25. Gemma
Chapter 25
Gemma
When I got home from work, I made sure to let Cannoli out before heading upstairs to change. Sasha had a game, so I’d be cuddled up with the dog for most of the evening until he got home. I was looking forward to slipping off my bra and doing nothing for the rest of the night.
I was running through a list of places I could order take-out from when I stepped into the bedroom and froze.
Laid across the mattress was a garment. The shockingly bright red was a sharp contrast to the white sheets. But what stood out the most was the black lettering spelling out the name Gusev above a giant number thirty.
Venturing closer, I held my breath as I ran my fingers over the fabric. When things got more serious with Sasha, I made sure to do my research. A deep dive into social media uncovered how players “claimed” their women—having them wear their jerseys.
After the proposal I’d turned down a week ago, I didn’t want to do anything else that might get his hopes up. It was bad enough that every cell in my body had screamed at me to say yes when he’d asked. The disappointment of my logical brain overruling my heart had only compounded when he confessed his love.
No one had ever loved me, at least that I could remember. I wanted to believe that maybe my mother had, that maybe she’d been as destroyed at the idea of leaving me and Enzo as Aunt Viviana had been about leaving her boys. But I would never know for sure.
I basked in the love that Sasha wrapped me in. It was a warm weight settled over my soul. But I forced myself to believe it was only temporary. The longer I held onto that ring without putting it on, the more strain it would put on our relationship. I could see it in his eyes—the belief that eventually he’d win me over, and I’d accept his offering of a life together.
Oh, how I wished it were that simple. That I wasn’t terrified out of my mind that tying myself to him wouldn’t equate to signing his death warrant. God knows how my brother and cousins would react if they ever discovered I was dating a Russian, regardless of Sasha having zero ties to any bratva. They were our enemies, end of story—the only thing that was black and white in a world that lived in shades of gray.
Marrying Sasha was out of the question.
Forcing myself to back away from the bed, I pulled out my phone and snapped a quick pic before shooting off a text.
Care to explain this suspicious-looking item that seems to bear your last name?
Instantly, three dots blinked at me, indicating Sasha was typing a reply.
Sasha: Thought maybe my girl wouldn’t mind coming to see me play tonight. Since she’s got a free evening and all.
Was I supposed to guess that this jersey was an invitation? Thought maybe you were just trying to brand me.
Sasha: Don’t tempt me, Kitten. You know I’d love nothing more than to give you my last name permanently.
Why the hell was I teasing him? Wasn’t I just thinking that I couldn’t lead him on?
Get your shit straight, Gemma!
A game, huh? I kinda had plans. The couch is looking inviting, and I have the most adorable furball to keep me company.
Someone needed to take the phone from me because I was fucking flirting with the man. Something about him made me lose all sense of reason.
Sasha: *Cringe face emoji* Damn, that is some stiff competition.
Okay, it was time to bring this back down to Earth.
I appreciate the offer, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea.
Sasha: *Nods knowingly* Ah, I see the problem. You’re worried that once you see me in action, I will become even more irresistible than I already am.
I couldn’t help but giggle. There was no denying he brought more laughter to my life.
That’s exactly it. You’ve thoroughly destroyed my body as it is, and I’m not sure how much more I can handle. Honestly, I’m concerned for my health.
Sasha: That’s fair. But why don’t you tell me the real reason you don’t want to come, Gemma?
There was no way in hell I was telling him via text that my resistance had anything to do with trying to protect my heart. The closer I let us get, the more it was going to hurt when he eventually realized he couldn’t fix me or change how my past would always affect my future. Going to his games and getting a glimpse of what a normal life by his side looked like might be too much for me to handle.
So, I settled on a white lie instead.
I feel kinda out of place with your friends. They seem to have this history, a closeness, and it’s awkward that they’re forced to socialize with me because I’m with you.
My conscience could rest easy because that wasn’t a lie at all. Those women had been nothing but nice to me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an outsider. And to this point, I’d only interacted with them one-on-one. Pretty sure when I got a concentrated dose of them as a group, it would be overwhelming.
