Chapter 2
Sasha
Aaron Kelly is standing in the lobby of the Pemberton Hotel trying to look relaxed, and he’s terrible at it.
His shoulders are up near his ears. His jaw is set. He’s got his phone in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen without actually doing anything.
His face shows me exactly what I was expecting to see — hope, and a little relief that the performance for Diego is over.
Late August in New York City and the evening heat is still brutal — the kind that sticks to your skin the second you step outside. Aaron’s dark hair is damp at the temples. His collar is crooked. He hasn’t noticed.
God, he’s good-looking. Green eyes, strong jaw, fair skin flushed from the heat. A hockey player who spent his summer doing manual labor — broad shoulders, thick arms, hands that look like they could…well, I’m imagining a lot of things.
“How did it go?” I ask, crossing the marble floor toward him.
He startles. Didn’t see me. “Sasha. Hey. I didn’t know you were still here.”
“I was waiting for you.”
That lands on him like a small electric shock. His eyes widen a fraction, then he recovers. “It went fine. Good, I think. Diego was — yeah. He seemed interested.”
“Seemed interested.” I study his face. His fingers are tapping against his phone case in that rapid rhythm I already know. The one that means he’s holding something in. “That doesn’t sound very confident.”
“Well, I’m not you.” He says it lightly, like a joke. It’s not a joke.
“No,” I agree. “You’re not. I was confident before I walked in the door. Diego is going to represent me. I could see it in his face five minutes into the meeting.” I shrug. “He’ll want you, too. He’d be an idiot not to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know exactly that.” I let it sit. “Have a drink with me.”
His hand tightens on his phone. “I should probably just—”
“One drink.” I nod toward the arched doorway off the lobby, where the bar glows amber in the dim light. “It’s a Russian tradition. After a day of work, you drink.”
“That’s not a tradition. That’s alcoholism.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. There it is. Aaron Kelly has a sense of humor hiding under all that tension.
“How would you know? Have you ever had a drink with a Russian?”
“No, and I don’t—”
“Then you are not qualified to dispute my traditions.” I cross my arms. “One drink. You can go back to being stressed about things that don’t need stressing after.”
His throat bobs. His eyes cut to the bar entrance, then back to me, then to the elevator. I can see him building the polite exit. Long day. Early morning. I should probably—
“One drink,” he says.
I love seeing the surprise at his own words on his face. That flash of alarm — like his mouth moved before the rest of him could stop it.
“One,” he repeats, firmer. “And then I’m going to bed.”
The hotel bar is two steps down from the lobby. Dark, low ceiling, candlelight. Expensive.
I take the corner booth without asking. Aaron slides in opposite me, shifts once, twice — can’t find a comfortable distance. His hands go flat on the table. Then to his lap. Then one comes back to tap against the marble.
He looks uncomfortable and gorgeous and completely unaware of the second thing.
I order vodka, neat. He orders a beer and wraps both hands around the glass like it’s the only solid thing in the room.
I’m in the corner of a dark bar in Manhattan with the best-looking man I’ve met in this country. My meeting with Diego went perfectly. My co-captain is blushing across from me. I’m having a very good day.
“So.” I lean back. “Tell me about your meeting. What did Diego say?”
“He talked about brand partnerships. Social media strategy. Endorsement potential.” Aaron takes a pull of his beer. “He said the co-captain angle is strong. Two drafted players leading the same team, both going pro after graduation — he thinks there’s a lot to work with.”
“Did he make you an offer?”
“He said he’d call next week.” Aaron’s finger taps the glass. Twice. Three times. “So. We’ll see.”
“Aaron Kelly. He’s going to sign you. I’ve talked to Diego four times. I know how he operates. When he says he’ll call next week, it means he’s already running the numbers.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because when he’s not interested, he tells you at the table. Saves everyone’s time.” I stretch one arm along the back of the banquette. “You got the call-back. Stop worrying.”
His grip on the glass eases. Just a fraction. He takes another sip and the glass hits the table a little softer this time.
“Tell me about your family,” I say.
He starts talking, and the stiffness eases. This is a story he knows how to tell — two older brothers, Sean and Colin. Sean just got married, Colin’s engaged. Two younger sisters, Caitlin and Mary. His parents, Andrew and Colleen. West Roxbury. Sunday dinners. The parish.
It’s warm. Practiced. Every detail in its right place. A perfect family portrait.
“They sound wonderful,” I say. And I mean it. “Big families are good.”
“They are.” He turns his beer glass, a slow quarter-rotation. “What about you? Siblings?”
“Masha, my sister. She’s older. And Maksim, my younger brother. Both still in Omsk.”
“And your parents?”
“My father died when I was twelve. Car accident — he was crossing the street near our apartment.” I take a sip.
“People in the neighborhood said it wasn’t an accident.
They were wrong. I knew my father. But gossip doesn’t need to be true to follow a family around.
It followed us until I started winning hockey tournaments.
Then we were the family with the talented son. Much better story.”
Aaron’s hand stops on his glass. His face changes.
“Sasha, I—” He stops himself. Swallows. “I thought I had it bad. With my dad’s cancer scare. I spent two years terrified I was going to lose him.” His voice is quieter now. “But at least he’s still here.”
