Chapter 15
KONSTANTIN
Ireserve an ice rink for two people.
By the time Nora walks through the players' entrance, Galina has taken possession of the officials' bench.
Dasha is lacing white skates beside her.
Mikhail wears an old red hockey jersey with my surname across the shoulders, apparently recovered from a period of my life I persuaded several people to forget.
More than twenty relatives occupy the remaining benches. Eight guards stand among them with rental skates in their hands, each man wearing the expression of someone asked to select between disobedience and a public spinal injury.
Nora stops beside me. "You said private."
"The building is closed to the public."
Her eyes move across my family. Two uncles are arguing about whether an incident on a frozen lake in 1998 constituted a race or attempted murder. A small boy slides past the open gate on his stomach while an aunt pulls him back by one boot.
"How romantic. Did they overpower your security?"
"This wasn't the arrangement."
Galina strikes the boards once with the rubber end of her cane. "We were invited by Dasha."
Dasha lifts one hand without apology.
I look at my cousin. "You weren't invited."
"Nora mentioned skating last week. I assumed the invitation was lost during one of your security reviews."
"You assumed incorrectly."
Past the gate, Mikhail catches one blade against the other and travels sideways into the boards. Beneath the arena roof, the impact produces a hollow crack, but he recovers before falling and grows visibly bolder.
"We're ready," he calls.
Nora leans closer to me. "You lost at miniature golf."
"That has no relevance."
"It means you shouldn't be in charge of dates involving scorecards or skates."
The rink smells of sharpened steel, cold rubber, and the coffee being poured from silver urns behind the benches. Fresh ice shines under white lights, a flawless silver-white sheet already taking the first curved scars of skate blades as the refrigeration system pushes cold through my coat.
For one hour without anyone needing me, I arranged music and warm food.
Most of the morning went to the security sweep because the identified stalker still hasn't appeared at any address connected to the documents supplied four days ago.
Through one checkpoint, every employee entered, while the service tunnels remain sealed.
My family passed the same screening, then multiplied inside the arena.
Nora sits on the bench to change into her skates, black leggings beneath a long green sweater.
High on her head, she has gathered her hair to leave her nape bare.
By the time I sit facing her and take the first set of laces, both skates are threaded but loose.
"I can tie my own skates. You haven't even given me the chance. "
"You left too much room at the ankle."
While I tighten the laces, she braces one heel on the bench between my legs. For balance, her fingers rest on my shoulder, drawing my attention along her thigh and beneath the sweater where soft fabric falls between her knees.
"You look annoyed," she says. "You rented an arena where organized sport happens, so some risk of organized sport was inevitable."
"I expected to have you alone." I secure the second skate. "We'll leave."
Nora looks toward the ice. With both arms spread, Dasha pushes away from the boards and laughs when she nearly collides with one of the guards.
Against Galina's chest, her daughter rests in a padded blue suit, chewing the corner of a mitten while Galina gives instructions nobody can hear.
"I want to stay," Nora says. "You can survive sharing me for an hour. "
I let the relatives keep the rink and offer her my hand. "Two hours."
"That sounded almost generous."
"Don't abuse it."
She takes my hand before walking through the gate.
Nora can remain upright on skates. She has made no corresponding arrangement for stopping.
I discover this when she pushes away from the boards, gains speed through the first curve, then turns her head toward me with widening eyes.
Before she reaches a cluster of children, I cross the distance and close both hands around her waist. Beneath us, her blades continue forward until her body meets mine.
The collision knocks half a breath from her.
"You could have mentioned that," I say.
"I thought dragging one foot would work."
"Dragging one foot damages the ice while you hope for mercy."
"You own aircraft. Surely one ruined corner of ice won't destroy you."
After placing her left hand on the boards, I show her how to angle the blades. With intense concentration, she watches my feet. One attempt turns into a slow circle, while the second ends against my chest by choice.
"Better," I tell her.
"I barely moved."
"That was the improvement."
She grips the front of my coat. "Miniature golf."
I take her around the rink with one arm locked at her waist.
The first half hour resembles the family outings I remember from childhood, before money allowed us to reserve buildings.