Sasha: That’s an easy fix. The WAGs—wives and girlfriends—tend to watch from an appointed family box. I’d rather have you closer to me anyway. How does first row, right behind the glass sound?
I blew out a breath. This freaking guy.
He’d proven time and time again that he could smooth-talk me into just about anything he wanted. I was willing to bet that if he asked me to jump off a bridge, it wouldn’t take much coaxing for me to agree, which made it all the more impressive that I’d managed to turn down his proposal.
Sasha: The choice is yours, baby. But I’d really love to have you there.
Ticket Services: Your ticket is ready! Click the link to download it to your phone.
The jersey lying on my bed taunted me, demanding action.
Sacrificing a few hours to attend a game was nothing compared to all he’d done for me over the past few months.
Fuck it.
I would go, but I decided I would do so undercover. No way was I walking in wearing a bright red symbol marking me as his.
The attendant led me to my seat when the pre-game lights show and hype video concluded. The arena had been dark as I’d watched on from the concrete stairwell, so when the main lights came back on, I was shocked to discover a sea of bodies before me with hardly an empty seat in the house.
Once we reached the bottom of the aisle, the kind gentleman in a red polo shirt with a racecar logo stitched on his breast pocket gestured down the row of seats mere inches from scuffed-up, seemingly flimsy plexiglass.
“You’re right in the middle, miss. Seat number seven.”
Both teams had just skated onto the ice surface from the tunnels beneath the arena, and the crowd erupted in deafening cheers so loud that I winced, my elbows twitching as I fought the urge to cover my ears.
Turning to the man beside me, my “thank you” was lost in the noise.
He smiled before leaning in, cupping a hand beside his mouth, and shouting, “Enjoy the game!”
Taking a deep breath, I squeezed through the tight space made for me to move down the row past the six people sitting between the aisle and my seat.
The players whizzed by the glass so fast I gasped. The energy tonight was far different from the last time I was here. Then, it had been playful, relaxed even. Now, there was an intensity hanging thick in the air, and determination was etched on every face that passed by in a blur.
Never in my life had I watched a hockey game, but I understood the basic premise. Obviously, they played on ice, using sticks to push the puck around, with the ultimate goal of shooting it into the net to score.
The music tapered off, and an announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “For tonight’s matchup, we have your hometown Indy Speed facing off against the Seattle Sailors!”
There was a pause as the crowd went wild.
“And now, for your starting lineup! In net, number thirty, Sasha Gusev.”
“Gooooooooooooooooooose!” Every voice in the arena bellowed in unison as the man himself skated toward the net on the opposite side of the glass from where I stood, only a few feet away.
Holy shit. What was that?
“At right defense, number eight, Wyatt Banks. At left defense, number fifty-nine, Logan Ford. At center, number eleven, Braxton Slate. At left wing, number ninety-two, Asher Lawson. And at right wing, your captain, number seventy-five, Jenner Kniiiiiiiiiiiiight!”
There was a raucous cheer as the cheeky redheaded man skated to join the rest of the starting lineup on the blue line painted on the ice closest to the net Sasha stood before.
The lights were dimmed once again, and a spotlight focused on the red carpet rolled out from a door along the curved glass in the corner of the rink. A gentleman stepped out after being announced as the anthem singer, waving to those in attendance and waiting for them to quiet so he could begin.
His a cappella performance of the American national anthem was beautiful in his rich tenor voice. It rolled over the silent arena where men had removed their hats, and some held hands over their hearts in a show of respect.
The whole time, I couldn’t stop watching the players. Not a single one of them could stay still. The ones on the blue line were shifting back and forth on their skates, some with heads bowed, others with their eyes trained on the flag hung in the rafters. Even Sasha was kicking his feet backward, one at a time. It reminded me of little boys in a classroom, unable to contain their excited energy.
I guess it made sense that they were similarly amped up since they were about to play a child’s game—one they were paid handsomely for.
The final note of the anthem trailed off, and there was a round of applause. The lights came on, and players went to the bench to retrieve their helmets in preparation for the start of the game.
