Chapter One
Moskins
The sunlight creeping through the hotel room blinds assaults my eyes as I squint to check the time, making it hard to see the hands on my Santos de Cartier watch, a wedding gift from my wife.
Groaning when I realize I’m going to be late for a meeting with my agent, I ignore the muffled protests of the slender woman sleeping half naked beside me and throw the blankets off of us.
When the nameless blonde makes no effort to move, I say the same thing I always do to my overnight guests. “Get up, get dressed, and get out.”
I stand and stretch my sore, stiff muscles and examine the sleek curves of the bartender who warmed my sheets last night.
She’d made good drinks and gave good head, but frowns sleepily at me as if she expects a flowery morning greeting and pancakes.
Most women know exactly what they’re signing up for when they follow me to my room, and don’t protest when our time together is over.
“It’s early,” she whines, sitting up and holding the sheets to her tits as if her nipples weren’t in my mouth three hours ago. “I thought we could have morning sex and then get breakfast.”
Well, she thought wrong.
I collect the clothes that I’d ripped from her body in the early morning hours and toss them onto the bed before grabbing an outfit from my suitcase for myself. “No time. I’ve got places to be.”
I slide into the bathroom to take care of business as she starts redressing with a scowl. I’m not sure why she’s pissed. She got off twice before I even got to stick my cock in her. You’d think that would put someone in a decent mood.
As I’m walking out freshly clothed, my phone goes off with Emaly’s name and picture on the screen.
I chuckle at the ridiculous image of her in a baggy chicken pajama onesie, holding a glass of red wine, which she set as her contact image.
“I’m surprised you’re up, Dimples,” I greet, leaning my shoulder against the wall as I watch my visitor dress. “It’s early on the West Coast.”
The nameless bartender stops buttoning her shirt when she sees me on the phone, staring at me with a narrowed expression.
There’s a smile in my wife’s voice. “Am I interrupting something? I see you’ve been busy if what TMZ is reporting is true.”
I snort and stare at the woman crossing her arms over her chest as she gapes dubiously at me.
“I’m just finishing up, actually,” I inform her, getting a scoff from my one-night stand as she flattens out her rumpled black skirt.
My wife hums. “Let me guess. Blonde?”
I grin, giving the bartender another thorough once-over. She’s shorter than I normally go for. Was she wearing heels last night? She’s pretty, though. Average. Nice rack. “You’d like her,” I say to the woman whose finger I slid a ring onto.
“Are you really flirting with another woman while I’m right here?” the bartender asks, glaring at me.
“Actually,” I purr, not bothering to pull the phone away from my ear, “I’m speaking with my wife.”
Emaly laughs on the other end of the phone as my lay makes a disgusted face and grabs her phone and shoes.
“You are a sick bastard, Thomas Moskins,” she informs me, walking to the door.
Before she can slam it behind her, I call out, “I’ll tell her you said hello.”
Once I’m alone, I sit on the edge of the unmade bed and absorb the welcoming silence.
After a long day of sponsorship meetings with my agent yesterday, I’m over people.
Most of the jackholes I spoke with didn’t seem inclined to have me be the face of their products, thanks to the tabloid headlines lately.
Apparently, men’s cologne and athletic wear are only for the family men of the world.
Which, according to the reps of two different brands I met yesterday, I am not.
The off-season is supposed to be relaxing, but between sponsorships, commercials, and photo shoots, I’ve done everything but relax.
The transition from my old hockey team in Pittsburgh to my new one in Connecticut ensures that I barely have any downtime.
But I chose this sacrifice, which means I have to deal with all the PR bullshit that comes with it.
After a minute, I say, “I guess she got off on fucking a married guy.”
There’s bemusement in Emaly’s response. “Way to ruin her fantasy.”
I crack a grin, but it quickly drops when I remember what time it is. “Is everything okay? You don’t normally call this early.”
The woman I’ve known since I was young is not a morning person. It takes an act of God to get her up before ten a.m., and even then, she needs coffee before she can hold a conversation. It’s astounding to me that she can be a doctor and pull doubles, knowing what a zombie she is on her days off.
Worry cements in my gut. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she says with a laugh.
Despite growing up in the United States, Emaly Moskins-Yokav has the faintest Russian accent thanks to her family heritage.
Her parents, Mikhail and Valeria Yokav, are both from Moscow and spend a few months each year at their estate in Russia’s capital.
Valeria runs the country’s largest artificial skating rink, where a lot of top athletes train, and they recently opened a second location solely for Olympians and their coaches.
Emaly and her younger brother, Sasha, grew up on the ice as figure skaters.
Her parents expected both of them to become gold medalists like Valeria, but only one of them fulfilled their parents’ lifelong dream.
It’s why Sasha remains in Russia, training for the next Winter Olympics, while his older sister resides in the United States under the scrutiny of her disapproving family.
