Firebird (The Firebird Trilogy #1)

by Jennifer Loring

  “I think it will be, but some stuff has happened recently, and you should know.”

  “Yeah, we’ll talk for sure. Call me when you get home, all right?”

  “Will do.”

  Alex booked a flight and a room so he could grab at least a few hours’ sleep. He hopped into the closet with his overnight bag and tossed in a polo shirt and a pair of jeans on top of his socks and underwear. Stored in boxes in the back of the closet lay all the merchandise he’d acquired as both a Gladiator and an Earthquake. Bobbleheads, jerseys, photos, player pucks with his face on them, anything onto which they could slap his name or image. He picked one of each, all Gladiators. In the guest room, he signed each of them and stuffed them into the bag. He’d done plenty of charity work with both teams, had spent time with sick kids. They were expected to at least once a week. This was, however, the first request from Buffalo since his trade.

  His brain unleashed a deluge of unwelcome intrusions. He took one pill from each prescription he’d gotten filled on the way home and decided he had time for a cup of tea after all.

  What if he ran into her? Buffalo was a small city. He wasn’t hard to spot.

  He blew out a breath. He wasn’t ready. The tape holding him together was already losing its adhesion. She would not be prepared to see him like this. Brittle, broken. Not the man she’d loved, and a man he despised.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Stephanie

  Whether Stephanie’s mother was overmedicated or had ceased to care about anything sometime after the divorce, the result was the same. “Your father died this morning,” she informed Stephanie in a dull voice. The call did not go on much longer.

  She dialed the number Matt had given her if she needed to call. She waited for the tears to come. They did not.

  “Matt. Hi. I know it’s early there. I’m sorry.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed. “Listen, I’ll handle the funeral and the house. Get here when you can.”

  “Are you sure, Steph? Can you have Alex meet you there or something?”

  “Um…” She sniffed. Now the tears, for the altogether wrong reason. “No.”

  “Oh God. That’s why you left Seattle, isn’t it? I figured you just got a better job—”

  “It’s fine, Matt. It’s been three months. I’m just having a hard time letting go. Again.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Steph, you know you didn’t do anything to deserve what Dad did, right? It wasn’t your fault.”

  Difficult to believe while your father was manhandling you in more ways than one. When in your most formative years you had been assured you would never amount to anything and had better find a man to take care of you, except you would never find that, either, because no man wanted a woman who looked and acted like a dyke. “Thanks, Matt.”

  “I’m going to let my supervisor know I have a family emergency, and I’ll try to get the next flight out. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  “Okay. Love you.”

  “Love you too, sis.”

  She called to arrange for removal of her father’s body from the hospital and to pick up his belongings. The rest—the real estate agent, the haul-away of the house’s contents, the funeral arrangements—would have to wait until she arrived. She booked the next flight to LA, which gave her a few hours to pack and get to the airport. Seven hours in the air. Too much time to think, and not just about Dad. Memories linked by inextricable woe. The two men whose betrayals of her cut too deep to heal, whether she forgave them or not.

  She tried to sleep, and when that didn’t work, she took advantage of the airline’s Wi-Fi. The trade deadline had passed a month ago, and playoffs began in a week. The Gladiators had squeaked into a wild-card spot, perhaps only to prove they were still a playoff-caliber team despite the glaring hole in their offense and leadership group. No one expected them to make it past the first round. The Earthquakes, meanwhile, had been unable to rebound from the loss of Alex. They had gone into freefall in January and ended the season with the second-worst record in the league. They’d get great draft picks, but Coach’s job was on the line and so was the GM’s. She could almost picture Alex sitting in his room, cackling and rubbing his hands together like some silent-film villain, continuing to manipulate the Earthquakes’ future behind the scenes. Spreading his misery around.

  Until the headline on every sports website rammed her heart into her throat. ‘Hockey Star Aleksandr Volynsky Spotted Leaving Hospital’, and a single horrid picture of him on crutches, with a bandaged arm and hand, several days of beard growth, and a haunted, distant look in his eyes.

