that did was the color of the jersey you wore or the team you rooted for.
When the game commenced, she tried to watch other people, but her gaze continually drifted back to the man wearing number eight on his jersey. As they made it to their side of the ice, she jumped when a man was smashed into the glass, the entire panel reverberating from the force. The man who’d sent him was still up against him, and her heart caught as she saw Sergej. He held her gaze and winked. Then, there was a final shove before he got off the man and returned to hunting down the puck.
“Candy from a baby,” Vale hollered over the roar of the crowd. “That’s one. We hit twelve, and you’re going to owe me.”
Constantine wrapped her arms around her belly and tried her damnedest not to squeal like a little girl. Okay, so that was pretty cool. At the end of the second period, her stomach was in knots for a totally different reason. The score. It was tied up. And both teams were playing so hard and with such skill she was sure the next goal would win the game.
While she couldn’t see Sergej’s eyes when he left the rink, she imagined that the head turn was him stealing another glance in her direction. At least, that’s what she was going with.
“Christ,” she expelled, rubbing her arms. “How do you do this each night? This is killing me.”
“Not all games are this intense. This is for the Cup, so there’s that added level but it’s hard. Takes a lot out of you. What’s wrong with you? Are you cold?”
She was, but she wasn’t going to complain. “I’m fine. I think it’s the nerves and all that.”
Vale harrumphed but let it go. She jumped into an explanation of what she felt the Raptors would be doing in the last period. Sniffing, Constantine tucked her arms around her. So, New York on the ice was a lot different than lying in the sun in the Gulf.
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
Vale paused, and they both glanced to the right. In the aisle, she found a man in a suit. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Eyebrows up, Constantine said, “Yes? Can I help you?”
“Are you Constantine Gleason?”
Sharing a confused glance with Vale, she nodded. “Is something wrong?”
“No, ma’am. This is for you.” He handed her the leather jacket he had in his hands.
“I don’t have a leather jacket; this must be some mistake.”
“No mistake, ma’am. The jacket.” He gestured with it once more. She took it and saw it was a Raptors with the number eight on it. The man leaned in closer. “There’s a note for you in the pocket.” He straightened. “Enjoy the rest of the game, ma’am.” He jogged off.
“Shit, that’s a nice jacket. That’s Sergej’s,” Vale announced. “Dude sent you his jacket to wear. This counts for at least twenty.”
Ignoring her friend, she sat forward and put on the large jacket. Christ, it even smelled like him, or at least her memories of him. And there are a lot of those. Instant heat hit her, and she moaned in relief. Shoving her hands in the pockets, she withdrew a folded piece of paper and read the words.
Glad you came. You looked cold. I’ll claim it after the game, wait for me. I missed you.
“What’d he say?” Vale demanded.
“None of your business. Just that I looked cold.”
“I can’t believe he gave you his jacket. Damn, that’s not even one that they sell here.” Vale punched her in the arm.
“Ow, damn it, I’m not one of your hockey players. I’m fragile.”
“Don’t make me spit beer out on his jacket.”
She drew it tighter around her. “Don’t you dare. I’d have to hurt you if you did that.”
“What happened to the fragile girl?” she asked in a mocking tone.
“Bite me, bitch.”
“That’s what I thought.” She touched the leather sleeve. “I think I need to find me a hockey player. Don’t supposed you’d consider giving him to me and taking my brother?”
Constantine shook her head and burrowed deeper into the material surrounding her. “Not a chance.”
“Figured as much.”
The talk was lighthearted until the teams came back out on the ice. A few people asked her where or who the jacket was from, and Vale had a blast telling them from star forward, Sergej Markovich.
While his jacket dwarfed Constantine, it kept her warm. The first time he skated by, he looked up and grinned at her before it was wiped away and he got back to the game. Beside Vale, she yelled, cheered, and swore at the opposing players. There was plenty of boarding hits, and the glass shook more often than not.
“He’s playing better,” Vale said as he and another player got into it.
“Doesn’t look like he’s playing at all but fighting.”
“Part of the game. In one sense, it’s a delay tactic, because your other players can get a breather without having to call a time out. On the other, it’s part of the spectacle that’s hockey. However, when it comes to Sergej, he doesn’t do it out of request to amp up the crowd, and as you can see, he takes the term of dropping gloves seriously. There’s no circling around the other man with your fists up; this is about inflicting some pain. And now, he’ll go sit in the box for two minutes.”
“So, he’s shortening the number of players on his team.”
“No, they’ll both go so both teams lose one for the two minutes.”
“Your boyfriend’s a pussy!” the guy on the other side of Vale yelled in her direction.
“Is that why you’ve been staring at him, can’t help but want him?” Vale taunted. “He just put your player on the ice; can’t your enforcer take a hit?”
She was tempted to tell Vale to let it go but knew that was pointless. As a hockey player herself, she wasn’t one to back down from much of anything. So, Constantine focused on the game and let her friend argue her point. Or whatever they were arguing now.
Back on the ice, Sergej streaked across the ice. These men were better than good. They were the best of the best, and it showed. This was an impressive display. She tried to follow the puck but lost it more than once.
As the clock ticked down to the end of the final period, she held her breat
h. Please don’t let the Rangers score this close to time. She sat perched on the edge of her seat, fingers digging into her palms as she moved her eyes from the ice to the clock. Surrounded by Sergej’s scent and his jacket, she willed him on and the rest of the Raptors.
The buzzer sounded, and she swore, a mixture of relief and frustration. Knotted up at two by the end of the third period meant there was overtime coming. When Segej went by, he never glanced up at her, but she was okay with that, he had to be completely focused on what he was about to get into.
“Sure are getting their money’s worth.”
“Huh?” She peered at Vale. “What?”
“These fans. Game seven, going into overtime. This is awesome.”
“Cripes, I’m about to puke my guts out. How do they do this?”
“Let me hold that jacket if you’re going to do that. It’s gorgeous, and I don’t want to see it messed up.”
She cocked a brow. “Really? That’s what you’ve got for me? Let you hold the jacket?”
Vale grinned. “What can I say? I’m a simple person.”
“In the head, maybe. Now, what happens if no one scores during this overtime?”
“We have a shootout.”
“Shots on the goal?”
Vale nodded. “Yep. Three from each team.”
“Lord, let this end in overtime.”
“The shootout is exciting, too. Either way, aren’t you glad you came?”
“Yes,” she admitted without hesitation. “Yes, I am.”
Overtime was brutal, and yet, no scores. The players were exhausted, even she could see that from here, but they didn’t complain, and it sure as hell didn’t appear they wanted to be taken off the ice.
God, she could use a drink. A thought which doubled when they explained the rules for the penalty shootout. She wrung her hands together and watched both Victor and Sergej get picked to be two of the men who were going to be part of the shootout. Then, she longed to put them over her eyes, but she didn’t.
Perched on the end of the chair, she did her best to will their team’s puck into the goal. The Rangers were up first. Her breathing came short as he skated toward Adamsson, and she held it until the red x went up on the scoreboard, indicating a failed attempt. Then, it was Victor’s turn.
