Page 16 of Bad Teammate
“Welcome to the States, then. How do you like it so far?”
I explained to him that I’d only gotten in a few hours ago, but rattled off the differences between Russian and American airports and traffic. He asked about my flights, and I think I probably bored him to tears when I told him.
“Your place is lovely, by the way,” I said, changing subjects. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Oh, thank you.” He looked around at his surroundings, like a proud king surveying his empire. “It’s the condo that hockey built.”
“The view is spectacular,” I said, rising higher in my seat to try to steal another glimpse at the skyline.
“Right?” Derek asked. “C’mon, let’s have a look. I’ll give you a quick tour of Downtown Dallas.”
I followed Derek to the wall of windows that looked over Dallas’s glowing lights and veins of traffic.
“We live in the Arts District,” he said as he began to point out one building after another.Thatwas the Performing Arts Center for opera, theater and ballet, among others.Thiswas the Symphony Center, which was ranked as one of the world’s greatest orchestra halls. Overtherewas that Dallas Museum of Art. Andthatbuilding over there was a magnet school for high school kids who excelled at the performing arts.
“Wow.” I said. I felt speechless. I never expected a pro athlete to have cultured interests like Derek—I expected them all to be like, well,Sasha. “What an inspiring place to live.”
“Yeah, it’s nice.”
“A professional hockey player and a lover of the arts, too?” I turned to him and gave him my eyes. “You must be a real Renaissance man.”
“I don’t know about that.” He snickered and pointed to another building. “See that building there? That’s our arena. It’s a fifteen-minute walk away.”
“Oh.” Of course it was too good to be true—he only cared for the convenience. “I see.”
He must have sensed my disappointment.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Iloveliving here. It’s such a cool neighborhood—there’s so many great restaurants and shops and parks and other places to go. One of these days, I wanna go to see an opera or a symphony or something. I mean—living around here, I feel like Ihaveto go.”
“The symphony, yes! Maybe we can go while I’m visiting?” I asked, raising a palm.
“Oh.” He seemed startled by my suggestion. “Yeah … yeah, sure, why not? We can all go—you, me, and Niko.”
I hadn’t meant him,I thought. Sasha would never be caught dead at the symphony.
The sound of a door cracking open grabbed our attention. We turned our heads towards the hallway, where Sasha’s heavy footsteps were growing closer.
My brother waltzed into the living room, still wearing his comically wrinkled suit.
“Hello again, Sasha. How’s your migraine?” I asked him—in Russian, of course.
“Still shitty,” he said, folding his arms.
“You should take something for it,” I said. “And you should get some sleep. Right after you hang up that suit and change into your pajamas.”
“I will,” he said, sounding annoyed.
But Sasha didn’t move. He stood and stared at me.
“Well? What’re you waiting for?” I asked.
“I can hear you two talking from my bedroom.”
“Sorry,” I said with an easy shrug of my shoulder. “We’ll be quieter.”
“It’s not the volume I have a problem with.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to tell me I’m not allowed to talk to him?”
