DELAYED PENALTY
DETROIT aviators HOCKEY 1
EXCERPT
Chapter 1 - Auden
When you’re twenty years old, there’s nothing music and a drink can’t cure.
At least, that was my best friend’s response when I told her I was still upset about being cut from Central State’s women’s soccer team.
The overzealous stylings of two drunk chicks bellowing “It’s Raining Men” wafts through the air, and I’ve just received my vodka soda from the bartender.
So why does it still feel like someone scratched my heart out with a serrated shovel?
Maybe “It’s Raining Men” isn't the right song?
Or maybe my friend’s remedy lacked one vital ingredient.
Like five minutes locked in a bathroom stall with the crazy-haired hottie approaching me.
His head is buzzed short on the sides, leaving a thick patch of dark locks gelled into a neat pompadour in front. Sort of like a 1920s gangster, except less slicked, more height.
Every muscle in Crazy Hair’s body ripples under his clothing as he walks. He has to be over six feet tall, with a broad chest and massive arms stretching the seams of his long-sleeved black Henley. His smooth, pale skin contrasts thick dark eyebrows and five o’clock shadow.
From the scar on his left cheek to the smug smirk on his lips, he looks exactly my type: arrogant, emotionally unavailable, and totally lickable.
I flip my long blond hair behind my shoulder and glance to my left, pretending Crazy Hair’s advance has no effect on me.
In reality, I’m checking to make sure he isn’t about to pass me up on the way to some beautiful bombshell I hadn’t noticed standing in the vicinity.
Like when you see someone wave, so you wave back. Then you realize they weren’t waving at you but the person behind you. Then you try to play off your lame wave like you were batting away mosquitoes—which aren’t there because it’s December in Canada.
Just trying to avoid an awkward situation like that.
My heart pounds like a ‘66 Shelby as Crazy Hair continues to close in. His jump-in-and-drown-in-me blue eyes scan my entire body without concern before stopping inches away.
I’m about to tell him he’s in my personal space, but the sweet scent of clove cigarettes floods warmth through me like a sip of steaming hot chocolate on a January morning in the Upper Peninsula.
“You work at post office?” he asks in a thick Eastern European accent, raising an eyebrow.
“No.” I shake my head and take a swig of my drink. Though I’m unsure where he’s going with the line, the lust burning between my legs holds me in place.
The left corner of his mouth curves into that sexy little smirk. “Because I see you check out my package.”
Carbonation stings my nose as I snort and choke, trying to hold in my laugh. Without time to turn my head, I spray vodka, soda, and saliva across the front of Crazy Hair’s shirt.
It’s the first time an attractive man has hit on me in months, and I spit all over him.
“You wish,” I mumble, spinning around quickly, flooded with embarrassment.
“Weak!” I hear from somewhere behind me.
I turn to see who yelled, still coughing, as I notice a group of guys and girls at the high-top table behind me. Shaggy blond hair bounces against one guy’s forehead as he snickers. The dude next to him holds his fist in front of his mouth in a horrible attempt to hide his laughter. A brunette in a tight red sweater doesn’t look amused. At all.
Crazy Hair throws the guys not one—but both—middle fingers.
“That girl’s a fucking smoke show. Why’d you use a shitty line like that?” the blond one asks.
Smoke show? I bite down hard on my lip to fight back a smile. The last time I heard that phrase was in high school from my hockey-playing best friend, who informed me that “smoke show” was player lingo for “hot girl.”
Unsure of how to recover any semblance of cool after spitting my drink across Crazy Hair’s muscular chest, I sip my drink like it’s a crutch and shuffle back to the table my friends occupy directly in front of the karaoke stage.
Sometimes, it feels weird to drink in public, though we’ve been to Canada on multiple occasions over the years. As lifelong residents of Detroit, Michigan, we think of Windsor—the Canadian city connected to Detroit by a bridge and a tunnel—as the next town over rather than a foreign country. Nineteen is the legal drinking age in Windsor, so it makes sense that underage Americans like us cross the border for some legit cocktails.
My butt barely brushes my seat when I hear my name, and my name alone, called over the speakers. I lift my eyes to the outdated popcorn ceiling as if the voice resonates from the heavens beyond rather than the karaoke host.
