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“Stop fucking looking at that picture,” I say loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Sorry, Mr. Pavlova,” someone says.
“He wants us to look at the one of him saving the kid,” another voice says.
For fuck’s sake. Who takes pictures when everyone around them is trying to escape a burning building? And worse, sells them to online tabloids? I didn’t notice anyone taking photos last night, and if I had, I would have smashed their camera phones.
Hopefully, Mila is asleep at my place. She was on the phone the entire two hours I slept, talking to attorneys, her security company, and her insurance company. Once we got home, everything seemed to hit her at once and she started panicking about people stealing her art if it survived the fire and the fire sprinklers in her apartment.
During one of her calls, I overheard her saying there was at least $40 million worth of art in her apartment, which blew my fucking mind. Compared to the way I grew up, I consider myself wealthy now that I have a seven-figure annual salary. But Mila is a billionaire.
Selfishly, I fell asleep to the realization that I’m married to a Russian oligarch’s daughter. If I do something he doesn’t like, he has the means to have me dropped into the ocean with my feet encased in concrete.
I was hoping that maybe he’s not as bad as I’ve heard, but my Google searches so far on this flight have been…harrowing.
Mikhail Pavlov isn’t just a bad dude. He’s a criminal who’s deeply connected to the Russian mafia. And now he’s my father-in-law.
What the hell was I thinking? Heath is talented; he could have made it onto minor league hockey team without any help from me. But I married into the Russian mafia to make it happen immediately.
I’m too exhausted to Google anything else. I let my eyes slide closed, hoping to catch some sleep since I have a game tonight.
When I wake up from a hard sleep, our plane is descending in Tampa. I stretch my neck and check my phone.
Mila: I had to call security to get me from your house to work. Reporters everywhere. Used your toothbrush. Give Tampa hell tonight.
The corners of my mouth quirk up as I read her text. Mila has two sides. Though I don’t know her well, I was already aware of the succinct, all business and no emotions Mila who sent this message. But yesterday, I also saw the Mila who is soft, sweet, and vulnerable.
Damn, did I want her bad last night. It wasn’t just how sexy she looked in her corset, but the way her eyes burned into mine, filled with desire. I thought she preferred to be in control, but she liked it when I told her what I wanted last night.
And I fucking loved seeing her do it. Now I’m stuck on a road trip for a week, and I’m ninety-nine percent sure my new wife isn’t the sexting sort.
I text her back as the plane taxis down the runway.
Colby: How are you?
Mila: I’m fine.
I shake my head and put the phone away. After what I read about Mila’s father and grandfather, I’m not surprised she’s so stone-cold sometimes. That’s how she grew up, with a family that valued power above all else.
SUVs are waiting for us on the tarmac, and on the ride to our hotel I check my other texts, finding more than a dozen from hockey reporters and bloggers I’ve given my cell number to. I also have seventeen voicemails.
I won’t be talking to any of them. I have to put aside all the distractions and focus on tonight’s game.
The bus ride to the airport after our game is quiet. We didn’t just lose, we got smoked. 5–1. By Tampa, which we weren’t expecting.
Everything is off today. I always take a pregame nap, but today I couldn’t fall asleep. I stared at the ceiling thinking about all the ways the Russian mob will end me if I piss Mila off.
Pissing Mila off is extremely easy. I’ve seen her lose it on assistants when they get her drink order wrong, which is why she runs through assistants as fast she does. Quentin is the only one who’s figured out how to get along with her.
An hour into imagining how it feels to be waterboarded, I couldn’t help dropping off to sleep. I woke up more than an hour later than I was supposed to because I forgot to set my alarm. Got a thorough ass chewing from Coach Maddox, which was actually a relief. He’s the only staff member who’s not afraid to even look at me now that I’m married to the team owner.
And now we’re off to Chicago, our grueling weeklong road trip just beginning. I haven’t checked my phone since before the game because I know I’ll find even more texts and voicemails from reporters.
