Heart of Man

I ripped loose the laces on my skates, before collapsing at the back of my stall, listening to Vincent talk to some reporter next to me.

“We are playing shorter shifts, so it works out. We haven’t decided where we could use Anna best, so until we make that final decision, she’s going to be shuffling around a little bit.” I turned to my Captain, whom I had been completely ignoring until now. “Line order is not important at this point. WE are evenly distributing ourselves amoungst the lines, so everyone can improve, because we aren’t going to have weak lines in Game 7 of the Stanley Cup Finals.”

“Anna, what can you tell us about your playing time?” I turned to see a man standing in front of me, looking positively bored out of his mind. My eyes widened slightly, as both Vincent and the woman interviewing him, stopped to listen. I turned to him, gesturing to the reporter. He grinned, before taking over for me.

“Dana has been sent to Norfolk with Teddy, to rehabilitate. Dana should be back in case we go to playoffs, but Anna has taken Teddy’s place permanently for the season. She will be filling in on both lines, rotating with a few of the other wingers, until things become a bit more relaxed. She’s also playing on a reserve defense line, with Matt Smaby.”

“Does Miss Trovato not speak English?”

“I’m afraid her English-speaking abilities haven’t been practiced very much, since she was in Omsk for quite some time. Due to that, her confidence in her English isn’t quite up to par just yet, but we are working with her.”

“Why is she put on a defense line?”

“Matt is a very aggressive player, and Coach is allowing Anna time to adjust to the harsher physicality that is in the NHL. He told us that it would force her to adjust faster, since she learns pretty fast anyways.” I flushed, before pretending to care, nodding to his response. “It should also be an extra line to go in, and keep our opponents pushed up. We need to keep them shut down, and if we are tired, we have back up.”

“When Dana Tyrell comes back, what will happen with the lines?”

“We’re not too sure yet. We have a decent idea, but nothing’s been confirmed.”

“Miss Trovato, will you have a translator in the country soon?”

I looked over to the blonde reporter, shrugging slightly, before voicing myself. “I can speak it. It just takes a moment.” You have to play the part, but I could kill Vinny.

“It will just take some time. I think she’s just shy. You normally can’t get her and Matt to shut up.” I elbowed Vincent in the side, earning a few laughs from our eavesdropping teammates.

~

I shuffled back onto the bench, squished between Marty and Steven, after taking my eighth shift of the night. Ryan, my occasional linemate, pulled his hamstring, and was out for the night, thus having Marty shift to our line. Towards the end of the first, I got an assist with Marty, for Steven’s goal, and just got off of another goal, where they both assisted mine.

We were tired, and it showed. The St. Louis Blues were kicked our ass. Every time we thought we made it through, they came barreling back. Vincent took a stick to the face, and they called him for roughing. I got a penalty for goalie interference, when I was a good twenty feet away from the goal. It was literally insane. Then they got both Steven and I for Holding.

~

“This is ridiculous. This team is fucking pathetic, and you are letting them beat you. We’ve practiced harder than this. This should be fucking cake walk.” Boucher commented, as we made our way back onto the bench, for the overtime period.

St. Louis scored in the third period, tying up the game, and sending us to the nightmare overtime section. Roli was tired, and when Vinny offered for Smith to step in, Roloson told him to be quiet, and proceeded to make his way to the net. He wasn’t in a great mood, to be honest.

None of us were. We were playing pathetically. 3-3, and they hardly looked winded. Gagne’s line just came back, as Downie went out with Bergenheim and Moore. I looked along my teammates, on the bench. It felt like the Olympics all over again. Every time I went out there, I got the puberty comments. Do they not realize I’m female? Do they not watch the damn television? Dear God, this fools pissed me off.

Downie crossed the puck over to Bergenheim, who shot at the Blues netminder, whose name I couldn’t have cared to remember, but it hit the post. Gagne and Moore came over to the boards, following by Downie shortly. “Go!”

I jumped up over, waiting for Vincent and Martin, before we skated out to meet the Blues, around the four and a half minute mark. Marty checked the winger into the boards, before dropping the puck back to Kubina, who side-swiped it over to Clark. He took it behind the next, two Blues trailing behind him. “Anna!”