“Why is he calling my name?” I ask Kristen.
“I picked you a song,” she responds, then tips her beer back.
“You picked us a song, you mean?” Emphasis on the us because my best friend and I always karaoke together. I’ve never sung alone in my life—not counting the shower and car, of course.
“Nope. Just you.” Kristen places both hands on my back and pushes me toward the stage. “You need to sing it out. Keeping shit bottled up never works.”
I wouldn’t have a problem singing it out if I were singing with other people, but just me? Haven’t I been embarrassed enough today?
My short-lived “smoke show” happiness vanishes, and the embarrassment of making a fool of myself in front of Crazy Hair returns. I try to reverse, but Kristen’s trampoline-like palms propel me back toward the stage.
After slowly climbing the stairs, I snatch the microphone from the host’s hand. I almost feel bad about taking my anger out on him until I see the lyrics to “Proud Mary” light up in white against the teleprompter’s blue screen.
What the hell? I exhale and lift my eyes to Kristen.
“Girl power!” She salutes me with her glass.
Is “Proud Mary” a girl-power song? I thought it was about a boat.
She’s trying to lift my spirits, but belting out an anthem is the last thing on my mind, especially when I don’t feel so powerful right now. On the contrary, I feel like I could jump off the Proud Mary.
“Do you have ‘Bobby McGee?’” I ask the karaoke host. He’s around my age, with big brown eyes that match his neatly trimmed beard and shoulder-length hair.
“Never heard of him,” he counters as disapproving wrinkles crease his smooth forehead.
“It’s not an artist.” I grimace. “It’s a Janis Joplin song.”
“Sorry.” A sheepish smile spreads across his lips. “Give me a second.”
While waiting for my song, I take in the scenery at Mickey O’Callaghan’s Irish Pub. The space is cozy, small and narrow, with red and beige brick walls and mahogany overkill. The dark wood is everywhere—the long bar, the wainscoting, the narrow beams on the ceiling, even the tables and chairs.
Mickey’s Friday-night karaoke must be the hot spot because every seat is occupied, and the bar is two people deep all the way across.
Instead of looking toward the table Crazy Hair threw double birds to earlier, I watch the karaoke host fiddle with his machine. After a minute, the screen glows with the lyrics to my request.
My cheeks burn when my voice cracks delivering the first few notes. I keep my eyes glued to the teleprompter, even though I know the words by heart. After the first few lines, I get my vocals on track, and there’s some clapping, which surprises me.
Halfway through the song, I lift my eyes to see people on their feet—people other than the friends I had come with—although my friends are on their feet as well.
By the time I finish all the la-da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da’s the crowd is hooting and whistling. At the end, someone yells for me to sing again, but I just smile as I refasten the microphone to the stand.
“You were amazing, Aud!” Kristen squeezes me when I get back to the table.
“I didn’t know you could sing like that.” Lacy raises her hand for a high five.
“I didn’t either,” I admit, skimming my palm against hers, sure I’d zap her with the electricity tingling through my limbs. Being on stage felt like overtime in a soccer match: exhilarating.
“Hey,” someone says, tapping my shoulder. I spin around to see the karaoke host.
“Greg.” He thrusts his hand at me.
“Auden,” I say, taking his outstretched palm. “Thanks for switching songs.”
“Tina Turner didn’t seem like your thing.”
Greg might have a cute face hiding under his beard, but he’s still not my type. Too monotone. Even the plaid flannel hanging off his lean frame is brown. His style screams Eddie-Vedder-nineties-grunge rather than hipster cool.
“Oh, I can rock some Tina. Just wasn’t feeling ‘Proud Mary’ without my backup singers.” I point to Kristen and Lacy.
Greg laughs. “Need a drink?”
“I already have—” I search the table for my drink, spotting it in Lacy’s boyfriend’s hand. “Actually, I do.”
Ignoring Kristen’s megawatt smile, I follow Greg to the bar. She better not have set him on me to boost my spirits. She knows he isn’t my type.
Douchebags like Crazy Hair and the guys he’d flipped off got my motor running. Douchebags and I are on the same wavelength. Neither of us wanted more than what the other could offer.
