Chapter 4

Ivan

The team hada game Saturday afternoon, and we were leaving for our first road trip on Sunday, so normally, I would have taken it easy Friday night. However, there was no way in hell I was going to turn down a chance to hang with Cheyenne. Not to mention, Damien came off as a first-class jerk, so I hadn't been able to stop myself from jumping in when he'd tried to set her up with his buddy.

Cheyenne had been noticeably uncomfortable, and it went against everything I stood for as a man not to try to protect her from the situation. Maybe that was a little old-fashioned, and I had no doubt Cheyenne could take care of herself, but the words that we were going together had popped out before I could stop them.

I wouldn't deny that I liked her, but our schedules were completely different, and we were rarely in town at the same time. We both traveled a lot and were focused on our careers, so there didn't seem to be any reason to start something. I would've been down with sex, but the one time I'd considered making a move, something had stopped me. It was hard to pinpoint what it was, but she was one of the most beautiful women in the world and it had occurred to me that men probably tried to get in her pants day in and day out.

For whatever reason, I didn't want to be another guy in a long line of guys who just wanted to sleep with her. I had more pride than that and more respect for her than that. Sex was easy; friendship and true intimacy were much more difficult.

I dressed in tailored gray slacks, a black button-down shirt, and black dress shoes. Cheyenne had said it wasn't formal, but it wasn't casual. She'd told me to wear whatever I wanted but she was wearing a cocktail dress.

I figured I needed to be at least half as classy as she was.

I knocked on the door of her condo at seven and couldn't help but let out a low whistle when she opened the door.

"You look beautiful," I told her, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

"Thanks. You look pretty handsome yourself! Uh, there's been a slight change of plans… I hope you don't mind?"

I arched a brow. "If you're dumping me for that Jim guy, I might be a little disappointed in you."

She made a face. "God, no. I just hired a car and driver for the night. Saylor said that parking in that area is a bitch, and this way, you can drink if you want."

"Whatever is easier for you," I said.

"Well, driver is here. Did you park in the guest spot?"

"Yup."

"I'm ready when you are." Her blue-green eyes twinkled with enthusiasm, and it was hard not to get caught up in her excitement. She linked her arm in mine as we headed back to the elevator.

"So, are you an art fan?" she asked once we'd arrived at the gallery and were making our way to the entrance.

"I am. My mother is an artist. I have several of her pieces hanging in my condo."

"Really?" She looked up with interest. "I'd love to see them sometime."

"She's talented. She's also a high school art teacher."

"Are you at all artistic?" she asked.

I smiled. "Maybe a little. Not that I have time for art during hockey season, but I dabble in the summer. Mostly when I'm home with Mom."

"Where's home?"

"We came from Russia when I was thirteen, and we settled in upstate New York, just outside of Buffalo. That's what I call home, although I only lived there for a couple of years. I left to go to prep school when I was fourteen, so I guess home is wherever I live and wherever Mom lives."

"What about your dad? Is he still in Russia?"

I stiffened for a moment.

I didn't like to talk about my dad.

I hadn't liked him when he was alive, and I didn't miss him now that he was dead.

"He died when I was nineteen, but my parents divorced when I was thirteen. Mom took me and left Russia to come back to the U.S. She's originally from the Buffalo area."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

I shrugged. "He was an abusive alcoholic who didn't care about anyone but himself. I'm grateful we left when we did."

"Do you consider yourself Russian or American?" she asked, glancing up at me curiously.

"I'm half and half, and that's how I feel. There's a part of me that's proud of my Russian heritage, but I've been living and playing here since I was a teenager, so this is home. I would never go back or anything."

"You've never been back since you left?"

I shook my head. "No, we didn't dare risk it when I was underage. They might not have let me leave."

"Are you an American citizen?"

"Mom made sure of that. Even though I was born in Russia, she got me citizenship as soon as possible because she didn't want me to ever get stuck there. I know that sounds terrible, but the situation with my father was scary, and obviously, Russia's political climate makes it a touchy situation."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"It's all right." I smiled at her. "It's not a secret or anything. It's come up in interviews before. I'm just more careful about what I say about my father and Russia in those."

"You don't have to worry about that with me." Her voice was soft. "I would never tell a soul."

"I appreciate that."

We exchanged a look that was hard to decipher, as if we'd just shared something more intimate than it actually was since it was mostly public information. That was okay, though. It felt nice to have someone to talk to like this.

"Chey!" A tall, elegant woman of about thirty came drifting over to us—it truly seemed like her feet barely touched the ground— with a big smile on her face.

"Saylor!" Chey hugged her before turning to me. "Ivan, this is my friend Saylor Bonetti. Saylor, this is Ivan Rochenko."

Saylor smiled and held out her hand. "You play for the Phantoms."

"Yes." I nodded politely.

"Season ticket holder for five years," she said. "It was nice to see the win the other night."

"For us too," I replied. "Congratulations on your opening."

"Thank you. I've wanted to open a gallery for years, so this is a lifetime dream achieved at thirty-one. I'm happy."