I tapped the ice, catching the puck roughly, before turning and matting Vinny’s speed, taking it up the left . I deked right, snapping the puck to Vinny, who lodged it in the top corner.

~

I collapsed on the new mattress in my room. We had spent the better part of our day off, before we had to play the Sabres, shopping and getting my apartment livable. “Comfy?”

I looked to my side, where Vincent laid. “Yeah. You have great taste, by the way. Thanks for helping me pick it out.” I smiled, before snagging the dark blue pillow from under his head, and putting it under my own.

“Hey!” I buried my head in the pillow, trying to laugh as I inhaled the faint cologne smell that he always wore, which had also found a way to nest itself in the pillow. I felt him sit up, but before he could say anything else, we were interrupted.

“Anna! We need food! Feed us, dammit.”

I lifted my head, to see Marty standing at the door, rubbing his growling stomach. “Grocery shopping, then?”

~

“My God, how many kinds of orange juice can one store hold?” I held the No Pulp and Pulp orange juice cartons in my hand, ignoring the other kinds Steven and Marty were shoving in my face. Matt would have been with us, but Boucher called him in for some kind of meeting. I feared it had something to do with the trade deadline, but Vincent quickly dismissed those thoughts, when I was so distracted by my thoughts, and nearly veered off the road.

Good thing it was Marty’s truck, eh?

“I need a vehicle.” I sneaked a glance over to Vincent, who smirked. That would be our next day off’s plan. I put both cartons in the cart that read Wal-Mart on the side. “Get what you guys want. I’ll make dinner tonight, plus we’ll have extra for next time.” I should have expected the 8 cartons of orange juice, though 3 of them were mine alone.

~

“Your total is going to be $908.60. Cash or credit?” I should pay by check. I handed the woman my card, who just looked at it weird. “Uh, ma’am?”

I looked to her, an eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

“I can’t take this card. We are unable to process foreign credit. I’m terribly sorry.” She flushed, continuing to apologize profusely. I sighed, relaxing my shoulders.

“It’s alright. I ha-..”

“Use this.” I looked to the card that was outstretched to the woman, before travelling up the holder’s arm, to see Vincent. I frowned, before snatching his card away. Pulling the neck of my shirt out, I slid it into my bra strap, and fixed my clothing. I took my card from her, replaced it in the taped together wallet I had had for years, and took out my Discover card.

“Use this one.” She took it thankfully, avoiding the tension that was growing around the small area. The card I had given her, was connected to my bank account in Russia. I’d have to speak to Jaromir about that. Luckily for me, I had opened up an American bank account for my funds from Tampa, and gotten the card about a week ago. Other places had accepted my card, only asking for the number, saying they’d call if they had problems. Oh well.

“Please sign this, Miss Trovato.” I accepted the pen and receipt, ignoring the silent glances my teammates were giving me, as I signed the slip. Returning the paper and pen to her, I placed the rest of the bags in the cart. “Thank you, ma’am. I’m extremely sorry for the inconvenience. Please come again!”

I watched the girl smile softly at me, before clicking something on her register. “Marty?” I called out, waiting for a response.

“Anna.”

“Can you get this stuff in the truck? I forgot something.” He looked at me weird, before grabbing Steven and the cart, making a break for the exit. “Please go with them, Vincent.”

He made no effort to rebuttal, only stomping off in frustration, I would think, as I’m pretty sure half the store heard his stomping fit. I turned to the blonde cashier, who looked at me questionably. “Yes ma’am, how can I help you?”

“Anna, please. Tell me, do you like hockey?” She looked at me like a deer caught in headlines, before blushing furiously, hiding her head.

“I, um, do watch hockey. I’m a huge fan of the Lightning, and when I saw you guys coming to my station, and I was so excited, and when your card wouldn’t read, I felt so bad, and I’m so sorry!” She said all in one breath, making me chuckle.

“It’s not a big deal. Could I get your number, Miss..?”

“Stacey. Oh, and uh, sure.” She looked up to me, making eye contact for only the second time.

“I’ll call you in a few days, with tickets to some of the upcoming games. Sound alright, Stacey?” I grinned, as she beamed over at me, a huge smile plastered on her face.

I accepted the paper from her, sliding it into my pocket, before dismissing myself. I turned out of the exit of the grocery store, to see my Captain standing there, a smile on his face. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing..”