Sasha’s helmet rested atop the net, and he skated toward it.
I held my breath, knowing I was in his direct line of sight. An undercurrent of anticipation buzzed beneath my skin, waiting for the moment he realized I’d come to see him play.
Instead of donning his helmet, Sasha grabbed the water bottle set into a holder behind the net. Turning to the side, he raised the bottle above his head, looking toward the ceiling before squirting water over his hair. Using a hand, he smoothed the golden strands away from his forehead before slipping the mask on, his face hidden behind the cage.
Scanning the rest of the team, I realized he was the only one with that kind of facial protection. I understood he would see more pucks shot in his direction than any of the others, but weren’t they at all concerned about an errant shot catching them in the face? Hockey players were notorious for having teeth knocked out. Why wouldn’t they want to do all they could to prevent that?
When Sasha turned his back to me, shuffling his skate blades against the ice in a way that marked up the smooth, shiny surface, disappointment settled over my heart. In my mind, I’d built up this beautiful moment where he flashed me that cocky grin he got when he knew he’d gotten his way—which happened far too often.
Maybe it had been a mistake to opt out of wearing his jersey. Surely, he knew the location of the ticket he’d had sent to me and was expecting that flash of red to catch his eye. Instead, I was dressed in black from head to toe—black boots, black jeans, black bodysuit, black leather jacket. Even my hair matched my ensemble’s theme; the raven-colored strands weaved into a braid over one shoulder. My aim had been to blend into the crowd, to attend without attracting notice, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be invisible to Sasha. He was the whole reason I came.
I allowed myself to sulk for a moment before shaking off the mental pity party for one. Once I did, it was easier to convince myself it was better he hadn’t noticed me.
Knowing Sasha, my presence could prove to be a distraction, and that was the last thing I wanted. This was his job, after all.
There were two things I realized during the first period.
The first was that Sasha was massive. He was a big guy on a typical day—tall and muscular but not in a bulky way—but in his full goalie gear, the man looked enormous! The skates gave him a few extra inches, so he towered over the red metal railing outlining the net, and whatever lay beneath the red jersey covering his torso had his chest appearing twice as wide. It was no wonder he was the league leader in shutouts; he took up all the available space in front of the net, making it damn near impossible for anyone to get a puck past him.
The second was that he had jaw-dropping moves. The man had cat-like reflexes, moving his body with lightning-quick speed to reach out and snag a puck out of mid-air with his gloved hand or deflect it with the shaft of the stick held in the other. And the splits ? Holy hell, that kind of action should have been enough to pull something, yet he popped back up quickly, repeating the move again when the situation warranted.
I was mesmerized watching him. Until tonight, I’d assumed goalie was the lazy option. They stood around most of the game while the rest of the team busted their butts, skating at full speed.
Boy, was I wrong.
Yes, the skaters worked hard, but they swapped out with others every thirty seconds or so, earning themselves a rest—a chance to recover before their next shift. There was no one to give Sasha a break. He was out there the entire game.
There were stoppages in play that allowed him to remove his mask and take a drink of water. Not that I didn’t already recognize how hard he was working, but it became more obvious in those moments. His face was dripping, needing to be wiped off with a towel, and he no longer required the aid of water to keep his hair back; sweat had plastered it to his skull.
I screamed when players slammed into the glass in of me front so hard that it shook violently enough to knock the beer of the man beside me off the thin ledge he’d perched it on. The open container tipped over, and liquid soaked the fabric of my jeans.
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered.
The guy didn’t even bother to offer an apology, cursing, “Shit! There’s ten bucks wasted. Gonna have to get another one.”
Irritated, my snarky side came out to play. “Well, guess that’s the price you pay for not having any common sense.”
He reared back, narrowing his eyes as the insult sank in. “Excuse me?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I popped a hip, ready to go to battle. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to feel bad for you , when I’m the one covered in beer due to your stupidity?”
“S-stupidity?” he blustered.