"I'm so excited for you!" Chey said, hugging her again.

"Thank you for coming and bringing so many wonderful friends. I met Jensen and Bailey, Henrik and Autumn, and Gabe and Harper."

"Stevie is coming," Chey said lightly.

They exchanged a look and Saylor wrinkled her nose. "Alone? Pretty please say she's coming alone."

Chey shrugged. "Nope. She's bringing her fiancé."

"Great. I'm going to charge him twenty percent more for anything he buys." With that she sashayed away.

"So, what's the deal with Damien?" I asked her as we accepted two glasses of champagne.

"I don't know exactly. He and Stevie hooked up in New York City last year and then he ghosted her. Like when she woke up in the morning, he was gone. He left a hundred-dollar-bill on the dresser and a note that said something like, ‘thanks for a great night.'"

"Nice," I said sarcastically.

"Apparently, he didn't recognize her as Stevie Marchant the supermodel since she goes by Stevie professionally, but sometimes uses Stephanie, her given name, when she wants to keep a low profile. It wasn't until he saw her on one of the local morning shows that he put two and two together and reached out."

"So, he wasn't interested until he found out she was a famous model," I said, shaking my head. "What a douche canoe."

"And that's not all. There are a dozen stories like that since they started dating. I honestly don't get it."

"Wait, so she just forgave the fact that he disappeared the morning after they had sex and practically treated her like a prostitute?"

"He laid the charm on thick. Flowers and chocolate and a romantic helicopter ride for their first official date. He told her he'd been late for work and hadn't wanted to wake her."

"And why didn't he leave her his number?"

She shrugged. "Stevie glosses over the details. She knows something is off, but after her last two engagement disasters, I don't think she wants to admit it."

"She's going to get hurt," I said.

"Hopefully, he'll do something so blatantly asshole-ish we can try to stage an intervention before it's too late. But if I try to do it too soon, without him doing anything, she won't listen."

"She sounds like a handful."

She hesitated. "If you're going to be friends with someone, you have to accept their faults. And Stevie is an amazing friend in every other way. She's always been there for me. I've just come to understand that she has terrible taste in men, and if the options are to put up with her crazy relationships or not be friends with her, I take the former."

"I've had a few friends like that over the years," I admitted.

"Anyway, let's just have fun. I don't want to think about him."

"Kind of hard not to," I murmured as Stevie and Damien came in, along with another guy who looked to be somewhere in his mid- to late-twenties. That was probably the guy he wanted to set Chey up with, and the need to protect her reared its head again. I wasn't sure what it was about Damien that bugged me but hearing how he treated Stevie just reinforced what I'd already felt in my gut.

"Cheyenne!" Damien's voice was loud, booming across the room and causing everyone to turn and look.

"Jesus Christ," Chey muttered, despite pasting a smile on her face and waving. "Pull me away toward Henrik and Autumn," she hissed under her breath.

Without missing a beat, I slid my arm around her waist and guided her in that direction.

"Hey, guys." Autumn smiled. "This is so amazing. Thank you for inviting us. We've got our eye on a piece for the new house."

"Did you find a place?" I asked.

We talked about the new house they'd just purchased, how his kids were adjusting to their new school, and a few other things as we stood there with our backs to where Stevie and Damien were. I kept my arm around Chey's waist, and she didn't seem to mind, laughing and talking as if we went out like this every day.

We'd gone out on two other occasions. The night we'd met we'd wound up at a rock concert at a local club before she took me backstage where we partied with the band until dawn. The second time was a group date, so to speak, going to a baseball game with Gabe, Harper, and the team's General Manager, Dom Gianni, and his wife Molly.

Other than that, I'd seen her once or twice at Gabe and Harper's place, but I'd been on my way out and the girls had been heading somewhere. We texted now and then, but we honestly just lived very different lifestyles. Especially her. She was always jetting off somewhere like Paris or Milan to shoot for some magazine or photographer, or walk the runway somewhere, or some other supermodel thing.

I admired her, liked her as a person, and thought she was breathtakingly gorgeous, but I also respected how hard she worked.

"Chey, we've been waiting for you!" Damien approached us without even acknowledging the others, standing right in front of Chey.

"Dude." My voice was quiet, but I hoped he caught the annoyance in it. "Read the room. We're having a conversation. Can you at least say excuse me?"

Damien blinked, as if he hadn't quite understood what I'd said, a weird look on his face. Then it cleared and he immediately turned to Henrik, holding out his hand. "Hey, nice to see you again. I'm sorry to intrude, but Stevie needs Chey for a minute."

"We'll be back," Chey said to Autumn, sliding her hand into mine. "Give us a minute to go mingle."

"Of course." Autumn nodded.

Damien shot me a death glare as he noted our linked hands, but I laced my fingers through hers and smirked.

If he was hoping to somehow get her alone, he was sadly mistaken.

Cheyenne and I would be attached at the hip tonight for as long as she needed me.

And I was enjoying the hell out of it.