“Get laid, Vincent?” He looked at me weirdly, before wrapping his arm around my shoulder, directing me to the now-waiting truck to our left.

“Not on your life, sweetheart.”

~

It was 3-2 for us, by the time the second period ended, and we didn’t have that many penalties against us, in all honesty. It was a standard hockey game.

“A misconduct? Are you serious, ref?! That’s bullshit!” I was pissed off. Buffalo was kicking our ass, and the referees, who I swore were biased, game me a fucking misconduct, for accidentally knocking Gaustad into Miller. Fucker wouldn’t shut up, and just because I let him know that he was pissing me off, gave him no right to call me a pussy.

It’s not my fault Connolly got in my face. He gets the roughing call? We weren’t even 5 minutes into the period, before we were rolling on the ground, ripping each other’s jerseys off. He had blood running down his ear, and I only had a small cut in my hand from where his skate got me.

I skated over to the penalty box, one of the linesmen gripping my arm as I stepped into the box. He shook his head, before skating to center ice, and preparing his microphone. “Penalty against Tampa Bay, #57, Game Misconduct. Ten minutes. #9, Roughing, 2 minutes. Penalty against Buffalo, #19, Roughing, 2 minutes.”

I balled my hands into fists, kicking my skate into the boards, before moving my hands to fix the now-destroyed bun that my hair was tied into. Fixing one disaster, I pulled my mouth-guard out, and began checking the status of all my teeth. Connolly had broken the visor on my helmet, so I would probably have to play without the guard for the rest of the game, provided the Sabres didn’t get some bullshit penalty called against us.

Steve Downie, or Brownie, made his way into the penalty box from the other side of the ice, and slumped onto the bench in a similar fashion. Needless to say, I wasn’t the only one who was pissed at Connolly and Gaustad. Two on One seemed fair. “You good?”

I nodded, handing him my Gatorade bottle. “Yeah. You?”

He took it gratefully, taking a deep swig, before exhaling. “Pretty good. It felt good to get that one out, honestly.” He took another, before setting the bottle down, and wiping his face with one of the towels, forcing me to smirk.

“I licked that.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t.”

"Penalty, Tampa Bay, #44, Roughing, Slashing, 4 minutes. Buffalo, #21, Roughing, 2 minutes." We both looked to the ice, ignoring the fact that neither of us realized the game started back up, before Victor was being shoved in the penalty box, arguing again with the ref.

“This is fucking bullshit, man! Stop giving us shit calls!”

“You need to sit down on the bench, Hedman, before you get a worse call.” The man slammed the door shut, as Victor Hedman slammed down on the bench, making the pair of us jump slightly. I handed him the bottle.

He snatched it up, draining it quickly, before reaching for another. “I hate Buffalo.”

"Penalty, Buffalo, #3, Tripping, 2 minutes. Penalty for Tampa is under review."

“Give it up! We get it, you don’t want us winning! Chill the fuck out, and go the hell home!” Brownie hit his stick against the glass, making one of the broadcasters on the other side of the ice look at us in horror. We weren’t really controlling our mouths.

I pouted, tapping his stick with mine. “You guys are gonna leave me here in this stupid box.” He nudged my side, as he had about 30 seconds left, or so, as play resumed. Soon enough, I was the only one in the box, sulking. Not to mention, the score had moved from 3-3, to 7-3. What a great fucking night. I voiced my opinion a bit too much, and I could already feel the scratching and strain on my throat. Tomorrow morning was going to be interesting.

"Penalty, Tampa Bay, #10, high-sticking, 2 minutes."

I grinned. “Bergy!” He walked through the board door, allowing the ref to close it, before taking a seat next to me. He gripped Victor’s third Gatorade bottle, and downed it quick, before using up what would be our 15th towel for the night.

“How’d it hanging, Banana? Enjoying the penalty box?” He smirked, hitting my shoulder with his. I pushed him back with my hands, making the Gatorade drip all over his jersey. He looked down, then back at me, before we started laughing.

I had my eyes closed, before I realized that he gripped my jersey collar. He pulled it up some, and squeezed the red liquid all over my jersey, padding, and under-armour. Not to mention, my face. I looked at him, crossing my arms, pouting. “You missed.”

