Page 5 of Goalie Interference
I shake my head. It should be a crime to look so in control and unaffected while wearing nothing but a speedo. I should probably let him know that the rest of his teammates have already changed. But also, I think as I twist open the cap off the vodka, where’s the fun in that? We are technically rivals. There’s no point in letting him off the hook that quick.
Staring at him, I take a long pull from the bottle, then hold it out to him once I’m standing close enough. Lightly shaking it, I ask, “You want some?”
A pleased smile pulls at his lips. He grabs it from me and takes a look at the label. “Is decent.” He takes a sip.
“Yeah, it is good,” I say. “I always have a bottle on hand.”
He pulls the bottle away from his lips. “I said decent. Not good.”
“Oh…” I feel my cheeks heat, and I bring my hand up to my neck again. My skin is hot under my palm.
He stares at me as he takes another long pull from the bottle.
“It must not be that bad,” I say.
“Decent.” He nods. “Like I said.” He hands the bottle back to me.
After touching my hot skin, the cool glass feels like relief against my palm. I take another sip and try not to think about how strange it is that his lips were just on it.
“I give you recommendations of what to buy. Good. Not decent.”
“Please,” I say and quickly pull my phone out of my pocket. Then, before I can stop myself, I ask, “What’s your phone number? You can text them to me.”
His lips pull into a confused but also challenging grin. “You want to text?”
“Of course,” I say as I open up my messages app. “I’m honestly shocked I don’t have your number yet. I have practically everyone else’s in the league.” I pause and look up at him. “I even have a goalie group chat. How are you not in it yet?”
“No one has asked me,” he says casually. His grin has traces of humor in it now, as if I said something that he finds amusing.
“There is no asking,” I say to him. “You’re just in it once I add you. Now pull your phone out so we can exchange numbers.”
He gestures at himself, then with a completely deadpan face, says, “No pockets.”
Immediately I blush as I realize what I said and am now forced to stare at his entire body once again. Why does seeing him like this have me so flustered?
It’s because of who he is. Goddamn Nikolai Ivanov. The Russian mystery that no one in the league has ever figured out. I’ve heard the stories. I’ve talked to his past teammates. Nikolai keeps to himself. Nikolai doesn’t make friends. Nikolai is cold and abrasive.
Nikolai is standing in my parents’ garage in Green Bay, Wisconsin, wearing nothing but a speedo and a pair of slides.
So far, he is nothing like what everyone has told me.
“Here,” he says, grabbing my phone. I watch as he taps his fingers on the screen, then hands it back to me.
I look. He sent himself a text. The message contains a list of what I’m assuming are three different vodkas.
“Text me after you try them,” he says. The look on his face is full of smug confidence like he won. Like he’s beating me at something. “Then you will know what I mean when I say decent.”
TWO
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI — TWO WEEKS BEFORE TRAINING CAMP
Nikolai
“Any news yet?” I ask my agent Sofia, for what has to be the one hundredth time since July first when I became eligible for contract talks. I don’t know why I keep asking. It’s not like she’d hide any new developments from me. It’s her job after all. But still. This lack of any movement is making me nervous.
“Nothing yet,” she says. “But I’m not stressing about it. Which means you shouldn’t be stressing about it either. You’re fine. The contract you’re under is good for this upcoming season. There’s no rush.”
“Not for you,” I say as I listen to Danton’s kids chase after each other right outside my bedroom door. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate Danton and Vicky letting me crash here, but I miss privacy. I miss silence. I miss order. This chaos is not my style.
