Aleksandr chuckled. “We have a lot of chemistry. We played together in Russia, so it was just about getting that groove back. We get along great and have confidence in each other.”

I translated word for word.

The questions went on for another twenty minutes. Aleksandr didn’t pull another translation trick on me.

After the reporters had moved on to another player, he stood up, pulled the towel from around his neck, and threw it into a bin on his way toward the showers.

“Excuse me!” I called out in Russian. He wasn’t getting away that easily. I wouldn’t start this assignment letting him believe I was a pushover.

Aleksandr turned around and took a step toward me. Despite my anger, it took every ounce of willpower to not be derailed by his godly physique. Instead, I used the fact that I could never have that body to fuel my anger.

“That was ridiculous.” I took a step toward him, narrowing the space between our bodies to a few inches, and rose to my tippy-toes. He had me by almost a foot, but my extra height gave me a feeling of power.

“I was just giving you a hard time. It was a joke.” He rolled his eyes, which incensed me.

“Don’t you realize that I can make you look like a total ass? I could’ve told all those reporters that you felt you had to take control because this team couldn’t win in a beer league without you.”

“That would’ve been shitty.”

“What you just did to me was shitty. And it was sexual harassment. I know that you don’t care because you’re Mr.”—I had no clue how to say douche bag in Russian, so I switched to English—“Douche bag. King of all Douches.” Back to Russian. “You can’t treat me like that.” I jabbed his chest with my index finger. “You might be better off declining interviews until you have enough English skills to get by. I’m not sure I want this job anymore.”

The locker room, which had been buzzing when we’d started our conversation, was silent. Not because everyone had cleared out, either. On the contrary, more players had returned to listen to us go at it. I almost felt bad about calling Aleksandr out in front of his teammates, but we’d been arguing in Russian, so most of them had no idea what we’d been saying.

Aleksandr circled his hand around my wrist and lowered my arm to my side.

“See this?” He dropped my hand to grab a chunk of hair from the top of his head. “My first day here the veteran guys got me with clippers. Shaved off hair on both sides. It was a joke. A prank. Hockey players do that to rookies. I got this haircut to prove I can roll with it. You’re gonna quit over a stupid joke?” He shook his head, letting out a faint chuckle. “Go ahead.”

Aleksandr turned around and stomped to the showers like an oversized toddler.

I swung my messenger bag over my shoulder and stalked toward the locker-room door. Absolutely humiliated.

“Hey.” Landon, one of Aleksandr’s teammates, touched my arm to stop my beeline. “You okay?”

I nodded, but a ridiculous, revealing tear escaped. I let it roll rather than draw any more attention to myself by wiping my cheek.

“Dude can be a jerk at first, but he’s not a bad guy.”

I nodded. “Tell the jerk I’ll see him on Thursday after the game.”

—

After dinner the next night, I followed Gram upstairs to her bedroom, sprawling across her floral quilt while she flicked on the television.

“Why am I such a loser?” I asked, staring at the white tiles covering the ceiling of her attic room.

“What happened?” she asked, though her eyes didn’t leave the screen. She was used to my emotional melodrama.

“Aleksandr humiliated me on my first day. He played this stupid prank where he said nonsensical things in Russian and made me figure out answers on the fly. I’m not a professional hockey translator. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Did you come up with something?”

“Well, yeah. I didn’t want to be the idiot he was trying to make me out to be. So, of course I confronted him, because that was super shitty.” I paused to see if she had caught my curse.

Gram stopped flipping through the channels. “You’re twenty years old, I know you swear.”

“I blew up and he blew up. I don’t think he’s ever going to speak to me again.”

I kept staring at the ceiling as if it held hidden answers.

“Sounds like you’re making a mountain out of a molehill, Auden. He did something jerky. You told him you didn’t like it. Move on.”

Move on. Move on? Where was the protective I’m-going-to-sic-your-grandfather-on-that-jackass talk I wanted to hear right now?

“Do you think I can tell Mr. Orlenko I’m sick for Thursday’s game? Grandpa can handle it, right?” I asked, completely aware that Grandpa would never do it. I threw in a fake cough and rubbed my throat. “I think I feel a sore throat coming on.”

“Gargle with warm salt water and get into bed.” Gram continued zipping through channels, not even fazed. Evidently raising three kids before getting stuck with me had made her heartless.

“You know, Gram, it’s okay to allow me to skip work one time in my life to avoid extreme embarrassment.” I rolled onto my side and rested my head on the back of my hand.

“You know, Auden,” Gram mocked me, “it’s better to face your problems head-on. Avoiding the situation just causes more anxiety. I’ll bet you’re worrying about nothing.”

Like I had a choice. She was the one who passed on the anxiety trait. She worried about everything.

—

I didn’t attend the game on Thursday night. Instead, I listened to the radio broadcast in my car until there were only a few minutes left in the third period before I scrambled out of my car to enter the arena. I’d studied generic interview answers so I’d be prepared for anything the reporters asked, in case Aleksandr pulled another stupid translating prank.

Once inside the arena, I made the familiar trek to the dungeon, walking slowly so I arrived at the same time as the media. Making small talk with Aleksandr wasn’t high on my list. Maybe my grandma was right. Maybe I should let it go. Maybe I was making too big of a deal. I just couldn’t believe he would embarrass me on my first night translating. I knew he was a cocky jerk, but hadn’t realized he was evil.

Peering through the crowd of bodies in front of the lockers, I noticed Aleksandr and Landon laughing with the beat writer from the Detroit Times. I slid my fingers through my meticulous, straightened hair, then smoothed the front of my black sheath dress. Though the sleek dress hugged the curves of my hips and backside, it was professional. I’d even thrown a hot pink cardigan over it because it was sleeveless. The bold color gave me the burst of confidence I needed before facing whatever Aleksandr had in store for me tonight.

Landon must’ve spotted me first because he swatted Aleksandr’s shoulder and nodded my way. Aleksandr followed Landon’s prompt. Though his smile vanished, his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He shifted in his seat as I approached.

Excusing myself as I slid past the group of reporters, I set my messenger bag on the floor and stood next to Aleksandr’s locker, suddenly self-conscious of the view I’d just given him after the comment about my rear end he’d made the other night.

Get over it and get home.

The media session went smoothly, with Aleksandr answering every question, and even joking around with the reporters. When we finished, I snatched my bag off the floor and followed the mob of reporters toward the doors.

“So what? You aren’t going to speak to me?” Aleksandr touched my arm just as the locker-room door swung shut in front of me. Damn.

I turned to face him. “No need to talk. All I need to do is translate.”

His eyes found mine and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “I’m sorry, Audushka.”

“It’s Auden.” I refused to let my guard down again. I’d trusted him with a piece of myself and gotten humiliated. I was done.