He stuck his tongue out, as they got Marc-Andre for slashing. 9 seconds later, where we spent some quality time arguing over the last Gatorade bottle, Bergy was back on the ice. Literally, three seconds later, I was back on the ice, shifting quickly.

“Head on back, Anna. Great game.” Boucher patted my shoulder, as I bumped fists with my teammates that I passed. “Steve’s proud.” The buzzer sounded, forcing me to turn and see Vincent, Marty, and Steven celebrating the power play goal.

~

“Take the face-off, this time around.” I nodded to Vincent, as we switched places for the time being. #12 of the Carolina Hurricanes stood in front of me, and man, was he a tall one. I kept my gaze on the ice below me, fiddling with my skates.

I got into position, as did the red-head in front of me. I looked up lowly, studying his face. He certainly looked familiar. “Hmm.” I mused, eliciting a look from him.

“Yes?”

“You’re a cutie. Sure you’re good enough to be playing hockey, with a face like yours?” He looked at me, raising an eyebrow that complemented his smile. The ref dropped the puck, and I finally knocked it back to Clark.

“Maybe you should hit puberty, before playing in the big leagues.”

~

I grunted at the one I came to know as Eric Staal hip-checked me into the boards for the umpteenth time during the game. “You look familiar. Have we played against each other before?”

“I’m pretty sure we haven’t. Olympics?” He kept my skate ‘trapped’ as we wrestled the puck back and forth.

“Nah, we didn’t play Canada.” I responded, elbowing him in the stomach discreetly. Thank the hockey gods, I didn’t get caught.

After our small debacle, Moore and Tuomo Ruutu went at it. I didn’t know he played for the Hurricanes..

I dropped my stick, wrapping my arms around his midsection, dragging him off of Moore, who was being held back by Staal. “Fruit Loop!” I hissed in his ear, making him look around startled. We made eye contact, and not even seconds later, he was squishing me on the ice.

“Anna Banana! I missed you! When did you get into the NHL? Why are you with this team? Have you talked to Pitkanen yet? You should have come played with meeeeeee!” I pulled out of his grip, to hear they were calling him on a Roughing penalty, and Moore on a high-sticking one. I never realized how obsessed with food Team Finland was. Teemu used to tease Joni Pitkanen, about ‘jonesing on pixie sticks.’ I froze at the thought, momentarily. Teemu..

“Off to the box you go, naughty Fruit Loop.” I wagged my finger, pulling myself from my thoughts, as he let me go, being dragged off to the box. “This isn’t over!” I called after him, Staal looking at us weird still.

“You’re Trovato?” I gave him a pointed look. “You played with Tuomo in the Olympics.”

“Dur. How else would I know him?” He glared at me coldly, a look that was strikingly familiar.I skated away from the man, who looked about nine kinds of both confused and angry, as we set up for the face-off.

~

I curved the puck, intercepting the pass from Eric Staal to one of his wingers. I tried dropping it back, before I felt a stick pass in front of me, before a body slammed me into the boards harshly. “Anna Trovato.” The words sounded forced, into my ear, as I saw Eric Staal’s reflection in the glass. “I could kill you for that game. I thought they were just kidding about you being a girl, thinking it was another stab at your non-existant puberty, but this is on a whole new level.”

I shoved him back, immediately knowing where I knew him from. 2007 IIHF Championship game in Moscow, where Canada beat us 4-2, for Gold. Eric Staal didn’t score once in that game, considering I broke 5 out of his 6 sticks, and stopping 8 out of 9 shots from being even remotely close to going in. He was the son of a bitch that I could have strangled if I could. He prevented every single one of my goals going near the net, and broke my skate in the middle of the third period.

“Eric Fucking Staal. I knew I recognized your ass. You’re a dead man for taking the Gold away from us.” But before I could even drop my gloves, they called Staal on a penalty, and began dragging the angry Canadian away.

~

I saw the Canadian in perfect view. I knew I could get dinged, but who didn’t love penalty box time? I picked up speed, before charging into the Staal, knocking both of us flat into the boards, falling over each other. Standing to our feet, eventually, he looked at me, I at him, as they called my penalty.

