“Do the players pay for it?” I ask, making notes on my phone.
“They can after a month. We pay for their first month to see if they stay on the roster and/or to give them time to find a new place. Not that we’ll charge you a thing since we’re not paying you.”
We laugh together because she’s right, and I truly enjoy working for free.
Not.
That wasn’t kind.
Snap. Snap.
“But anyway, we have nine single players living up there now. And we’ll put three to each apartment for training camp,” she finishes, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
“Wow, that is so amazing and kind of y’all.”
She nods. “My mom is very family based and wants everyone to feel at home.”
I eye her. “Are you that way?”
Shelli grins. “I am, and I’m not. For me, I don’t run the team with my heart. I run it to have a winning team. You don’t perform, you’re out. But Mom very much treats everyone like they’re her kids. She gives second chances and believes they’ll come around—or worse, she makes promises to people that I’m now having to deal with.” Her anger is visible, and when she looks at me, she shakes her head. “Sorry. I’m obviously still pissy from my meeting with my mom this morning.”
“Ugh, yeah,” I joke, and she laughs a laugh that holds absolutely no humor. “Can I know the situation?”
“For sure. Let’s go into my office. The rumor mill is real,” she says in annoyance as she enters her office.
I follow, shutting the door, a little confused by her change of mood. She falls back into her chair as I admire her office once again. She’s done it in a beautiful gray tone with purple accents. All the past logos of the Assassins are on the wall, along with photos of her family. My favorite is the one of her son as a newborn, in her husband’s gloves. As I sit down, she leans back and lets out a long huff. “I also need to let you know that I’m pregnant.”
My heart swells. “Congratulations! Though…I did see the bump.”
She laughs. “Really? Everyone assumes I’m just fat.”
“No way! You’re glowing.”
“Thanks,” she says with a smile as she rubs a larger belly than I had realized. “I apologize for my mood swings. I’m known for them.”
I wave her off. “You’re a gem.”
She laughs. “You’re a liar,” she teases, and I grin. “But I like you, so it’s cool,” she announces, and I like her a lot too. I mean, this is only day one and I have a very long season in front of me, but I do like Shelli Adler. Not only for who she is, but for what she stands for. I want to be strong and powerful just like her. I know I can be; I just don’t know if one season will do it. Unfortunately, that’s all the time I have.
I cross my legs as she clears her throat. “The situation is, I had a list of players I wanted to bring up from the juniors, college, and our farm team. I’ve done some really great scouting, and since we need new players to replace those we traded off to make room in the salary cap, I’ve made sure to pick some great talent. But then I was informed that a player my mom promised a spot to on the team, no matter what, has left the Russian squad for the US.”
I make a face. “That’s a thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “It is for Dimitri Titov.” Shelli grumbles something under her breath and shakes her head. “I grew up with him, his dad played with my dad, his uncle is my dad’s best friend, and yeah, he’s family. But he wanted to play in Russia instead of the juniors! Though, now that he wants to come back, I have to make room for him. It’s beyond frustrating because he isn’t even that good. He’s got bad habits now from the Russian league, and I don’t want to deal with him.”
I bring my brows together. “This may be a dumb question, but are American hockey and Russian hockey not the same?”
Gone is her annoyance, and soon, it’s replaced by a grin. “Oh, Austen, I am going to have so much fun with you.”
But I soon realize that Shelli’s definition of fun is watching hours upon hours of this Titov guy playing hockey. First, it’s hard to keep up. She is talking a million miles a minute about everything wrong with him. It’s easy to say, she isn’t a fan.
For me, I’m trying to keep up and ignore how damn gorgeous this man is. He has beautiful olive skin and black hair that has a blue hue to it and curls at the back of his helmet. When they go in close for the face-off, I can’t even pay attention to whether he sucks at that, as Shelli says, because he has some penetrating blue eyes that are to die for.
It’s almost cruel that I’ve gone from being in a cult where women are basically an object rather than a partner or a leader, and never wanting to be touched by anyone, to now finding myself wanting to know everything about Dimitri, even if he sucks. It’s not long before I am reminded that I’m not learning about Titov the man, but rather Titov the hockey player. That is cruel in and of itself, but let’s be honest, when will I have time for a guy? I am in a crash course in Hockey 101 and Hockey Management.
As I watch game reel after game reel, I stop seeing the guys and start seeing the plays. Soon, I’m impressed by the fact that I can see these “bad habits,” and even I don’t know how he can break them. Though, I want him to. Not because he’s gorgeous—and I like the way he fights—but because of how much Shelli hates him and doubts him. For me, I’m all for the underdog.
Especially when he is a Russian fox like Dimitri Titov.
Oh, those are bad, bad thoughts.
Snap, snap, snap.
Okay, one more snap.
two
Dimitri
My sister moves by me, purposely hitting me with the side of the box she carries. Her long, black-as-night hair that goes well past her bottom sways back and forth as she walks to a spot in the living room and drops my box. I hear a crash inside and cringe as my dad hands me the US power cord for my Xbox. Pretty sure those are my photo frames from high school. Or maybe even my glass pucks.
Great.
“Katarina!” my mom complains, but Katarina doesn’t even acknowledge her.
She looks at me, her dark eyes like slits as she very aggressively says in Russian, “No, I refuse to take it easy with his stuff when he has brought me to this hellhole!”
“This hellhole is your birthplace!” I yell at her in Russian since it’s our first language. Apparently, it’s also the only language she will speak in America now that I’ve brought her here. She’s not happy about it.
“I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be here. You pulled me from my friends, my life, to follow him, the golden boy! Why? Explain why?”
My parents have, many times, which is why both of them sigh very deeply as they head for another box or two. To save them the argument, I say, “Because my career is more important than you getting slutty with your friends, okay?”
She glares, and it’s terrifying. But I know my mom won’t let her claw my eyes out. Like my sister said, I’m the golden child. My mom loves me most. “The only slut I know is you, thank you very much.” She hurls that at me very fast and very antagonistically.