Greg moves to the side so I can order. “Vodka soda with three limes, please.”
“And a Steam Whistle.” Greg points to a beer I don’t recognize in the stand-up cooler behind the bar. The bartender nods and extracts a bottle.
“You’ve got a killer voice,” Greg tells me.
“Well, that song is kinda just yelling into the microphone.” I blow off his compliment.
“No. It’s not.” His mouth curves into a wide, kind smile. “You from around here?”
“Detroit,” I say, nodding. “But I go to Central State.”
“Are you kidding?”
I shake my head and pick up the drink the bartender placed in front of me.
“So do I. That’s crazy.” Greg holds up a few bills and waits until the bartender sees the money before setting it on the bar. “My roommates and I have a band.”
“You’re in a band? That’s awesome,” I say, focused on mashing the limes in my drink. I raise my glass to him. “Thank you, by the way.”
“No problem.” He picks at the label on his beer. “We’re looking for a singer right now. Any interest?”
“In what?” I ask, looking at Greg over the top of my cup.
“Singing for our band.” He doesn’t even blink.
“You’re joking, right?” I laugh. Asking me to sing in his band after hearing one karaoke song was hilarious. I’ve never taken voice lessons, and as far as I can tell, I don’t have any significant talent.
“Why would I joke?” He doesn’t seem to understand my laughter at all.
“I just sang in public alone for the first time, and you’re asking me if I want to be in a band?” Being the center of attention for five minutes in a karaoke bar is one thing; standing on stage in front of people expecting a show is a different beast.
“That explains your lack of stage presence,” Greg says, running his fingers over his beard, looking more English professor than rocker.
“Quite the charmer, aren’t you, G-man?” I take a drink.
I know I don’t have stage presence. Hell, I could barely even make eye contact with anyone.
“Stage presence can be learned,” he says. “You have a great voice and a hot look.”
Once I realize he’s not kidding, I’m speechless.
Greg continues peeling the label off his beer bottle while waiting for me to speak. “It’s nothing crazy. We play bars in Bridgeland, well, mostly at Wreckage.” He chuckles.
“Yeah, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.” I force a half smile.
“Come on,” he pleads. “Just try out. If you like it, cool.”
“I don’t think I could even learn to be comfortable on stage.”
“I can get you over your stage fright.” Greg’s voice is molasses, thick and smooth, contrasting his grunge vibe. The lights flickering above give his previously plain eyes a sexy sparkle as he waits for my answer.
Why do I have to be a sucker for sparkles? Or—for any male attention that gives me validation.
“Okay, sure.” My head bobs in reluctant consent. “The worst that could happen is I fail miserably, right?”
“You might surprise me.” Greg winks. He searches the bar before grabbing a pen lying on an abandoned credit card receipt. Then he flips over a coaster advertising some brewing company’s winter ale and begins scribbling. “Here’s my number. Call me next week.”
“This is crazy.” I take the coaster from him.
“What do you have to lose?” His eyes are solid and intense as he stares at me.
Nothing. I’d long since lost it all. But he doesn’t know that.
Without another word, he walks away, leaving me alone at the bar, perplexed by the interaction.
“What did Eddie Vedder’s son have to say?” Kristen asks, nodding toward Greg, who’s resumed his place behind the karaoke machine.
Of course, Kristen would think of a similar description for his look. It’s one of the many reasons we’d been calling each other our ‘other half” since the first day of freshman year when we were assigned to the same dorm room.
“He wants me to try out for his band,” I say, flashing her the coaster. “Which is stupid.”
“No, it isn’t.” She snatches my hand and squeezes. “You’re a terrific singer.”
I shake my head. Right now, I’m high from my time on stage and the applause and compliments I’d received, but as soon as I get home and start over-analyzing the unexpected conclusion to my soccer career again, the euphoria will abandon me.
Just like my team had.
Just like everyone does.
“You’re a popular lady tonight. The Mohawked hottie stared at you the entire time you talked to karaoke guy.”
I follow Kristen’s gaze to the table where Crazy Hair and his friends sit. Though the group seems to be leaving, downing their drinks and grabbing their coats, Crazy Hair stands still, his penetrating eyes on me.