“I’m sorry.” His eyebrows rose, at my words. I held my hand out, but only after a moment did he accept it. I had spent the better part of the intermission and 5 minutes of 2nd period time to think about what I wanted to say, and have the emotional barrier problem inside of my head figured out. Apologizing for something I knew was wrong at the time, sounded like a great start. “I was wrong to have acted like that during the game in Moscow.”

“Sorry for saying those things. You’re a great player, and everyone was throwing cheap shots that night. It’s in the past.” He smiled a dazzling smile back at me, before I was led away again for the night to the box.

~

Joni Pitkanen, the man I had been looking for all night, cross-checked me into the boards. “Anna.” He smiled knowingly. “What’d you do to piss my captain off? He’s on a war path against you.” I laughed softly, as they called him on it.

“I don’t know who messed up his cheerios, but I can’t help it that he’s not attractive enough to get my attention. Sucks for him, now doesn’t it?” I smiled at the small joke, as my former teammate chuckled. Vincent tapped my shoulder with his stick, looking at me oddly. “Vincent?” He didn’t respond, only kept on skating towards the bench. Well, fine. Be that way.

“Vinny! Come on back!” I looked to Boucher, who was pulling Vincent from the line. He pointed to the tunnel, and mouthed something along the lines of ‘Go ahead and go back.’ I looked to Marty, who shrugged. Ever since I talked with Staal, Vincent has been off majourly. Even I could notice it, and it was bad. I’m pretty sure we lost a lot of good shots because he just wasn’t thinking. Who the hell checks your own player, by the way?

~

I watched the puck slide in, before skating over to Steven and jumping on him. “We got it!” Moments later, we were hugged by several other Bolts, celebrating the home-ice win against the Carolina Hurricanes.

After a minutes, I slipped out to see Eric standing there. He motioned for me to skate a ways away from the crowd of excitable Lightning players. He eventually, once we reached the other net where Roli was, turned around, extending a piece of paper to me. “Call me if you ever find yourself in Carolina. Or if you need something to do during the off-season.”

We made eye contact for a moment, as I accepted the paper. “You aren’t half bad, Staal. I might just take up up on that offer. Who knows? Maybe I’ll drag your cute little self to Italy.” He chortled, before giving me a quick hug.

“Sounds like a plan, then.”

~

I ignored the banging and shouting on the other side of my apartment door, as I sunk further into the sheets on my bed. I have two days to be completely miserable, and god dammit, I am going to spend them how I will. If I choose to ignore my team, then I will. It’s not like we had practice and I missed it.

“Anna, open this god damn door, right this instant!” Ignored.

“Anna Trovato, I am not fucking kidding. Open up the fucking door!” Denied.

It went on for an hour, then it’d stop, and then Vincent would come back and pull the Captain Card, or the Contract Card, or Ice Time Card. It was a load of bullshit.

“Anna.. please talk to me!” That’s what it always started with. I was so thankful he hadn’t come by today.I sat up in my bed, a complete wreck, before slipping to the ground, tuning out my captain’s pleas. I walked down the dark hallway, thankful for the drapes that blocked out a lot of the light in my apartment. Entering the kitchen, I grabbed a clean glass out of the cabinet, and proceeded to pilfer a cup of Marty’s no-pulp orange juice. It was just too bad of a day to waste it on pulpy orange juice.

My phone began to vibrate, when I jumped up on the counter, as I flipped open the device, to find a missed call from an unknown number. I also had a few messages that kind of hit home with me. Dialing the number back, I waited for the ring, before a deep voice answered.

“Anna?” I definitely didn’t recognize it.

“Yeah, who is this?”

“Mike.” Ohh, Richards. Captain of the Flyers. That was certainly a great game. Chris and Mike were, by far, my favourite Flyers, from those I met that night. Well, besides the obvious.

“Hey, what can I do for you?” I heard shuffling in the background, following by other voices

“Well, since we are playing you guys tomorrow night, we were wondering if you wanted to hit the town tonight, and catch up?”

~

I slid into the booth between Dan, and Mike, before the waitress, no more than 35, came up to our table, asking for our orders. Mike looked at me, signaling for me to go first. “Do you have any Tanqueray Sterling?” She raised an eyebrow, before nodding, smiling. “I’d like two rounds for the table of that, with cokes for everyone. One round of Stolichnaya also. Put everything on my tab.”