“Yeah. Only an idiot would try to balance an open container on a ledge that wasn’t half as wide as the base of the cup.” I cocked an eyebrow, challenging him to argue my point.
We were packed into this arena like sardines, so it didn’t take much to have his chest pressed to mine as he gritted out, “Listen, lady, I don’t know who you think you are—“
A sharp bang on the glass had me yelping, my feet levitating off the ground. Placing a hand over my racing heart, I found my sparring partner’s head had turned toward the ice, his skin visibly paler as his eyes grew comically large.
Swallowing, I dared to peek at what had scared this macho man into silence. Darting my eyes to the side, I fought the urge to smile.
Guess he did know I was here.
The game action had paused for one reason or another, and Sasha stood on the opposite side of the glass separating us. But his gaze wasn’t on me. It was on the fucker who thought he could intimidate me because I dared to call him out for a lack of brains and manners.
Sasha removed his glove, turned his head to the side, and used a finger to point at his helmet.
Eyes tracking the move, my jaw dropped open. I’d been too far away to get a good look at the artwork on his mask until now. There, in vivid jewel tones, was a collection of cut gems, along with my name written in script.
My douchebag seat partner whipped his head to me in surprise. “ You’re Gemma?”
Who needs to wear this man’s jersey when he’s got you claimed for all the world to see every time he takes the ice?
Feeling lightheaded with how fast my heart was beating, I managed a breathless reply. “Yeah.”
The idiot stumbled all over himself when he realized my connection to Sasha. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Let me get you some napkins. I didn’t realize.”
He was gone before I could formulate a retort that it was too little, too late, and the sudden one-eighty wouldn’t do a damn thing to erase his dickish behavior.
Turning my attention back to my boyfriend—I mean, what else did you call a guy who had your name painted on his helmet, you shared a dog with, and who spent every night sleeping in your bed?—on the other side of the glass, I made sure to give him an exaggerated eye roll. He knew better than anyone that I could fight my own battles. I didn’t need his help.
Granted, my solution of kneeing the moron in the balls would have likely had me carted out of the arena by security, but it was a risk I was willing to take to teach him a valuable lesson.
Sasha only grinned behind his mask, offering me a wink before skating back to the net, ready to resume play.
Maybe one of these days, we’d have an outing without incident.
In the second period, Sasha switched to the net at the far end of the ice, but when the third period began, he was right in front of me again.
He was trying his damnedest not to peek at me every time he removed his helmet for a water break, but every once in a while, he’d let his eyes stray, and that undivided attention he gave me in a crowd of thousands made my cheeks heat.
Not for the first time, I wondered what made me so special. Why had he singled me out and dug his heels in when I’d begged him to leave me alone?
It wasn’t like he didn’t have options. I’d have been blind not to notice the skinny, pretty women—the complete opposite of me—holding up signs begging him for a date, publicly offering up their phone numbers in their desperation to be with him. There was even one that said, Marry Me, Goose!
All the while, I sat there, knowing I was the recipient of his complete devotion and had turned down his offer of marriage.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Do you really wanna pull at that thread? You know exactly why you’re so fucked up that you had no idea what to do when the man confessed his love.
I wanted nothing more than to return to our little bubble inside my townhouse. We could shut out the world and pretend nothing else existed.
Inside those walls, I allowed myself to be happy with Sasha and the little life we were creating together. There were too many variables out here in the real world, and I didn’t want anything to disrupt the fragile balance we’d found—namely, my own insecurities.
The Speed were up by a score of one-to-zero on the Sailors, and the clock was ticking down. Less than a minute remained.
In disbelief, I watched the Sailors’ goalie leave his net, skating hard toward the bench as another skater jumped over the boards. The action occurred in the zone closest to us, where Sasha was working hard to defend the goal he guarded.
The names on the back of the Speed jerseys helped me identify the players as they skated around, trying to get the puck away from their opponents. Jenner charged forward, lifting the stick of the Sailor player opposite him, stealing the puck and chipping it over the blue line.
