“We’re everywhere. Our marriage. Pictures of us coming out of the chapel. Walking through the lobby of the hotel. At the airport. And they know who I am now—Senator Grant’s daughter. Who just eloped with Atlanta Thunder goalie Viktor Maslak.” She looks up and there’s worry in her eyes.
“He knew this already,” I say lightly, sitting on the edge of the bed next to her.
“But this is everywhere now. And remember—he’s a politician.”
“I remember everything. Do not worry.”
“Have you heard from your mother?”
“No. But they are coming Sunday, before the game. And often the gossip does not reach Russia so quickly.”
She rubs her temples. “I didn’t think it would be this stressful.”
“Maybe one week.” I put a comforting hand on her arm. “Then they will find something else more interesting than us.”
“I hope so.” She gazes up at me. “This is why you’re one of the best goalies in the world, isn’t it?”
I squint, trying to make the correlation.
Ah. Stress.
“Because I do not react to the stress?”
She smiles faintly. “I mean, you’re solid as a rock right now while I feel like I might throw up.”
“Yes, I am okay with the stress. On the ice, this is very, very important. I cannot listen to the crowd when they are angry. Or the other team fans. Or when Coach is yelling at someone else. Even me.” I give her a lopsided smile. “Sometimes he yells to me and I ignore, pretend I do not understand.”
That makes her laugh and I realize I like the sound.
And I really dislike when she’s upset. Normally, I’m not the most empathetic guy—it’s something I try to work on when it comes to interpersonal relationships—but everything feels different with Holly. I don’t understand it because this is temporary. A two-million-dollar business arrangement to put one over on my mother’s plans.
So why the hell do I like hearing her laugh as much as I do?
“I guess tomorrow is another day,” she says after a moment.
“Yes.” I stand up and start to walk around to the other side of the bed.
“What’s your tattoo of?” she asks, her gaze focused on my right thigh.
“Eagle,” I say.
“How far up does it go?”
I lift the side of my shorts to show her that the ink almost reaches my hip. It starts just below, goes straight down and then winds around the front.
“It’s beautiful,” she says softly.
“Thank you. Was my first.”
“Your first tattoo was that big?” She grins. “I’ve always wanted one but I’m a little intimidated by the needles and the pain.”
I turn to look at her. “If you want, I can take you, in the off season, where I go. He is very good. Clean. Gentle. I do not love the needles either.”
“That sounds…lovely. Thank you.” She pauses. “Do you have more?”
I hesitate but then nod.
“I should know where they all are. You know?” She seems almost apologetic, but I understand. If she’s my wife, we’re sleeping together, so she should know every inch of my body.