Galina used to pack every cousin she could into two cars for discounted Wednesday nights at the municipal rink.
Back then, the red jersey on Mikhail belonged to me.
Older relatives make careful loops near the boards, children fall without shame, and my uncles race down the center until Galina threatens them with her cane.
The guards at every exit mark the difference between then and now.
For this hour, Nora doesn't look toward any of them.
Mikhail eventually produces hockey sticks and divides the family according to age, grudges, and tolerance for cheating. Nora tells everyone I lost at miniature golf before the first puck drops. From that point, meaningful rules become impossible.
By accident, she scores when Dasha's shot strikes my skate and changes direction.
After brushing Nora's stick, the puck slides into the goal while her raised arms carry her backward onto the ice.
When I reach her, she dismisses the fall because it happened after the goal.
Her cheeks are pink with cold, loose hair clings near her mouth, and the pleasure in her face narrows the arena around us.
I pull her upright. With a kiss at the corner of my mouth, she returns to her team while my family celebrates more loudly than they did the score.
The game ends when an uncle sends the puck into the coffee table. Galina awards victory to Nora because the other team spilled her tea, then adds two imaginary goals when Mikhail appeals.
Nora escapes toward the tunnel while the family begins removing skates. I follow her past stacked training cones into the narrow equipment corridor under the stands.
The cold lessens away from the ice. Concrete walls hold the smells of damp wool, machine oil, and the faint sweetness of the hot chocolate carried through earlier. Nora stops beside a rack of spare helmets.
"Hiding from your admirers?" I ask.
"I wanted one private minute from my private date." I close the distance, placing her between my body and the wall. "You used my miniature-golf loss to undermine me through the entire game."
"It worked. You were distracted from the game."
Beneath my open coat, her hands move to grip the sweater at my waist. She draws me closer until my thigh presses between hers, her look holding intention without apology.
"Your family thinks you let me win," she says.
"They have seen you skate."
"Maybe I enjoy telling powerful men what happened."
"Maybe you enjoy what happens afterward."
I close one hand around the back of her neck. Her pupils widen before she rises onto the front edges of her skates to meet my mouth.
With cold lips, the kiss begins. Heat follows when she opens for me and flattens her hands against my stomach. Against the concrete, I hold her while my tongue moves over hers. When my free hand slips under the hem of her sweater, her breath catches.
Warm skin meets my palm.
As I trace the line of her waist, she arches. Through her leggings, I feel how completely my thigh fills the space between hers. She moves once against me, slowly turning the narrow corridor into a test I have no intention of passing.
"Tell me again," I say against her mouth.
"You lost."
I lift the sweater until the lower edge of her bra reaches my knuckles. "Again."
"In front of all those guards."
My thumb finds the underside of her breast.
The equipment-room door opens ten feet away.
Mikhail steps into the corridor carrying a crate of skates. He sees us, reverses and collides with Dasha behind him. Metal blades strike the floor in a series of bright crashes.
Dasha looks past his shoulder. "We found them."
Nora lowers her sweater without leaving the space between me and the wall.
"You found an occupied corridor," I say.
"Galina sent us. She says the children need to leave before bedtime, though I suspect she wants the rest of your hot chocolate." Mikhail crouches to gather the fallen skates. One catches in his sleeve before he stacks it with the others.
I move away from Nora.
On our way back to the rink, she takes my hand.
Children disappear into coats while guards carry sticks, bags, and one sleeping infant.
Without fear, Mikhail smirks as Dasha draws Nora into an argument over the imaginary score and Galina sends two uncles back for a missing scarf.
The empty rink I arranged would have given Nora less joy than this loud family outing.
At the players' entrance, three of my guards wait beside the cars. Nora pauses before putting on her coat.
"Your office later this week?" she asks.
"Why?"
She raises her voice for every man beside the door to hear. "I thought I'd remind you that your thirty-year-old wife beat you at miniature golf. Maybe I'll explain exactly how badly."
One guard opens the rear door before we reach it. Another checks the wheel well again. The youngest looks straight ahead, fighting a smile.
I incline my head. "Say it in my office, Nora."
Her smile follows me into the cold.
"I intend to."