A helpful fan behind me had explained that if the puck went to the opposite side of the blue line, the team whose offensive zone that was would have to exit, and upon re-entry, the puck would have to precede them, or the play would be blown dead as offside.
Like they’d done it a million times, the Sailors retreated, gathering the puck further toward their own net and charging forward again.
Braxton came flying at the man with the puck, and he must’ve panicked, throwing it down the ice toward Sasha instead of making a clean pass to a teammate.
With no one around, Sasha gathered the puck from behind the net with his stick.
I expected him to do the same as Jenner had done, chipping it out of the zone and forcing the Sailors to try again. With time ticking down below thirty seconds, their chances of scoring a tying goal were getting smaller.
But instead, he paused, and someone behind me whispered, “Oh my God.”
“What?” I screamed, unable to tear my eyes away from Sasha. “Oh my God what?”
They didn’t answer, and my heart beat in triple time, wondering what the hell was going on in that pretty head of his.
Finally, I got my answer.
Sasha didn’t shoot the puck to the side, electing to glance it off the boards or the glass to clear the zone. No, he lined it up and shot it straight through the middle. Hard.
I watched as time slowed down, the puck on a perfect trajectory with the open net on the far side of the ice.
Sailors players’ skates cut into the ice so hard that a fine mist of snow shot up around them as they tried to change direction quickly. But it was too late.
Sasha’s cross-ice shot slid right into the net and the horn that sounded was quickly drowned out by the crowd going nuts. Everyone was on their feet, cheering. Those closest to me beat their hands on the glass with an enthusiasm that was at a much higher level than when the Speed had scored earlier.
Some part of my brain knew it was Sasha who had sent that puck careening down the ice. Hell, I’d watched him do it. But I wasn’t sure of the rules and didn’t know if it would be allowed to count.
“Is that legal?” My dazed question could barely be heard over the roar of the crowd, and I wondered if I might suffer permanent hearing damage as a result.
Beer-Spilling Billy shouted back, “Hell yeah, it is! Your boy just scored a goalie goal! Don’t see that every day!”
Sasha’s arms were in the air as his teammates rushed him, creating a mass of bodies in front of the net. He shoved them off, turning around and skating toward the glass before me.
Whipping off his mask, the grin on his face was enough to melt my heart. Then he went and turned up the heat, causing it to explode, when he shouted for all the world to hear, “I love you!”
Face flaming, I tried to tune out the cheers of the fans seated in my section. They were getting one hell of a show tonight—both on the ice and off of it.
Crooking a finger, Sasha beckoned me closer. I arched an eyebrow, gesturing to the glass that separated us. Undeterred, he ventured closer, his grin growing as he brought his face only an inch or two away from the glass. Then he tapped a single finger against his puckered lips before pressing them to the clear surface.
I let out a squeak, rearing back when I realized what he wanted. Was he insane? No way in hell was I putting my mouth on that filthy glass, not knowing how many hands had touched it or when the last time it was cleaned.
“Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him.” Chants rose from around me, and I whipped my head around in shock as every person in the surrounding area urged me on, encouraging Sasha’s insanity.
I tried to wave them off, but they were relentless in their demand that I return Sasha’s kiss.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered under my breath.
Praying that I wouldn’t catch some kind of disease for what I was about to do, I kissed the glass for a split second before pulling back.
It might’ve been brief, but it satisfied the unruly fans and, apparently, Sasha as well because he skated backward, mouthing, Stay there.
The players filed off the ice, the game having concluded with a Speed victory. The fans remained in their seats as the three stars of the game were announced, each one coming out to salute the crowd.
And wouldn’t you know it? Sasha’s goalie goal had earned him first star, and everyone went crazy when he made a reappearance. His wide grin filled the big screen as the camera trained on him zoomed in.
The joy he exuded was infectious, and I found myself laughing at the charming man as he made a show of hyping up the crowd.
Not sure I could be convinced to attend a game again anytime soon, but I was glad I’d come to watch him in his element, to understand what he did that made him one of the best in the league for his position.
It was a night I wouldn’t soon forget.