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‘Rose Harkness,’ she’d said, endeavouring to sound cheerful.
‘Rose?’
The voice had been Russian, and for a moment the breath had stopped in her throat. The moment had spun on…and then collapsed. Too light, too young, too…not Plato.
And the fact that it had mattered so much brought her right back into the moment. She really didn’t want to think about Plato right now.
‘Yes, it’s Rose Harkness,’ she had said, all business.
‘Zdrasvityze, it’s Sasha.’
Rose’s brain had whirred into gear. Sasha Rykov. Star goalie for the Wolves. Clearly the blanket ban had holes in it, or someone hadn’t paid much attention to the boss.
A little spark of hope had lit in her chest.
‘Sasha, I’m so pleased to hear from you.’
‘Can I be seeing you, Rose?’ His voice had come youthful and confident and direct down the line.
Rose had lifted her gaze ceilingwards and mouthed a little prayer of gratitude.
/> ‘Oh, yes, Sasha, you can definitely be seeing me.’
She was back in the game.
So Rose had spent the afternoon at the restaurant with Sasha Rykov and one of her girlfriends—Phoebe—hovering as the couple enjoyed a nice lunch under the glare of cameras and a film crew. Sasha had flirted outrageously with Phoebe, and given them a couple of lines they’d be able to use in the promo.
After the shoot one of the television executives had rung with questions about the contract she’d handed them. Sasha’s signature wasn’t enough. According to their legal advisers the Wolves management would need to sign off on it, even though she had explained Sasha’s fee would be going to a charity.
She had been faced with the reality that without Plato’s consent the footage might never be aired. She would have to see him again, and it would be embarrassing—because she was all too aware that last night she hadn’t behaved well. But neither had he, and her last memory of him was of his face as she’d slammed her door.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, she told herself. She was hoping Plato would see the humorous side. She was hoping he would shrug those big shoulders and say, Da, baby, you make your play. Just bring my boy back in one piece. And then she would break it to him that the play had already been made, and he would smile at her as he had last night, and ask her…
But equally likely he would have his arm around a Nordic blonde and it would be all, Rose who?
The last thought put a little firmness in her resolve and a twitch in her walk. Not that she cared what he did in his private life. It had nothing to do with her. One fake date and his seeing her in her sweet nothings did not give her any say or interest in what he should choose to do with other women.
Just as she was also free to play the field. And look at that field—or rink—jammed with big, husky hockey players. She recognised the Wolves by their red jerseys. Not that she would ever date a professional athlete. That was asking for trouble. But Plato Kuragin didn’t have to know that.
She spotted Sasha. He wasn’t hard to miss. When she’d asked him how she’d recognise him on the ice tonight he’d said, ‘I carry the biggest stick.’
From here they all seemed to be carrying big sticks, but he appeared to be using his. On another player.
Great—she’d scored the player most likely to be benched.
The siren went and the action on the rink dissipated. There was some sporadic cheering and the players seemed to be leaving. Now she only had to get Sasha’s attention.
‘Rose!’
Clearly not hard to get his attention. He was gliding over. He reminded her of her brother Jackson at that age: full of energy and optimism, but toting an ego too big for his boots.
She took a deep breath and continued down to the rink as if she hadn’t a care in the world. There was a scattering of spectators, mostly die-hard Canadian fans, and Rose was aware she had become a person of interest as she approached the Wolves’ goalie. She leaned against the stanchion at the end of the penalty bench. Sasha opened the gate and approached her, tugging off his helmet.
‘I will get into trouble for this,’ he said, not looking too worried.
He sat down to remove his skates, his angelic face puffy with heat and sweat. Rose propped herself opposite him against the boards and asked a few non-essential questions about the game, then leaned in and told him he’d saved her bacon.
‘The Wolves don’t own me,’ he said—with more bravado than reality, Rose suspected. ‘I do it for you, Rose.’
