It won’t hurt him,I told myself again. Chanting the words like a mantra.He’s mega-rich. This won’t hurt him or his prospects. It won’t hurt him.
“You care about people,” he said, interrupting my silent chant. “Perhaps too much.”
Artyom’s voice jolted me out of my guilty spiral.
“Hmm?” I asked.
“This is why you are seeking degree in social work,nyet? Why you are here in VIP saying hello to poor Yom, who is being so lonely without you. Because you care more than you should.”
Poor Yom?Obviously, this hockey god who belonged in the top spot of all the Hottest Players Lists that have ever listed was mocking me. But he was studying me with a weird intensity. Like I was a puzzle he’d decided to put together.
“Well, my mom thinks being too nice is my fatal flaw,” I admitted.
“Is she right?”
“I mean, I hope not.” I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The packet of drugs felt like a brand inside my hand. “The thing is, I want to help because I honestly like people. I think most of them are good and worth my time. That’s why...”
I trailed off, remembering my other flaw, according to my father—going off on “hopelessly naive and stupidly optimistic rants.”
“Anyway, I could go on and on about how people don’t appreciate other people enough,” I admitted, dipping my head. “But that probably isn’t the vibe for a nightclub.”
“Perhaps not.” He poured the NA beer into his glass instead of drinking it straight, like me.
My stomach tightened, and I gripped the packet in my left hand. He set the glass down on the low table in front of him, just far enough away to complicate things. Soon, I’d have to find or make an opportunity to dose his drink.
Alright, time to mentally chant again:It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a mega-rich hockey god. You’re not really hurting him. You’re not really hurting him. You’re not really hurting him.
“Tell me, Lydia, what are you thinking of me? Am I good person?”
How did he know my name? Had I told him it? I must have during that long diatribe, which I topped off with the school fight song because social incompetency is a thing I totally excel at.
“Are you a good person?” I squeezed and unsqueezed the hidden packet of doping powder. “I assume so. You didn’t make me feel bad for falling into your lap... and spilling your drink... and stealing this seat from that really beautiful girl.”
“Who?”
I scrunched my face up. “That literal supermodel who was sitting here before me?”
His mouth quirked into a half smile. “I do not remember.”
“Seriously? She was tall, blonde, and looked super bored—still flawless, though. C’mon, stop joking. You remember her.”
“Perhaps my cousin Monika and her friends are sitting there before you.” He cast his eyes to the side, as if he were struggling to recall. “But I only remember you. There is no one after you are coming along.”
My heart sped up, and my entire face lit on fire.
But somehow I managed to pick back up the conversational thread he’d handed me. “So, your cousin is a supermodel?”
“Da, she is following in my mother, her aunt’s, footsteps. Also, she is very proud that I am playing for Deutschland in tomorrow’s game.”
Sadly, it had never occurred to me that the final WIHF game was between Canada and Germany. I’d pretty much stopped paying attention after the American team got cut yesterday. “So you’re playing for Germany, and your mother is also a German supermodel? Well, that explains your insanely good looks.”
A slow, devastating smile lifted his lips. “You are crazy about my looks, too? This is what you are telling me.”
Too?
My stomach tightened. Did a couple of backflips. Birthed a bunch of butterflies. Then screamed, WHHHAAATTT??!!
“Anyway,” I said, taking another swig of the Peroni 0.0 to cover how far, far out of my flirting depth I’d found myself. “How do you like business classes?”
