“He must be so proud of you. And appreciative of your sacrifice.”
He scoffed. “I do not know about that. I am lucky that I am paid well for this talent of mine. For a while there, I didn’t think they would ever let me leave. Or him. But money talks and for the last twelve years, he has been safe in Seattle. He created a community there with the ex-pats. Played chess in the park, drank vodka all day long, quoted Dostoevsky. All the Russian stereotypes.”
I laughed. I liked to accuse Alexei of humorlessness, but that wasn’t strictly true. It had a dryness to it that was shockingly attractive.
He went on. “Now he is here, and I’m not sure I made the right decision, taking him away from what is familiar. I am the only person he knows apart from his nurse. It is hard for him.”
It must be. For them both.
“How come you haven’t told Jason about your dad’s illness?”
“I am trying to figure out how to handle it myself. If I tell him, he will start getting people involved, some sort of Rebels help-train.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Sasha is my responsibility. Once the word is out, everyone will have opinions on how I should handle it.”
He was worried he’d be told to put his father in a home. When the season started, the situation would only get more complicated.
“It’s okay to ask for help, Alexei. After all, you told me. Why is that?”
“Because you are my wife and you deserve honesty.”
A little late in the day, yet I found that strangely touching. There was a not-uncomfortable lull.
Alexei finally broke it. “Where is your boyfriend tonight? Is he beside you while you talk to the man who put a ring on it?”
And we’re back. “He has an early start and needs his sleep.”
“That would not stop me from taking care of you, Lauren.”
I didn’t want to get into criticism of my boyfriend at the hands of my husband, especially as I might be tempted to agree. “Goodnight, Nazarov.”
“Goodnight, Silver Eyes.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Lauren
* * *
“Hey, Frisco, how’s it hangin’?”
Sometimes I couldn’t believe how ancient I sounded. But when you were dealing with college aged kids, it was hard to come off as anything but an oldster who didn’t understand the meaning of “cheugy.” (Still didn’t.)
“Not so good. My boo’s got me cooked.”
Galen Frisk was one of my favorite clients, about to start his maiden season with the New York Empires this fall. But boy did he come with a shit-ton of personal issues. If he wasn’t brawling with idiots in bars, he was getting an earful from whichever girl had latched onto him.
“I’m listening.”
After seven excruciating minutes about a woman whose personality appeared to be probiotic yogurt and Dubai influencer gigs, I had to put a stop to it.
“So what did I tell you about entering the big leagues and what that might bring?”
“I need to figure out who my friends are.”
“And that includes?”
