Chapter 9
Nikolai
Five missed calls from Dad.
The news took longer to reach him than I thought it would.
I ignore my phone, trying to focus on the reading for my class on modern Russian politics. I pick up my highlighter, but the
words—English and Russian alike—swim in front of my eyes. I wonder if Donna enrolling me in this class is Grandfather’s idea
of a joke.
My phone buzzes yet again. The girl sitting across from me raises her head, smacking her bubble gum.
“This is a quiet room,” she says, pointing to a sign on the wall.
I scowl at her as I silence the phone. She just blinks at me, clearly equally annoyed, before going back to work.
I spoke Russian to Isabelle three times: once because she asked if I was fluent, so I replied Да , and waxed poetic about how pretty she looked in the dress she was wearing, and two times while she was asleep. “Sunshine”
describes her perfectly in English, but the Russian term of endearment, c олнышко , solnishko, translates more directly to “little sun,” and that’s what I think of when I look at her.
I haven’t seen her since she pressed her lips to mine and ran like she hadn’t just awakened every nerve in my body. If I’d
been thinking clearly, I’d have dragged her back and told her exactly what I think about our summer fling.
Instead, she slipped through my fingers again.
My phone lights up with yet another call.
“Maybe you should take that,” the girl says.
“Maybe you should mind your own business,” I mutter as I stand, grabbing the phone.
I leave the quiet room and duck into an alcove in the hallway. I run my hand through my hair, rubbing the back of my neck,
as the call connects. A cold tendril of panic hooks into my heart. I know I should block his number, but whenever I try, I
can’t quite make myself.
Five minutes. I’ll give him five minutes.
“Dad?” I say in English.
“Only six calls this time. That’s an improvement.”
I’ve heard people call Russian a harsh language, but that’s not true if you understand it, and it always sounds extra-smooth
coming out of my father’s mouth. I can imagine him perfectly, even though I haven’t seen him in person since my eighteenth
birthday, when the no-contact custody agreement ceased. Tall and broad-chested, with a long, handsome face. A crooked nose,
but that’s to be expected after a lifetime of playing hockey. Brown eyes like mine, and the same defined jawline. He has a
face that looks good on camera. Even when his teeth were all chippy, his smile would draw stares.
I stand straighter, despite the fact he’s thousands of miles away and can’t actually see me. He used to hit my legs with his
twig to correct my posture while skating, and it stuck.
I shouldn’t answer when he calls. However talented and charming he is—and believe me, plenty of people think he’s a great
person, an excellent ambassador for Russian hockey—I shouldn’t keep letting him into my life. He’s a manipulative asshole
when sober and worse when drunk. He controlled as much of my life as he could, and hurt my mother, and then eventually hurt
me, that New Year’s Eve so long ago.
Sometimes I wake up drenched in cold sweat, unable to breathe. And sometimes... sometimes I wake up missing him. He put me in the hospital, and I haven’t eradicated the part of me that still loves him.
“What do you want?” I ask, switching to Russian. “I’m in the middle of something.”
“Visit me.”
I nearly drop the phone. “What?”
“You haven’t seen the club. I think you’ll change your mind once you tour it and meet everyone.”
“Change my mind about what?”
“I was always your best coach, Nikolai. You don’t need more college.”
“You have to be kidding.” I laugh shortly. “I’m not going to play for you.”
“Are you so sure that team in California will want you now? From what I heard, you made quite a mess.”
That team in California. Like he doesn’t know all the teams in the NHL; he spent a disastrous few years playing for the Penguins before injuries forced
him—and his wife, and three-year-old son—to Moscow. He revived his career, but never made it back to the NHL.
“It’s none of your business.”
“You’re my son. Of course it’s my business.”
“I thought you wanted me to play for the NHL.” I’m glad I’m speaking Russian now, because I’m getting angry, and I doubt anyone
passing by understands what I’m saying. When I was little, my father dreamed of making a comeback in the league through me.
It shifted, once he retired from playing and started to coach professionally in the KHL, but I figured that wish wouldn’t
have just gone away. Not completely. “Isn’t that where the money is? You always said things would have been different if you
stayed in the league.”
Would they really have been different? Would he have loved my mother more? Would he have loved me more?
He sighs. My body tenses at that sound, anticipating a raised voice. But when he speaks, his tone is calm, almost flat.
“We’re prepared to make you a very generous offer.”
For a moment, I consider telling him about my deal with Grandfather, but as much as I’d love to shock him, he’d just find
a way to turn it around for his benefit. In truth, the Sharks organization wasn’t thrilled to hear about my expulsion, but
I’m a talented enough prospect that they let it slide—provided I have a good season with McKee and continue to show progress.
I should have told them to forget it, but I couldn’t make myself open the door to that conversation. Not yet, anyway. Some
delusional part of me must think there’s a chance I can convince Grandfather to change his mind.
“No amount of money will ever make me say yes to playing for you.” I say the words in English, practically spitting them out.
“I’d rather play for nothing than wear your jersey.”
“Everyone has a price, Kolya.”
At the sound of the old diminutive for my name, my heart nearly stops. It’s a speck of affection, barely anything, and yet
it resonates with me like a half-remembered dream.
“Don’t. Don’t—call me that.”
“It’s your name, no? The name I gave you.” His voice is a soft blanket. “Nikolasha, I remember how tiny you were when I first
held you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste copper. My fingers go numb. I curl and uncurl them, trying to get the feeling
back.
He’s manipulating me. He’s sour that he lost me to Grandfather when Mom divorced him, and he wants me back. As long as I remember
that, I’m safe. He can’t hurt me again, whether it’s with fists or velvet-wrapped words.
