Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

Niko

Chloe's breath comes out in a cloud of condensation over me, and everything in me wants to close the distance and crush my lips to hers. But I have already let things go too far.

She caught me off guard by showing up out of nowhere in what I consider to be my domain. And now I learn she is a hockey player as well? It should not be a surprise, I suppose, given her father's profession, yet it is. She is so...feminine, so soft. It is difficult to imagine her delivering slapshots and checking opponents. Such a juxtaposition, and one that unfortunately makes her that much more intriguing.

I was finished for the day but hoped to catch Mac for a few late day drills when I spotted Chloe on the ice. Her serene expression as she glided across the rink drew me, and before I could think better of it, I was intercepting her and putting my hands on her as I know I should not.

It is clear it has been some time since she played, but her raw talent is evident, as is her determination. I imagine she is the kind of woman who puts everything into each endeavor she undertakes. Even the way she trapped her tongue between her teeth while delivering a decent backhand shot had me wanting to smile. I am impressed. And it is no secret I am turned on as well.

There is no use denying it, despite the fact that I plan to do nothing about it.

To that end, I disentangle my legs from Chloe and sit, pulling her up with me. When we have both reached our feet, I release her arm, confident she has her footing now. If she is disappointed or surprised, she does not show it.

"Nice matchup," she says, offering me a smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. I steadfastly ignore the ice clinging to her ass as she skates away to the boards, twig in hand, and disappears. I remain on the ice a few minutes longer, wondering why I enjoy torturing myself so much.

Mac has obviously left, so it is time for me to get on with my evening. I change into shorts and pack up my gear before heading out to my vehicle. I pause beside it when my phone rings, a reluctant grin curving my lips as I see who is calling.

" Privet , Safiya," I greet in my native Russian.

"I ran into Katya this afternoon," my sister says without preamble.

My response is immediate. "Tell me," I demand, dread slithering through my gut.

Safiya does not make me wait. "She tried to play it off, but she looked unwell. Tired."

I curse under my breath. It would be just like Katya to fall out of remission and lie to me about it. When Ivan was alive, there was never a doubt she would be taken care of, but since my old coach and mentor passed away, his widow has no one. Except me–and Safiya.

I made Ivan a promise before he passed away that I would care for her, but there is only so much I can do from halfway across the world. Still, I owe Ivan more than I can say. It has been five years, and the world continues to feel wrong without him in it. Sometimes, I begin dialing Ivan's number only to remember partway through that he is gone.

"The cancer is back," I speculate, hoping I am mistaken.

"You do not know that, Niko." My sister makes a tutting noise. "I should not have called."

"Yes, you should. I need to know these things. I will phone her doctor tomorrow and make an appointment for you to take her." I check my watch, calculating the time difference in my head. If I stay up late tonight, I can reach the office first thing in the morning in Kazahkstan.

"Let me do it," Safiya offers.

"No, I have all of her information. And I am hoping to speak to a nurse or doctor myself." I open the driver's door and climb into the Rover, phone still to my ear.

"Fine, but do not schedule it for Wednesday. I have an interview." When I do not immediately respond, she continues, "Do not act so surprised, Brother."

I would lie and say I was not surprised, but my sister would spot it instantly. Her employment record does little to inspire confidence, unless a prospective employer is specifically seeking a nocturnal artist specializing in lifelike depictions of drag queens.

"Not Wednesday. Understood. Do you still have money left from what I sent last month?" I ask as I start the vehicle, needing a task for my hands.

"A little." Her response is timid. Safiya does not like appearing needy or weak, preferring to lead with confidence and defiance. It is a family trait.

Not in any mood to judge or lecture, I say, "I will send more. You take Katya for lunch and get her to talk to you, yes?"

"I can do that." My sister pauses before adding, "Ivan would be proud of that shutout yesterday."

I close my eyes and grip the steering wheel. Last night's game went particularly well with me delivering a shutout against the Golden Eagles and furthering our playoff chances. The end of the regular season is drawing near, and we are in a precarious position. But now is not the time to talk about me. Or Ivan.

