Page 150 of Wicked Serve

My eyes sting as I stare at it. It’s of me at the High Line, a purple coneflower tucked behind my ear. I’m beaming, arms flung out, while the sunset fills the sky behind me. The High Line. Nik and I went there what feels like ages ago. I remember him taking the picture. He said he’d delete it, but I guess he liked it enough to print it.

I flip the photograph over. The messy scrawl looping over the back is in Russian. The Cyrillic letters are still foreign to me, even though I’ve started to look into Russian lessons, but after a few painstaking minutes with Google Translate, I manage to work out a translation.

??? ???????

My favorite.

Chapter 71

Nikolai

“What do you think about the pink?” I ask Tempest, who wags her tail with barely contained energy. I took her for a run earlier, but she’s already itching to go out again. I set aside my paintbrush, checking my watch. “No time for another run, little lady. I’m sorry.”

Tempest cocks her head to the side, one dark, sleek ear flopping inside out. I could swear that she lets out a disappointed, if understanding, whine. When I adopted her, the woman at the shelter told me that she’d be clingy. I think between the two of us, I’m the clingy one. Whenever I’m home—or at least in the downtown apartment I bought my first week in San Jose that I’m trying to convince myself feels like home—I can’t shut up. Maybe it’s the therapy, but all I do is talk to Tempest, even if she can’t reply. She’s getting the hang of commands in Russian and English, and has figured out quickly that when the harness comes out, I’m about to take her to the trail that runs parallel to the Guadalupe River. She’s a German shorthaired pointer; she loves running even more than me.

And she listens.

Either I talk to her, or I battle the urge to call Isabelle.

“I know,” I say sympathetically. “And I have a road trip tomorrow. I’m sorry.”

She nudges my hand with her nose, accidentally smearing pink paint all over it. I sigh, wiping it away.

I didn’t set out to paint the bathroom blush pink, or decorate the kitchen with yellow accents, or keep a vase of fresh-cut flowers on the coffee table, but once I put a photograph of Isabelle on my nightstand, it’s like the floodgates opened, and now I can’t stop. I have shoes for her, still in their boxes, and dresses line the half of the walk-in closet I’m not using, and I know she’d approve of the pink candy dish on the marble-topped island. I even have a koala stuffed animal on my dresser.

It’s not a substitute for her. Nothing is. No matter how many citrus candles I light, or cozy blankets I put in the living room, or pieces of jewelry I collect, it’s not the same as having her around. It’s not a home.

All the same, the reminders help. One day, she’s going to share that closet. She’ll appreciate the walls in the bathroom. We’ll take Tempest on walks and dance in the kitchen and join a gym with a pool we can swim in together. She’ll put stuffed animals on the bed, and leave her beauty products on the bathroom counter even though that means I keep knocking them over, and ask me to zip up her dresses before we go out. We’ll make love on every surface in this apartment, and fight in it, too, and it will be okay because I’ll have learned to manage myself.

The thought of that future steadies me. Grounds me. I’m going to therapy twice a week, and adjusting to my anxiety medication, and playing my ass off every shift I have on the ice. I’m finishing my classes virtually, and even though I’m keeping my distance from Isabelle, I’m thinking about her all the time. Everything I’m doing is for the future we deserve to have together.

I just wish it didn’t hurt so much in the meantime.

I wrap up the painting for now, slipping my leather bracelet back onto my wrist, and get ready to head to the practice facility. With the regular season ending after these last couple of games and the postseason looming, I need all the practice I can get.

My phone starts to ring as soon as I shut the door to my car. I glance at the number on the touchscreen, expecting it to be Mom. Things are still stiff between us, but they’re slowly loosening up. She came to my game the other day, with Grandfather, of all people—he still doesn’t approve of my choice, but he understands why I made it—and has kept me in the loop regarding Isabelle and the wedding.

Instead, it’s a number I don’t recognize. My stomach clenches, panic overtaking me in an instant. After my first game on the Sharks, Dad tried calling from a different number, since I finally blocked his, and I’m still jumpy.

It takes a few tries, but I manage a deep breath. If it’s my father, I will calmly hang up the phone and block the number. Dr. Reyes reminds me every session that I can and should continue to reinforce that boundary. It probably isn’t him, but just in case, I have a plan.

I loosen my grip on the steering wheel and remind myself that the car is in park. I let myself notice the lingering new-car smell, and the way the sun is hitting the windshield, and the feel of the leather seat. The spike of nausea fades. My head feels clearer. It’s not a perfect system yet, and I’m still panicking more than I’d like, but at least I’m really learning how to handle it now.

I answer the call.

“Nikolai? It’s James. Izzy’s brother.”

I blink with surprise, even though he can’t see me. I’m not sure who I expected, but Isabelle’s eldest brother wasn’t at the top of the list.

“I remember,” I say dryly. “You threw me into a snowbank.”

“It all worked out in the end, yeah?” he says, amusement in his tone.

“If by worked out, you mean a friendship with your brother that involves way too many movie references I don’t understand, then yes.” The panic might be at bay, but that doesn’t mean I’m not still on edge. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry to call out of the blue. Is this a good time?”

“I’m just heading to a training session, but yeah, I can talk.”

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