He’s the type of guy I always fall for. The one who says anything to get me to take him home and then slinks away without a word the next morning. Though drinking is usually involved, I can’t even blame the alcohol.
I fall for guys like him because I need the attention. I need to feel like someone wants me. For one night, I need to pretend that someone might be able to love me.
The way my parents should have loved me.
It’s an impossible void to fill.
Crazy Hair slides one of the muscular arms I’d admired earlier around the shoulders of the girl in the tight red sweater. She has big everything; big hair, big boobs, big smile.
Still holding my gaze, he says something against her ear, which makes her throw her head back in a laugh, revealing big white teeth. Grazing his hand down her back, he allows her to go first as they follow the rest of the group toward the door.
It reminds me of another definition of smoke show: to dominate, crush, or otherwise humiliate the opposition.
Mission accomplished.
Douche.
Chapter 2 - Auden
“I hope you don’t think you’re going to sit on your butt your whole break,” my grandfather says, punctuating his sentence with a quick snap of his newspaper. He’d done it to lift a falling corner, but he may as well have cracked an invisible whip.
“Come on, Dedushka,” I say, stopping my arm midair and lifting my tired eyes from the milk dripping off my spoon to his customary stern face. “I just got home yesterday.”
“And you start your job today.” His steel blue eyes catch mine before returning to the paper.
“Funny. I don’t remember interviewing.” I smirk, then shovel the spoonful of soggy cereal into my mouth.
“Oh, how I’ve missed your smart mouth, Auden,” he deadpans without looking up.
Though I’ll only be home for a little over a month, living with my grandparents again will be rough. After my first taste of freedom living in the dorms during freshman year, returning to Hawk-eye Land will be a challenge.
I wished I’d had a sibling all my life, but the yearning was never so prominent as when I came home from school.
It’s been fourteen years since my mom died—fourteen years of being the only person my grandparents had to worry about. While I appreciate the motive behind their undivided attention, I’ve always wanted someone who understood my rants about their constant hovering. Someone to talk with and share silly inside jokes.
Since my well-being is my grandparents’ priority, they’re always on my case. Having a sibling to pick up some of the slack would be nice. I never want to sound ungrateful for what they’ve done for me, but sometimes I need a break.
“What kind of job is it?” I ask, keeping any smart-mouth comments to myself. Don’t feel like ticking him off today.
“Translating.” Grandpa folds the newspaper into a rectangle and sets it next to his ‘Not only perfect but Russian, too’ coffee mug.
My grandfather, Viktor Berezin, is a retired Russian language professor at a state university in Metro Detroit. He’d taken on various translating jobs throughout his life to make extra money and keep his language skills sharp. Over the last few years, he’s thrown a few small projects my way.
The work is never difficult: translating documents or contracts from Russian into English or vice versa. It’s great money for a teenager since it pays better than babysitting or a part-time retail job.
“Documents again?” I ask.
“No. It’s for a person. He needs a translator to speak with the media for his job. You will help him.”
My head snaps up. “He speaks with the media for his job? Is he super-high profile?”
“In some circles, I suppose.” Grandpa shrugs.
“You trust me to be someone’s PR person? I have a pretty smart mouth, you know,” I joke, shoveling more cereal into my mouth.
“I’m counting on it, Audushka.”
“Is he an actor? A model?” I push my empty cereal bowl to the side. “Wait! Is he a dignitary?”
“I think I’d handle the dignitary if he were one.” Grandpa takes a sip of his coffee. “He’s a hockey player.”
“A hockey player,” I repeat. “For the Red Wings?”
Excitement bubbles in my stomach. I’ve been a Detroit Red Wings fan since before I could speak. Being the translator for a Russian player on my favorite team in the history of the universe would complete my life.
“Not that high profile.” Grandpa laughs. “It’s Vanya’s newest client. He plays for the Aviators.”
A minor-league player? The bubbles in my stomach fizzle and pop, and my tense, excited shoulders drop.
“Where am I meeting him?”
“You will meet Vanya at Robinson Arena at noon.”