  Seattle Earthquakes’ left-winger Aleksandr Volynsky emerged from Swedish Medical Center last Friday, though sources have been unable to confirm the cause of his stay. The twenty-five-year-old superstar, recovering from a career-threatening injury, appeared haggard as he left the hospital alone and entered a cab.

  Seattle Earthquakes management has not issued a statement nor responded to rumors that Volynsky was under psychiatric care, though accusations of substance abuse have dogged Volynsky for several years. Hospital officials refuse to offer any information, citing HIPAA laws, fueling further speculation that Volynsky was seeking treatment for alcohol addiction.

  “Fucking vultures,” she muttered. Of course he wouldn’t tell her. She had forfeited her right to that information, to show concern after she had chosen to walk away. Caring was easy from a distance. She had to invest nothing. But for the rest of the flight, she kept the phone in her hand, heartsick that they’d already grown so far apart he did not want her to know he might need her.

  ***

  Aleksandr

  “Fuck. Fuck! Why the fuck is this all over the internet?” Alex paced the kitchen, as best as one could with a walking boot, waiting for his tea to brew. He needed more than tea. He needed a goddamned drink, but that was no longer an option.

  “Because you’re Aleksandr Volynsky. Listen, we’ve done everything we can to keep this out of the news, but someone saw you leaving the hospital. You know these scumbags. They get a scoop and they’re hiding out in the bushes. No one knows why you were there.”

  “Yob tvoyu mat′! Jacob, I have to fix this!” Alex raked his fingers through his hair. “Ah, govno. What the fuck am I going to do?”

  “Best thing to do, in my opinion? Nothing. Do not engage. For all they know, you were visiting someone. Doing charity work. It’s all speculation on their part.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

  “You’ve spent your whole career dealing with the media, with the intrusions into your life. You know what they want. Don’t give it to them. Lay low. Do your weekly social media updates like you have been and don’t even mention it. Make them question whether it was even you they saw.”

  “I’m a six-foot-five Russian on crutches. There’s no mistaking me for anyone else.”

  “Fine. Still, my previous point remains. They have no idea why you were there, so fuck ’em. You let it go, the whole thing dies in a couple of days. So calm down, all right? You think she saw it, don’t you?”

  Alex slumped against the counter. “She’ll hate me, Jacob. If there was any chance for us, I blew it.”

  “You don’t know that until you talk to her. So get your shit together and get your ass out there, okay?”

  “Thanks, Jacob. For everything.”

  “You’re gonna be okay, Sasha.”

  He thought, in a brief and strange moment of reflection, that might be true. Someday.

  ***

  Stephanie

  Stephanie parked the rental car on the street and walked through the front gate up the concrete steps to her father’s Craftsman in Montecito Heights. Her mother had not asked for the house in the divorce. She located the spare key under a decorative rock beside the steps and let herself into the small living room. A white-brick fireplace dominated the space, which flowed into the dining room. Three of the bedrooms, including Stephanie’s old one,
were located on that floor as well. The master bedroom, main bathroom, and office were downstairs. Beyond the kitchen’s French doors lay the fenced-in yard and the graves of the few pets she’d had as a child until, faced with another animal’s death on her conscience when it had annoyed her father enough—neck snapped, shot with his Glock 19—she’d chosen loneliness.

  She surveyed the bedroom in which she’d grown up. The same full-size bed with the red duvet and pillowcases, the same embossed glass table lamp, the posters on the walls, and the relics of a child she’d ceased to be at seventeen. The LED chandelier above the bed, the tubes of which created an effect like fireflies winking on and off in the darkness. The only light source that first time after the prom, when her parents had gone away for the weekend to try salvaging their marriage and she had invited Alex over. He’d told his host family he was staying with a friend from the hockey team. They had neglected to ask which one.