A girl with long, dark hair rounds the corner. Yellow tank top. White denim skirt. Volleyball bag.
Isabelle.
“If everyone has a price, you’ll have to try harder to find mine.”
I don’t wait to hear his reply. I end the call and run down the hallway. Isabelle’s eyes widen when she notices me, stopping
in her tracks even though she nearly collides with a guy carrying a stack of books.
“Nik? What’s going on?”
She started calling me Nik all on her own, just like I called her Isabelle from our first conversation. Nik isn’t Kolya, but
I love it even more because it belongs to her. Kolya is a dagger, but Nik is a kiss.
I try to find the right words to set her at ease without getting into the phone call, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I
just shake my head.
“Let’s—here.” She yanks me into the nearest closet, shutting the door before tossing her bag aside. “What’s going on? Who
were you talking to?”
My throat feels as if it’s being welded shut. I shake my head again. “It’s nothing. Just... nothing. I’m fine.”
She cups my jaw. “You can talk to me.”
Her blue eyes are wide with concern. I turn my face into her palm, chest twinging sharply at the ghost of affection. “I can’t.”
“Nik.”
“I can’t,” I repeat, voice cracking.
She pushes closer. I tremble at her warmth, overcome with the desire to hold her. I fumble for the doorknob, but before I
can turn it, she reaches up on her tiptoes and brushes her lips to mine.
My mind short-circuits as I breathe in her perfume. Bright, delicate citrus, like always. I whirl us around, pinning her against the door. She fists her hand in my shirt, urging me into another kiss.
“You’re okay,” she whispers.
I guide her onto her tiptoes. When I run my hands over her hips and thighs, she gets the idea and hooks her legs around my
waist. I groan at the shift in position, dropping my head to her shoulder. The looming panic attack ebbs away, bit by bit.
“One more time,” I murmur against her neck. It’s selfish to ask this of her, but I can’t help myself. “Distract me. Please,
Isabelle.”
She nods, tangling her hand in my hair and giving it a tug. I kiss her again, openmouthed and openly desperate. I feel her
smile against my lips like she missed this as much as me; as if the other day at the coffee shop wasn’t nearly enough.
This is so much better than arguing with Dad or trying to forget Grandfather’s plans for me. It’s the one thing in this whole
situation that’s bearable. She made the world fall away all summer, and she’s doing it again right now with each kiss and
each scratch of her nails down my back. I pull down her shirt, giving me access to her tits. Her nails dig in as she gasps.
My dick throbs.
I hope she leaves marks with her pink manicure.
“Nik,” she says, her voice wobbly as I press fevered kisses to the tops of her breasts.
I gently bite one of her nipples as I drag my hand down her side, bunching up her skirt. When I brush my fingertips over her
panties, she moans into my mouth. My jeans are starting to get uncomfortable, but I ignore that in favor of teasing her. I
know how easily she comes when I touch her just right.
“Isabelle.” The name most people call her is cute, but her full name is beautiful. I love the way it sounds in my mouth.
“More,” she gasps. “Please.”
In other, less hurried moments, I’ve coaxed her into begging, but I don’t have the patience for it right now. We’re in a closet in the middle of the goddamn library. I’ll control myself better in the future. Just... not yet. Not until I hear my name on her lips as she comes one more time.
I nudge her thin panties aside and slide a finger into her. She whimpers when I add another, curling both in search of that
place that makes her fall apart. I kiss her all the while, getting both our mouths messy with spit. Her intake of breath lets
me know I found her G-spot, and as I rub it, she arches her back as best she can against the door.
“Nik.” Her ankles dig into my lower back hard enough to make me grunt. “Nikolai.”
“Shh, sweetheart. Not so loud.”
I wish I could taste her. I have half a mind to slip to my knees and lick her out against the door, but that’ll make her come
louder, and anyway, if I taste her again, it’ll be that much harder to forget. I angle my thumb so it brushes against her
clit with each stroke of my fingers. Her eyes are open, wide and blue in the dim of the closet, her lashes perfectly curved.
Her breath comes in short pants. She’s close.
I press our foreheads together, clenching my stomach as lust swoops through me. I’m skirting the edge just from this, and
by her pleased smile, she knows it. I push a third finger into her. She’s trembling, clenching around my fingers so tightly
I can barely move them. With the next touch of my thumb against her clit, she says my name sharply. I muffle her loud cry
as she comes.
I’m right on the edge, balls drawn up tight, but manage to rein it in. I pull out of her slowly, resisting the temptation
to lick my fingers clean.
“Perfect girl.” I let her down gently, tugging her skirt and panties back into place. “So fucking perfect when you come.”
If possible, the praise makes her blush even deeper. We stare at each other for half a beat too long before she reaches for my waistband. I shake my head, pulling her away with the hand that isn’t covered in her slick. I want that hand for when I jerk myself into my fist.
“Let me help.”
“You should get back to whatever you were doing.” I clear my throat; my voice sounds hoarse. “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“You must be aching.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
It’s one thing to pleasure her, but another for her to do it to me. If I have any chance at keeping my desires at bay, that
door needs to stay locked. Not just shut. Locked, key tossed away. She made me come better than anyone I’ve ever been with,
and the last thing I need is to experience that again. Besides, this was reckless of me. Selfish and reckless. I need to keep
my distance.
She hesitates, eyes searching mine. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
“Really. I’m fine.”
She kisses my cheek, right over my scar. I shiver, resisting the urge to pull her into my arms once more.
“If you say so,” she whispers into my ear. “I don’t like seeing you sad.”