Vanya is the Russian term of endearment for the name Ivan. Ivan Kravtsov is one of Grandpa’s closest friends. Personally, I consider Vanya an uncle since he’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember.
Vanya made history as the first Russian hockey player to defect to play hockey in the NHL. It’s a crazy story—one straight out of an espionage novel.
The now-defunct NHL team, the Detroit Chargers, hired my grandpa to be Vanya’s translator. When he moved here, he didn’t know anyone. My grandparents invited him to every holiday celebration and random family function. He became a fixture in our family.
Now, he owns a restaurant in New York City and works as a sports agent representing Russian hockey players. And, according to recent documents I’d translated, he’s also peppered his clientele list with a few basketball players.
“What does it pay?” I ask tentatively.
“More than enough to cover what you lost.” Grandpa answers.
Relief washes over me as I greet my grandma, who walks into the tiny kitchen holding the electric, lighted mirror she swears by.
For someone who disapproves of being vain, my grandma is pretty concerned with her looks. She rarely wears foundation, but her cheeks are always powdered, and her lips are never without lipstick in public. Though her fair skin is wrinkled with soft lines, it doesn’t take away from the beauty of her features. Her hair stays perpetually blonde—thanks to the magic of hair dye—but it works because it compliments her blue-gray eyes and high cheekbones. She’d be beautiful even if she let her hair go gray.
I can only hope I got some of those graceful-aging genes.
“Morning, Gram,” I greet her.
“What time did you get home last night?” she asks, setting the mirror on the table and flipping it to the ultra-magnifying side before stooping to plug it in.
“Around one-thirty, I guess.”
“I can tell. You’re puffy.” She reaches over to pat my cheek before inspecting her face in the mirror.
Thanks, I think, though I don’t dare say it out loud.
My grandparents and I have a better relationship since I’d left for college than we ever had when I was growing up. Don’t want to mess up a good thing. “Where are you off to?”
“It’s my week to clean the church,” Gram answers as she plucks hair from her chin.
I hope the random-chin-hair gene skips my generation.
“Do you need any help?”
“Pat and Emma will be there, but thank you for asking.”
She sets the tweezers on the table and picks up a black tube. After slicking a rose shade across her lips, she pats the skin under her eyes and turns the mirror’s light off.
My breath of relief at her not needing my help is almost audible. I haven’t been back to church since I left for college. Just thinking about the place makes me itchy.
I slide out of my seat, tap my inseams together with a flourish, and straighten my arms at my sides.
“Are you going to tell me my client’s name, or is this a super-secret mission, Sir?” I ask in a military monotone.
Grandpa picks up the newspaper and unfolds it again. “I don’t know it. I just told Vanya you’d be happy to do it.”
“Super-secret. Got it. I won’t let you down, Sir.” I salute him.
“You are a ridiculous girl, Audushka.” He dismisses me with a shake of his head.
I thought my grandfather would continue to reward my almost-native knowledge of reading, writing, and speaking Russian by giving me tedious translating projects my whole life. I never expected him to allow me to work directly with a client, let alone one in the public eye.
Maybe he has more faith in me than I realized.
* * *
I arrive at Robinson Arena fifteen minutes early to prove I’m taking my first translating assignment with an actual human to heart. There’s no doubt Vanya will report my professionalism, or lack thereof, to Grandpa. The unspoken part of this assignment is to keep my grandfather’s stellar reputation intact.
I spot him waiting for me at the top of the stairs, outside the main entrance to the arena.
“Audushka!” He leans in to kiss my cheeks, as is Russian custom, but he stops and offers me his leather-gloved hand instead. I shake it firmly. “We’ll keep this professional, yes? It’s good to see you again.”
“Good to see you, too,” I respond as a smile creeps across my face.
Vanya wastes no time getting to business, greeting me with the Russian-inspired diminutive of my name and continuing the conversation in his native language. I throw Grandpa a mental fist-bump for teaching me Russian so well I could’ve been born and raised in Moscow.
“Your destiny awaits,” he says with a wink, holding a heavy blue door open. “Tell me how you got Vitya to give you this assignment. I thought he’d have you translating contracts until you were a little old lady.”