"How are Mother and Father?"

It has been a year since I have been back to Kazakhstan, and neither of our parents like flying, so they rarely come to the States. Ivan, on the other hand, used to enjoy any excuse to come check on me, while Safiya simply enjoys any opportunity for a vacation.

"They are fine...Father still will not drive the car you gave him, though." This is no surprise to either of us. Our parents are very set in their ways. Despite the excellent living I make, they do not believe in good things lasting. I am certain my father keeps the BMW in new condition with a mind to selling it when my career or the world falls apart—either one likely to happen at any time, according to him.

"Did you take them to that new restaurant?" I ask. Safiya makes sure to treat them–and Katya–to nice things now and then at my behest. Nothing too extravagant that they can refuse, but nice little escapes from the every day. They are used to a quiet farm life on their land outside of the city, so it is not always easy to convince them.

"Mother ate two desserts."

"Excellent." My lips twitch.

"I will let you go. Message me about the appointment, yes?"

"I will."

"And if it is not too much trouble, I would like to see more shutouts before the season is finished." She is trying to make me smile, and it almost works.

"I will do my best," I promise before we say our goodbyes.

I stare out into the parking lot, thinking about my family and about Katya and Ivan.

We had an understanding, Ivan and me. I would never take anything for granted in my career and life, and always— always —give my best and act in a way that would bring pride to him and to my family. If it were not for Ivan, I would be working on my parents' farm, scraping for pennies and only dreaming of hockey. He risked everything for me, and I owe him my life. The very least I can do is live up to my promises.

"I will take care of her," I vow to the empty car. "Do not worry, my friend."

I put the vehicle in drive and look up into the blue Florida sky. Family. Ayana. Hockey. That is my duty. My only duty. Nothing else matters.

"You wanted to see–oh, sorry." I stop just inside the doorway of the training room, where Coach Bowman summoned me, to find Chloe standing beside a bench talking to him. It is as if the universe has it in for me, putting her in my path everywhere I turn these days. First at the barbecue, then the practice rink, and now Flagler Arena. I even spotted her pulling out of my bank's parking lot in her bright red Bronco with the top off last week, her dark hair tied in a red kerchief, the ends blowing in the wind like she was on the set of an old Hollywood movie. I remained in my vehicle to avoid her.

"Niko. You remember Chloe," Coach gestures to his daughter as he smiles my way.

"No." My immediate response is denial–until I realize how that sounds. "Yes. It is nice to see you again, Ms. Cooper."

It is clear she is biting back a laugh. A woman who enjoys my pain is one to be avoided at all costs.

"Mr. Drugov," she responds with a nod. Coach looks between us, and I find myself without words, so I attempt a smile. It does not appear to work.

"Everything...okay?" Coach asks, brows drawn together. This time I see Chloe roll her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing. I am glad she finds this so funny.

"Fine," I manage. "I will come speak to you after the game."

I turn and exit before he can protest, long strides taking me down the hall and toward the tunnel. That was way too close. Coach Bowman deserves as much of my respect as Ivan for how he has nurtured and supported my career, not to mention how understanding he has been about time I have needed to take for my personal troubles with Peyton and Ayana. The way to pay him back is not by lusting after his only daughter like some cocky rookie with no regard for ethics and honor.

By the time I exit the locker room, dressed for warm-ups, I believe I am being tested by god himself because there stands Chloe, chatting with Roadie, of all people. I feel my jaw lock. The boy isn't even thirty, yet his eye always strays to more mature women–women who I hope know better.

He says something that has her throwing her head back with a laugh, exposing the long column of her throat and making my fists clench. He watches her laughing with a look in his eye I do not like. Perhaps he needs a reminder of his place, something I might effectively communicate by slamming his body into the boards during tomorrow's practice.

"It is not time to socialize, Roadie," I bite out as I pass, not daring to look Chloe's way. "You twirl your tongue like a cow twirls its tail."

"Lighten up, Druggy!" he responds, using the same words Chloe used with me at the barbecue. The part of me that is not frustrated by the similarity wishes I had been the one making Chloe Cooper laugh.