His face is shuttered, almost blank.
And I can’t help myself.
I walk right up to him and wrap my arms around his neck. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
He stiffens initially, like he can’t bear to have anyone touch him, but then closes his arms around me—and buries his face in my hair. He shudders, just a tiny bit, but I feel it and hold him closer, sliding the fingers of one hand up into his hair.
I love his hair.
It’s not long but it’s not short, dangling in waves that fall just over his ears and onto his forehead. Usually, he slicks it back but after a game he doesn’t tend to bother so some of it falls forward and I love that look. Especially when we’re in bed.
“You played so hard,” I whisper. “Sometimes the puck just bounces the wrong way. It wasn’t your fault.” I don’t know if that’s accurate in this case, but I heard one of the other wives say it and it sounds like something that might soothe him.
“Viktor.” Mr. Maslak approaches us and I gently pull away, allowing him to talk to his parents, but he slides his arm around my waist, tugging me into his side. They’re speaking Russian but the tone of their voices and Viktor’s short responses tell me they’re talking about the game. The loss. How they’ll get the next one. Something along those lines.
“We should go,” Viktor says after a little while. “I am tired.”
We drive home in silence but my thoughts are jumbled, indecision and concern making me question myself.
This is not the time to bring up the job interview in New York.
He’s exhausted and frustrated, hands tight on the steering wheel, his jaw set and a faraway look in his eyes.
I recognize how difficult this is for a man like him. He’s waited a long time to prove himself as the starting goalie and I’m sure he’s taking tonight’s loss personally. Sure, they lost lots of games over the course of the season, even during the playoffs. But this one was different.
The first-ever home championship game.
There was a sold-out crowd. His family is here from Russia. He’s playing his old team, against his mentor. That’s a lot.
I refuse to add to his burden. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but if not, I’m hoping for a win the following night and that might be an easier time to mention it.
As for everything else, I refuse to have any kind of relationship talk while he’s dealing with the most important series of his career.
That would be selfish.
I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if we have an argument and then he loses another game.
“I am sorry to be in a bad mood,” he says when we get home.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to entertain me.”
“Thank you.” He leans over and kisses my cheek before going to the bathroom to get undressed.
I change out of my clothes as well. I don’t usually go to bed naked, even though I’ve been waking up that way lately.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, joining him in the bathroom.
He shakes his head. “I am okay. Just have to shake off the loss. Think about game two.”
“All right.” I brush my teeth and catch him watching me.
He continues to watch as I moisturize my face and put lotion on my arms and legs.
“You’re making me self-conscious,” I murmur with a smile.
He doesn’t smile back, the expression on his face hard to read. “You are beautiful. I like to look.”
And I love the way he looks at me.
