“You are a sick bastard, Thomas Moskins,” she informs me, walking to the door.
Before she can slam it behind her, I call out, “I’ll tell her you said hello.”
Once I’m alone, I sit on the edge of the unmade bed and absorb the welcoming silence. After a long day of sponsorship meetings with my agent yesterday, I’m over people. Most of the jackholes I spoke with didn’t seem inclined to have me be the face of their products, thanks to the tabloid headlines lately. Apparently, men’s cologne and athletic wear are only for the family men of the world. Which, according to the reps of two different brands I met yesterday, I am not.
The off-season is supposed to be relaxing, but between sponsorships, commercials, and photo shoots, I’ve done everythingbutrelax. The transition from my old hockey team in Pittsburgh to my new one in Connecticut ensures that I barely have any downtime. But I chose this sacrifice, which means I have to deal with all the PR bullshit that comes with it.
After a minute, I say, “I guess she got off on fucking a married guy.”
There’s bemusement in Emaly’s response. “Way to ruin her fantasy.”
I crack a grin, but it quickly drops when I remember what time it is. “Is everything okay? You don’t normally call this early.”
The woman I’ve known since I was young is not a morning person. It takes an act of God to get her up before ten a.m., and even then, she needs coffee before she can hold a conversation. It’s astounding to me that she can be a doctor and pull doubles, knowing what a zombie she is on her days off.
Worry cements in my gut. “Are you—”
“I’m fine,” she says with a laugh.
Despite growing up in the United States, Emaly Moskins-Yokav has the faintest Russian accent thanks to her family heritage. Her parents, Mikhail and Valeria Yokav, are both from Moscow and spend a few months each year at their estate in Russia’s capital. Valeria runs the country’s largest artificial skating rink, where a lot of top athletes train, and they recently opened a second location solely for Olympians and their coaches.
Emaly and her younger brother, Sasha, grew up on the ice as figure skaters. Her parents expected both of them to become gold medalists like Valeria, but only one of them fulfilled their parents’ lifelong dream. It’s why Sasha remains in Russia, training for the next Winter Olympics, while his older sister resides in the United States under the scrutiny of her disapproving family.
My recent indiscretions certainly don’t help her case any. I’m definitely not winning them over now that my name is being plastered as front-page news on every tabloid next to a woman who isnotmy wife. Not that I particularly care to be in their good graces, despite her father’s involvement in my career as of late. I may have let him puppet master my life, but it’s to ensure he stays far away from Emaly’s.
People can assume what they want about me, but I’ll do anything to protect the people I love. And I’ve loved Emaly since we were kids.
My in-laws have done nothing but berate and judge Emaly from the time she was old enough to understand what berating meant. It’s put a wedge between my wife and her family that’s small enough where they keep in contact, but large enough not to depend on a single cent they try throwing in our direction.
Emaly never wanted their money or prestige. She’s only ever wanted their approval to be her own person. But with the Yokavs…well, that’s no easy task to accomplish.
Which is why they didn’t even blink when Emaly chose to keep her last name and hyphenate ours when we got married. Did I care that she put my name first? No. It was her decision, and I supported it. I just wish her father could see how much that choice meant to her. Then again, I wish Mikhail Yokav would see a lot of things if he’d simply open his eyes. Life would be a lot better for all of us if he were more accepting.
“You worry too much,” she chides softly, pulling me back to reality.
I scrub my hand through my hair. I really need to schedule a haircut. “Can you blame me? The first time we were apart for this long…” I swallow, my Adam’s apple bobbing at the memory that will stay with me for a long time.
I’ll never forgive myself for not checking on her more. For not calling or texting her when the hockey preseason took me away for so long. If I had, maybe I would have known something was wrong. I could have seen the signs, like I’d seen them when we were younger.
Emaly must know where my head is. “It was one time, Little Bear. I’m fine now since seeing the new specialist.”
Little Bear.The term of endearment is the only thing keeping me from booking a flight to California. She used to say I was as protective as her father, but with far more affection than he was capable of showing.
“It happened twice, and I should have been there,” I murmur, still feeling guilty over the call I got from the hospital when one of her neighbors saw her passed out on the ground outside our apartment building.
I swallow and grind my teeth.
I should have been there.
I should have been the first one on the scene, not the firefighters. Not the ambulance. If I were there—
“I’m calling,” she says, breaking through my onslaught of rampant thoughts, “because I saw what they’re writing about you and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
I huff out a laugh and rub a hand down my face. “You don’t need to concern yourself with that, Em. It’s nothing I’m not used to.”
“But—”
“No,” I cut her off firmly. She’ll say she feels bad; tell me she can dispel the accusations. But I tell her the same thing I always do when rumors arise. “The vultures in the media will say and do anything for a headline. It’s about making money for them. If they gave a shit about hurting someone’s feelings, they’d have a different job. I don’t want you to feel bad about what those dickwads post.”