  That was when it must have happened. How stupid had they been to think she wouldn’t get pregnant? Or too in love to consider the consequences.

  They’d gotten out of bed only to eat and use the bathroom. In their underwear, they cooked simple things, grilled cheese sandwiches or frozen pizza, whatever didn’t take too much time away from exploring each other. Alex was learning how to pace himself. And, being seventeen-year-old athletes, they’d had all the stamina in the world. Their bodies conveyed everything Alex, especially, found difficult to do with words.

  Stephanie flopped onto the bed and dug out the card from her bag. The edges were starting to wear and rub away. She’d meant to put it in the wooden memory box she’d bought after the first day of school her junior year. The one she had vowed to throw away or burn or something, and with it every memento of Alex.

  Thank you for making my wishes come true.

  She hadn’t responded to either his birthday card or his note. She had avoided all contact since his last phone call, when she’d dropped the bomb she had moved away. He ought to know what had happened, though. Let him revel in it. She pulled out her phone to text him.

  Stephanie: Dad died this morning. In LA now.

  Minutes ticked by. She couldn’t hold it against him if he chose not to respond.

  Alex: Are you ok?

  She was not okay, not by a long shot, the reasons so mixed up in her head she grew dizzy.

  Stephanie: I don’t know. Taking care of house and funeral. Too busy to think about it yet.

  Alex: I’m sorry you have to go thru this.

  No matter how she longed for his voice, she wouldn’t call. Being in her father’s house churned up too many bad memories that did not need further resuscitation. A hornet’s nest of them already whirred around in her head.

  Stephanie: Are you doing ok?

  A longer hesitation preceded his response, though Alex was rarely without words. Maybe he didn’t feel like texting. Her, in particular. How many times did she have to play knife to his wound before he grew tired of bleeding?

  Alex: A lot happening right now. Mostly not good. Personal stuff.

  “Personal stuff.” What did that mean?

  Alex: Gotta go. Flight is about to board.

  Stephanie: Thought you were on bed rest.

  Alex: Sick fan in Buffalo. Was worried I might run into you.

  Stephanie: Worried?

  Alex: Wrong word. Scared? But you’re in LA anyway. Take care Steph.

  He was going to be in town, and he’d planned to avoid her. Not even a polite chat over coffee. It didn’t matter she was in LA; he hadn’t known until then.

  He’d have some time on the plane before takeoff. If he answered. Prompted by unease, she took a deep breath and tapped the icon. Her insides churned. The room spun. The phone rang three times before a tentative “hello?” greeted her.

  The words hitched in her throat. Tears splashed her cheeks.

  “Stephanie?”

  “I’m sorry, Alex, I—”

  “Are you crying?” His voice was that of someone barely maintaining. His accent had thickened, as though speaking English was too great an endeavor to sustain much longer.

  “I just…You didn’t sound all right, and I…”

  A deep, sad sigh. “I can’t talk about it right now. And you don’t sound ready to talk, either.”

  “Why were you in the hospital?”

  “I have to go. We’re about to take off. I’ll be back in Seattle on Wednesday morning, if…Well, maybe it’s best we don’t. For now.”

  “I’m sorry,” she choked, though she wasn’t sure for what. Everything, maybe.

  “Steph, I am so ashamed of the things I said to you. Of so many things. I-I’m not ready for this. I thought I would be, but…”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth before her whimpers became full-blown sobs.

  He let out a shuddering sigh. “I’m sorry, milaya. Do svidaniya.”

  Please, please don’t hang up. But she had lost the ability to speak.

  She dropped the now-silent phone on the bed and seized the lamp on the dresser, yanked until the plug sparked and popped free of the outlet before she hurled it with a scream against the door. How dare her father die without giving her the opportunity to vent her rage, to hurt him the way he had hurt her with words that left permanent bruises on the inside? And how dare Alex rebuff her again after all he had said and done?

