I stretched my arms, my body pressing against the length of his. “Hmm?”

“You have to stop doing that, too.” He kissed my neck, just below my jawbone.

I giggled, dropping my chin against his head.

“I need to go, sweet girl. I’ve got to get to the rink. I’m already late.”

“Oh shit.” I sat up, swinging my legs to the ground. He sat up as well.

“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon,” he whispered into the side of my neck, punctuating his sentence with a kiss. He got up and jogged to the stairs. “See you tonight.”

I lifted a hand and gave him a small smile. Then I fell back on the couch, resting my head on the arm and raising my eyes to the ceiling. My stupid heart hammered against my chest again, though I knew he meant only that he’d see me tonight after the game, when I would be translating and “teaching him English.”

Having an emotional attachment to a guy was new and frightening territory for me. After graduating high school without so much as a first kiss, I’ll admit, I went a little Sex in the City during my first two years of college. If a guy showed interest in me, we went home together. The make-out sessions would get pretty heavy, but I’d never had sex with any of them and I could always walk away. Which speaks volumes for what little self-respect I had at that time. My need for affection was a pathetic casualty of growing up without parents, but I craved it, and I would accept it from anyone willing to give it.

A sexy kissing session with Aleksandr had seemed like the perfect solution, as it was the only way I knew how to release the feeling of caffeinated bees attacking my insides. Unfortunately, the more I kissed and touched Aleksandr, the more I wanted him. The more time I spent with him, the more time I wanted to spend with him. For the first time in my life, I realized I couldn’t continue down the physical road without getting emotionally attached.

And I didn’t know how to handle emotional attachment to a guy.

Could I let myself fall in love with Aleksandr Varenkov when I knew falling caused injuries?

Scraped knees and palms would heal, but what about a lacerated heart?

Chapter 12

What’s that old saying? It’s better to have loved and had your heart raked across hot coals and stomped on than never to have loved at all?

That’s the route I’d decided to take, because saying no never even crossed my mind when Aleksandr invited me to go to the Detroit Red Wings game with him.

The Pilots had a five-day break over Christmas and Aleksandr wanted to see the Red Wings, since he hadn’t had a chance to get to a game yet. As I crunched across the greenish brown lawn to his Jeep, I reminded myself to be calm and cool. But calm and cool got kicked to the curb when I lifted my eyes to Aleksandr, with his Mohawk gelled into a petite pompadour and a five-o’clock shadow dusting his strong jaw. I climbed over the gearshift to straddle him before intertwining my hands behind his neck and planting my lips on his.

“Best. Greeting. Ever.” Aleksandr said when I pulled back. He swept away a few strands of hair that had fallen forward when I’d attacked him. “You always surprise me.”

A stupid girly giggle slipped out as I climbed over to the passenger seat. As I buckled my seat belt, the realization of what that kiss meant hit me.

There was no turning back. I’d secured the parachute to my back, hopped on the plane, ascended to an altitude 12,500 feet, and jumped out.

Now, I was falling.

“First Red Wings game. Smile!” I snapped a picture of Aleksandr in Joe Louis Arena’s dark, dank parking garage.

“Shouldn’t we wait until we can see the arena?” he asked, blinking rapidly.

“Sorry,” I said and shoved my camera into my purse. Then I grabbed his forearm and hopped up and down. “I’m just so excited for your first game.”

Aleksandr laughed and placed his hand over mine so I couldn’t let go of his arm as he led me toward the walkway to the arena.

After snapping Aleksandr’s picture in front of the massive steps to the arena, we climbed them and entered Joe Louis through the Gordie Howe entrance, named after the Red Wings legendary forward. As we weaved through the Joe’s crowded concourse to find Section 121, Aleksandr came to an abrupt stop.

“Did you know he was going to be here?” he asked, nodding toward a stand where an older man held up multiple game programs. I followed his gaze and saw Drew exchanging a ten-dollar bill for the program.

“No,” I said. Which was true. Drew’s parents have had Red Wings season tickets for as long as I can remember, but he never told me he’d be at the game. Although I hadn’t spoken to him since the soccer game.

Aleksandr pressed a kiss on the top of my head, and I let out a breath of relief. Just as I turned to enter our section, I heard Drew call my name. I had every intention of pretending I hadn’t heard him until I noticed the tall brunette at his side, fingers intertwined with his. Shannon Richards, one of my friends from high school. One of my best friends, but I’d lost touch with her during our freshman year at college. At first, we’d kept in touch by e-mail. Then life got busy, and e-mails became less frequent, save the occasional birthday message, until they stopped altogether.

“Let’s go,” I whispered. I waved to Drew, then pointed toward the bulky, crimson curtain separating the concourse from the seating area. “We’re going to head in. See you at intermission?”

Instead of waiting for a response, I poked Aleksandr in the rib cage to prod him forward.

“ ‘See you at intermission?’ ” Aleksandr asked when we settled into the rigid red seats. “Why would you say that?”

“We can’t say hi to my friend during the first intermission?” I asked.

“Not when your friend is in love with you.”

“He’s not.” I laughed out loud as I leaned over, setting my purse at my feet. “He’s here with a girl.”

Aleksandr shook his head and turned to watch the Red Wings and their opponent, the Chicago Blackhawks, skating around their respective nets.

I loved watching to see if any players had superstitions, like tapping the goalie’s pads or the crossbar of the net.

“Do you have any pregame superstitions?” I asked, sliding my hand under Aleksandr’s dark waves to rub his neck at the hairline. My pulse quickened when I felt the tension ease from his shoulders and his body shiver under my touch.

His lips quirked up and he threw me a quick glance. “Can’t tell you.”

“Seriously?” I asked, halting my massage.

“Don’t want to jinx it.” He wiggled against my hand like a dog that won’t let you stop petting him.

I laughed and resumed my caress. I understood player superstitions. I used to sing and dance to “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It” before every soccer game in eighth grade. I’m still convinced it worked because we’d gone undefeated and won the city championship that year.

When the horn sounded to mark the end of the first period, I turned to Aleksandr. “Are you coming with me?”

“Da.” He emphasized the yes in Russian. At least he’d remembered I was his translator, and he wasn’t supposed to know much English; I sure hadn’t. To me, this was a date.

After making our way to the concourse, I excused myself to use the ladies’ room.

I heard a female voice call my name as I took my spot at the end of the line. I scanned the area for the voice that had beckoned me when I saw Shannon step out of the line and walk back to where I stood.

“Hey, girl!” She had her arms around me before I could respond.

“Hey,” I said as I broke away. “How’s State?”

“So frickin’ hard,” she said, though her smile told me she didn’t mind. “Tell me why I went into prelaw, again?”

“Because you’re smart as hell and like to argue with people,” I answered, returning the grin.

“That’s not true.” She nudged my arm with her elbow. “See what I did there?”