My recent indiscretions certainly don’t help her case any.
I’m definitely not winning them over now that my name is being plastered as front-page news on every tabloid next to a woman who is not my wife.
Not that I particularly care to be in their good graces, despite her father’s involvement in my career as of late.
I may have let him puppet master my life, but it’s to ensure he stays far away from Emaly’s.
People can assume what they want about me, but I’ll do anything to protect the people I love. And I’ve loved Emaly since we were kids.
My in-laws have done nothing but berate and judge Emaly from the time she was old enough to understand what berating meant.
It’s put a wedge between my wife and her family that’s small enough where they keep in contact, but large enough not to depend on a single cent they try throwing in our direction.
Emaly never wanted their money or prestige. She’s only ever wanted their approval to be her own person. But with the Yokavs…well, that’s no easy task to accomplish.
Which is why they didn’t even blink when Emaly chose to keep her last name and hyphenate ours when we got married.
Did I care that she put my name first? No.
It was her decision, and I supported it.
I just wish her father could see how much that choice meant to her.
Then again, I wish Mikhail Yokav would see a lot of things if he’d simply open his eyes.
Life would be a lot better for all of us if he were more accepting.
“You worry too much,” she chides softly, pulling me back to reality.
I scrub my hand through my hair. I really need to schedule a haircut. “Can you blame me? The first time we were apart for this long…” I swallow, my Adam’s apple bobbing at the memory that will stay with me for a long time.
I’ll never forgive myself for not checking on her more. For not calling or texting her when the hockey preseason took me away for so long. If I had, maybe I would have known something was wrong. I could have seen the signs, like I’d seen them when we were younger.
Emaly must know where my head is. “It was one time, Little Bear. I’m fine now since seeing the new specialist.”
Little Bear. The term of endearment is the only thing keeping me from booking a flight to California. She used to say I was as protective as her father, but with far more affection than he was capable of showing.
“It happened twice, and I should have been there,” I murmur, still feeling guilty over the call I got from the hospital when one of her neighbors saw her passed out on the ground outside our apartment building.
I swallow and grind my teeth.
I should have been there.
I should have been the first one on the scene, not the firefighters. Not the ambulance. If I were there—
“I’m calling,” she says, breaking through my onslaught of rampant thoughts, “because I saw what they’re writing about you and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I huff out a laugh and rub a hand down my face. “You don’t need to concern yourself with that, Em. It’s nothing I’m not used to.”
“But—”
“No,” I cut her off firmly. She’ll say she feels bad; tell me she can dispel the accusations.
But I tell her the same thing I always do when rumors arise.
“The vultures in the media will say and do anything for a headline. It’s about making money for them.
If they gave a shit about hurting someone’s feelings, they’d have a different job.
I don’t want you to feel bad about what those dickwads post.”
She’s silent for a stretch of time before I hear her sigh softly. “We both know my father isn’t going to let you off the hook so easily.”
Christ. It isn’t that I forgot her father is a factor in this mess, but I don’t like to think about him if I can help it.
Mikhail Yokav is not someone you mess with.
His connections stretch much further than mine do, and so do his pockets.
If he wants to make your life a living hell, he will.
And while Emaly might not be their golden child, they are still protective of her.
If to protect their name only.
Up until a year ago, Mikhail had simply been my father-in-law. But after a few intense meetings with my agent, manager, and lawyer, he now all but owns my fucking life. Which means he can take away everything I’ve worked my goddamn ass off for.
Pissing somebody like him off is stupid. And the headlines right now are not going to paint me in a good light, regardless of how my team tries to spin it.
Emaly must know the inner turmoil waging in my body. “I can speak with him,” she offers. “Perhaps he’ll listen.”
If he were the type of man to listen to reason, we wouldn’t be living this charade for over a decade.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I stifle a sigh. “I’ll handle it.”
The woman I consider my best friend, my only real friend, makes a sound of protest. “You don’t always have to do everything on your own, Thomas.”
I want to tell her, “I know.” But I don’t bother lying, because she’s one of the few people I agreed never to do that with.
The rest of the world can view me as a cocky asshole.
A cheater. A liar. I don’t give a shit. But not Emaly.
She’s always seen the real side of me. The one that yearns for quiet.
For peace. For love. Who would rather stay inside with a bowl of popcorn and a soda rather than go to a bar until close with the guys.
No. I won’t lie to her.
So, I simply say, “I’ll be more careful about staying out of the tabloids.”
Because that’s the only other promise I have to offer the woman I swore to love in sickness and in health—the only thing I can give the girl whom I’ve only kissed one time in our thirteen years of marriage after sliding a ring onto her finger. For her, I’ll do better. I’ll try.
She says, “I love you, Little Bear,” in a soft, comforting tone that I miss hearing in person.
My throat bobs. “I love you too, Dimples.”