I have to think for a minute since Vanya is the only person who calls Grandpa by his diminutive, Vitya. My grandma, being of Irish descent, doesn’t use diminutives—or any nicknames. She’s only ever called Grandpa by two names: Viktor or Horse’s Ass.
“I have no clue. I thought the same thing, except I always throw in some cats. Little old cat lady translating Pushkin and Tolstoy until her arthritic hand falls off.”
Vanya’s deep laugh echoes through the empty concourse as we enter the arena. The frigid air hits my exposed skin when the heavy door slams shut, sending an involuntary ripple from my fingertips to my toes.
“You will be spending quite a bit of time here, so you may want to dress for warmth,” he says.
I nod. Choosing a suit with a skirt instead of pants for a job at an ice arena hadn’t been the wisest decision, but it’s the only suit I own, so I didn’t have another option. Maybe my grandparents would take pity on me and spot me some cash for appropriate work attire.
I follow Vanya through the arena’s concourse and down a few long hallways into the dank, fluorescent-lit basement.
Stan Martin, Michigan furniture store guru, recently sold the Aviators to North Carolina department store guru Harris Commons. The new owner is building a brand-new arena downtown, but it won't open until next fall. Until then, the Aviators call Robinson Arena home.
A state-of-the-art stadium in its heyday, Robinson has wilted into a massive eyesore over its thirty-five-year existence. And I’ve only ever observed it from the exterior.
The basement gives “deteriorating” a whole new meaning. The floors, walls, and ceilings show their age as numerous cracks and chips mar the painted concrete surfaces. The Aviators logo, a wheel with propellers, guides us down the hall like jets creeping forward on a runway, waiting for our turn to take off.
Just when I thought I’d get lost in the maze of dull white walls, we turn right into a hallway covered in light wood paneling and historic team photographs hiding the grubby concrete.
Massive, teal double doors adorned with the Aviators logo welcome us at the end of the hallway. Above the logo is a sign: Authorized Personnel Only.
Before we enter the locker room, a ripple of pride rushes through me. For the first time in my life, I feel like a true professional.
Then I watch Vanya try to pull open the door. It barely budges, so he grabs the long, thin handle with both hands and tugs with all his might.
If I have to do that every day, I’ll yank my arms out of their sockets.
Undeterred, I take a deep, optimistic breath before following him into the locker room, where the stench of sweaty hockey gear immediately assaults my senses.
Instantly, I understood why my grandfather gave me this assignment.
Well played, Dedushka. Well played.
Instead of focusing on the scent, I take in the surroundings of my new “office.” Tall, open oak lockers span three walls of the compact room in a U-shape. The space might not be that small, but it seems that way with all the large bodies crammed into it.
Large men’s bodies.
Large men’s bodies in various stages of undress.
Fully clothed men—and women—with cameras, microphones, and handheld recording devices also fill the room—the media.
Keep your eyes up.
I can’t be caught staring at the men with towels wrapped inches below their muscular abs. Abs that must have taken more than eight minutes a day to chisel out.
Vanya weaves his way through the swarm of people to the back wall of the locker room. He stops behind a group of reporters and taps a short camera operator on the shoulder. I can’t see the player being swarmed by the media, but judging from the Russian name on the plate attached to the locker, it’s my client.
Varenkov.
“Excuse me,” Vanya interrupts the stream of questions directed at the guy I still can’t see. “Aleksandr won’t be taking questions today. Thank you.”
I rise onto my toes, craning my neck to get a glimpse of my client before the crowd dissipates. No such luck.
Finally, the two men blocking my vision excuse themselves and inch past.
“Couldn’t resist my package?” a voice asks in Russian.
I jerk my head up and lock eyes with Crazy Hair from the karaoke bar.
And he’s half naked.
KEEP READING
USA Today Bestselling Author Sophia Henry is a proud Detroit native who fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. She loves writing steamy, heartfelt contemporary romance and hanging out with her two amazing kids.
Commitment to the Be Kind Love Hard motto:
Sophia donates royalties from each book to charity!
CLICK HERE TO LEARN MORE
If you love a book, please consider leaving a review. It’s the best thing you can do for an author…other then buy more of their books. ;)
Thank you for reading!!
