“Wow,” I say, impressed. “I just do YouTube yoga and Just Dance to keep my cardio up.”
“Just dance,” he repeats.
“You’ve never heard of Just Dance?” I pant, bugging my eyes at him. “It’s the best thing ever.”
“You will show me.”
And that’s how we end up in front of the television in the living room after we finish our beach run. Dancing and laughing as we try to pull off all the choreographed steps.
After six songs, Cheslav nods and says, “It is like video game, except you move instead of sitting on couch. I like this for cardio. From now on, we will do one mile on beach then come back to house for this Just Dance.”
So that’s what we do.
Again, I could do without the beach runs. It takes days for my legs to adjust to the new routine and stop being sore. But after years of being a single player on Just Dance, it’s fun to do all the two-player routines with someone else.
And Cheslav is a shockingly quick study. I think a lot of guys—especially elite athletes would have thought me silly. Cheslav not only does the six songs with me every morning but also analyzes all the dance moves to improve his performance for the next day. Not going to lie, this makes me feel all kinds of gooey inside.
By the time a few days roll around, he’s totally keeping up with me.
“I was telling my publicity person about new workout, and she is asking that we record it for her so that she can post on my Instagram TV,” Cheslav tells me later in the week over lunch.
We’re eating the grilled chicken and salad Vlad brought us for lunch out on the balcony, and we’re both dressed a lot more laid back.
Usually, I stick to business casual, even when I don’t have Zoom meetings. And Cheslav tends to throw at least a blazer over everything he wears.
But today I’m wearing one of the sundresses from the beach resort wardrobe that magically appeared in my closet a few days ago (courtesy of Vlad I suspect). And Cheslav is wearing nothing but a pair of running shorts.
Can’t say I mind the view. His rippling abs almost make up for the healthy diet he insists we both stick to, except on one designated cheat day every week.
“She is also asking if we can do TikTok of Toosie Slide.”
I crook my head, not just because I don’t even have a TikTok account, but also because “You talked to your PR team about me?”
“Yes, of course. You will become my wife.”
“That’s not a sealed deal yet,” I remind him with a grimace. But then I have to ask. “What did they say?”
“They are happy you are former Princess South Carolina. They want us to do many things to rise our stars.”
“But I don’t want or need to have my star risen.”
He considers my argument, then counters with, “You say you have pitching problem for your future business. TikToks and marriage to hockey superstar will help you with that.”
I cut my eyes to the side. He has a point there. Visibility is everything in the world of sports, and there’s no better way to get visible than dating a famous athlete.
“But if we start making TikToks, and our relationship doesn’t work out?” I have to ask him.
“In my family, relationships usually work out,” he says, with a smug sneer.
I’m almost used to how often he sneers now, even when he’s being optimistic.
“My family’s just the opposite,” I answer him truthfully. “My whole life and personality are built around the assumption that it’s not a matter of if things fall apart, but when.”
He regards me for a few somber beats, then he says, “I am sorry, krasotka. I am sorry, so many things fell apart for you before.”
Like I told him, I’m strong. I don’t need anyone else. But something about his empathy and understanding…I feel my chest crack a little, and suddenly I’m fighting back tears, even as I mumble, “It’s okay. I’m good.”
“Yes, you are. You are very good woman, and I hope by time month is done, I can give you reason to believe in this. Believe in us.”
Now I can’t speak. I don’t know what to say, even if I could.
“How about compromise?” he asks. “I record the next Just Dance workout. But I keep on my phone until you say, ‘Yes, Chess, it is alright to send.’”
“Okay,” I agree, still fretting my lip.
“Okay?” he asks like he’s won the lottery.
I roll my eyes. “Yes, fine. I’ll Just Dance with you—”
My phone rings, interrupting the moment.
It’s Cynda.
“Hey, Cynda, how are you?” I say, tilting the phone to keep Cheslav out of the background. “Is everything okay?”
“Are you okay?” Cynda scrunches up her nose at me. Despite her expression, she’s outrageously beautiful, even more so after cutting all her hair off last weekend. Now her exquisitely sculpted cheekbones, long nose, and sharp eyes are on full display. “You called me.”