  The colored glass exploded into dozens of shards and left a cavity in the wood. And Stephanie, clutching at her hair, sank to the floor in a howling, breathless heap.

  ***

  Aleksandr

  Alex boarded first, and the attendant sat him in row one of first class to allow his booted foot the necessary room for a comfortable seven-hour flight. Not many people headed to Buffalo on a Monday night in April anyway. He gazed at the tarmac. His lips were trembling. Her voice had revived something in him, something unpleasant. But that was a feeling, wasn’t it, unpleasantness? Embrace it.

  He rejected it instead. She was not, for the next twenty-four hours anyway, his priority.

  Yet he kept thinking about her, about her voice. Her tears. Her ill-timed attempt at communication. And other things. The memory of her skin on his, the heat of it as she slept while her dreaming mind teemed with private visions. The smell of her hair. The blue of her eyes, like the sky at twilight. The taste of her. The way he felt inside her. It all seemed so long ago. A beautiful dream, the kind that left behind genuine grief once the waking world revealed it as nothing more than fantasy.

  Some smug part of him gloated over the obvious pain he’d inflicted, but he wasn’t ready. Besides, she was already in a bad place, dealing with her father’s death. He would make it worse. As always.

  ***

  In the morning, he showered, took his pills, then grabbed a breakfast sandwich on the way out and ate in the cab. The Colonial in which his young fan lived had fallen into minor disrepair. Flaking paint, a shutter or two with a loose hinge, broken concrete on the walkway. He made his awkward departure from the cab, adjusted his crutches under his armpits, and with a plastic bag of signed merchandise dangling from one hand shambled to the front door. It opened before the doorbell had stopped chiming. A woman who could not be more than forty but wore the gaunt, despondent mask of full-time caregiver answered.

  “Mr. Volynsky.” She eyed his crutches and her shoulders sagged more, if it were possible. “I’m so sorry. Thank you so much for coming.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Please, call me Sasha.” They shook hands. Her palm was dry and cold.

  “Come in.” She stepped aside, and he hopped into the entryway. “Josh is in the last room on the right. He doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “Even better.” Alex shambled down the hall and rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Come in,” a voice on the cusp of puberty called. He entered, and Josh, sporting the smooth head of someone who had endured massive amounts of chemotherapy, stared at him. No eyebrows or eyelashes, either. “Oh my God. You’re him! Wow. You re
ally are that tall.”

  He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Josh.” He crossed the room to the hospital bed complete with side rails and a meal tray and shook his hand. “Heard you weren’t feeling too well.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I wish they’d quit acting like I don’t know.”

  “Know what?” Alex eased into a chair beside the bed and propped his crutches against the wall.

  “That I’m not gonna get better. But wow. Wait ’til my friends hear about this.”

  “I brought some stuff for you.” He set the bag on the bed and let Josh dig through it.

  “No way.” Josh held up each object with reverence. His eyes had consumed half his face. “Holy crap. And you signed it all! Thanks!”

  “No problem.”

  “So you really can’t play anymore?”

  “Looks that way. Still trying to work through it.”

  “That sucks. I heard you almost died.”

  “That’s what they tell me. I was pretty out of it by then.”

  “Did your family come in and sit there all sad and crying, not saying anything? I wish someone would crack a joke or fart or something.”

  He snickered. “Things did get pretty grim.” Alex stared at a dark spot on the carpet, probably where Josh had vomited at some point. He wondered why they hadn’t torn it up to make cleaning easier. “Aren’t we supposed to be talking about you?”

  “That’s all anyone wants to talk about, except not really about me. Like I’m not a person anymore. I’m just…cancer.”

  “They don’t mean to do it. People don’t deal with pain in the best way sometimes.” Trust me on that.

  “I wish they would accept it, like I have. Like, I know I should be all, ‘I want to live!’ and crap, but…” Josh sighed. His vivacious brown eyes, situated within hollows like bruises, were out of place in his puffy, pale face.