He skipped the I’m sorry. Went straight to the honest thing. I wasn’t expecting that.
“That was a long time ago,” I say. “He put me on skates when I was four. I was terrible.” I grin. “You wouldn’t know it now, of course. But I fell constantly. He kept putting me back up.”
“And that’s why you play.”
“I play because I’m very good.” I pick up my vodka. “But he’s the reason I started. Yes.”
His hands have gone still around his glass. His foot has stopped bouncing under the table. He’s just here.
“And your mother?” he asks.
“Olga.” I take a sip. “We talk once or twice a month. We don’t have much to talk about. I send money home every month — I’ve been supporting my family since I was thirteen, when the hockey stipends started.”
“Thirteen?”
“My academy covered everything. Training, equipment, travel. The stipend was on top of that. After my father died, it became the money my family depended on.” I set the glass down. “She brags about me to the neighbors. I’m very useful for that. But the phone calls are short.”
“Why?”
“Her love is conditional. And I don’t meet all the conditions.”
He’s looking at me. Those green eyes seeing too much.
“That’s really brave,” he says. “To just know that. And say it out loud.”
My chest cracks. Just a fraction. Nobody has ever called it brave.
I take a breath. “Your turn. Tell me what’s not in the family portrait.”
“What family portrait?”
“The one you just painted. The Kelly family of West Roxbury, Sunday dinners.” I gesture with my glass. “It’s a very nice picture. But you left out the part that matters.”
His knee starts bouncing under the table. The tapping starts again. He looks at his beer, at the art on the wall behind me, at his beer again. Anywhere but at me.
“I had a full scholarship,” he says. “In New York. I played there for two years. Got drafted to Albany as a sophomore. Everything was—” He stops. “It was good. Really good.”
“And then you left.”
“My dad got sick. I told you. I needed to be closer to home.”
“You needed to, or your family needed you to?”
His eyes snap to mine. The candle flickers between us. I hit something. I can see it in the way his shoulders go rigid.
“Both,” he says, tightly. “It was the right decision.”
The words come out hollow. Rehearsed.
I nod. I don’t push. He finishes his beer and sets the glass down, and I watch his hands — the way his fingers wrap around it, the calluses on his palms from a summer of hauling rocks. Strong hands. I like his hands.
We order another round. The second drink arrives and he’s leaning in instead of pressing back against the banquette. He’s sinking back now. The tapping has slowed.
He asks about Russia. About the cold. About whether Boston winters impress me.
“Boston has what seems to me like a nice ski season,” I say. “Omsk has nine months of winter.”
He laughs. Quieter this time. He’s watching me across the table. His collar is open and his skin is flushed and I’m staring at his throat.
I want to put my mouth there.
I look away. Finish my vodka. Set the glass down.
“Let me ask you something.” I lean forward. “What floor are you on?”
“What?”
“Your room. What floor?”
“Eight.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“I’m on eighteen.”
He stares at me. His chin lifts.
“Diego put you in the penthouse,” he says. Flat.
“Diego didn’t put me anywhere. I told him I needed the penthouse before I agreed to meet with him. He said absolutely, whatever you need.” I shrug. “That’s when I knew he was serious.”
Aaron’s mouth opens. Closes. His finger taps the marble twice, hard.
“He would have given you the same thing,” I say. “If you’d asked first. But you didn’t ask. You walked in, and he offered you a room, and you said—”
“Thank you, this is great.” Aaron’s voice is barely audible.
“There it is.”
“You should try it sometime,” I say.
“Try what.”
“Asking for what you want.”
His eyes hold mine. Something in his expression breaks open for half a second. Then it’s gone.
“Come upstairs,” I say.
His whole body goes still. “What?”
“The penthouse. Come see it.” I keep my voice easy. A door, not a push. “There’s a hot tub on the terrace. The whole skyline. You’re going to spend all night thinking about it — this way you get it out of your system.”
“I’m not going to spend all night—”
“Yes you are. Come on.” I stand and drop enough cash on the table to cover both of us. “One look. Then you can go be responsible on the eighth floor.”
I watch him build the no. The polite excuse. The early morning. The sensible retreat.
“Fine,” he says. “Let’s go.”
That helpless alarm on his face again. His mouth outrunning his defenses for the second time tonight.
The elevator is small. Brass doors, old-fashioned arrow indicator above. I press eighteen. The doors close, and the space shrinks to just us and the soft mechanical hum of the car rising.
Aaron is pressed against the far wall, arms crossed, making himself as small as a six-foot hockey player can make himself.
Aaron Kelly smells clean, like soap. Of course he does. His chest rises and falls a little too fast. He’s looking at the floor numbers like they contain the answers to the deepest questions of the universe.
I watch the numbers climb. 6. 8. 10.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask.
He startles at my unexpected question. His hand flies to the back of his neck. “I — there was someone. Meghan. We dated through high school and then did the long-distance thing when I was in New York for the first semester. But the distance was too much. So. No.”
“What about you?” he asks, too quickly, eyes darting to mine and away. “Do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” I watch the arrow tick toward eighteen. “I like to be free.”