She wrote everything down, taking my card, before getting the rest of the orders. Once Mike was finished, he looked at me. “I didn’t take you for a hard drinker.” I only shrugged in response.

“It’s the least I can do.” Two more men, at that second, slid into the booth with us. “Jeff, Sergei.” They both looked at me, smiling in reponse, before repeating their order. Well, Jeff gave Sergei’s, rather. Anothre Flyer walked in, accompanied by some other sort of creepy-looking good that I recognized, but they only walked past.

“Sean Morrison and Jake Ramos. Rookie and his overconfident friend.” I only nodded, watching the two try and pick up these two chicks at the bar.

“I’ve seen one of them the sex tape news section or whatever, about Erika Harper.” He looked over at me questionably. “Not my business. It doesn’t concern me, so I really don’t care.”

“Oh, Erika Harper, what a priss little thing, she is.” I looked to Daniel Carcillo, on my left. I rested my cheek on my hand, expecting an explanation. He looked over at me. “I gave her a kiss, and she didn’t even appreciate it.”

“What a shame. She obviously doesn’t know what she’s missing.” I teased, as we waiting for the waitress to return with our drinks. Carter and Pronger stood, probably to go to the restroom before the festivities started at our table. Glancing back at Carcillo, he pressed his lips to mine, making me shudder significantly.

It was short-lived however, yet made me wish for the human contact I had been lacking in, for quite some time. “I don’t see why she was unappreciative.” He stuck his tongue out, before sliding out of the booth.

“Be right back, Richie. Gonna find Chrissy and Carts.” I chuckled, as Mike offered to join him. Sergei scooted next to me, shortly before the woman dropped our drinks off.

“Это ваш тип?” (Is he your type?) I grabbed one of the shot glasses, him doing the same. He nodded, before we both gulped the hard liquor, taking sips of the coke quickly once done.

“Конечно, нет. Почему?” (Of course not. Why?) He smirked, preparing the next around of shots.

“Что такое ваш тип?” (What is your type?) I looked at him, surprised at his boldness. When I had first met Sergei Bobrovsky in the KHL, I would have never taken him for the bold one in anything, but here he was, flirting with me. Of course, it certainly wasn't necessary, but why they hell wouldn’t I flirt back, even if he was already mine?

“Танцуй со мной.” (Dance with me.) He held his smile, before grabbing my hand in response and leading me to the dance floor, past the other four Flyers, eyebrows raised.

“Bob dances?”

~

I slid the key in slowly, hoping to not disturb the quiet atmosphere of my apartment, before slipping it. I dead bolted the door, and locked the handle, before dropping my coat off in the closet. I slipped my shoes off, ignoring the other pair that rested there, and proceeded into the kitchen for a water bottle.

Remember what I said about missing human contact? Sergei definitely helped in that department. Sort of like a more-than-just-a-friend who understands that sometimes, you just feel lonely, and want someone there for you, who isn’t just interested in sex.

I closed my eyed, leaning against the counter, allowing myself to think about the Russian back at the club. He held me close, intimately even. He rarely did anything bold like that in public, unless he had to much to drink, and we had barely even started. I could still feel his hands on my hips..

“Where have you been? It’s nearly midnight on a game day.” My thoughts were interrupted, when I opened my eyes to see Vincent in front of me. “You’re smashed.”

“Actually, no, Lecavalier, I am perfectly fine. I spent my day off with people who actually give a damn about me, and actually want me around.”

“Matt saw you with a bunch of the Flyers. Richards, Pronger, Carcillo, Carter, Bobrovsky. Why the fuck were you with them, over your fucking teammates?” I ignored the Canadian, side-stepping him and making my way down the hall to my bedroom. The headache was started, if not a migraine. “Anna!”

Something inside me snapped. I tossed my wallet and phone on my dresser, before turning to the man in my room. “I may play professional hockey, Vincent Lecavalier, but I am still a girl, and it still sucks to be by yourself when you're in a shitty mood.. Excuse the fuck out of me for going out with the few friends I have, who even cared if I was alone. Want to know something, Chris, Sergei, and Eric texted me today, wanting to know if I had anything planned. Eric fucking offered to meet me halfway between here and Carolina, to catch a movie or something, just so I wouldn’t be by myself. Not one person on my own god damn team had to courtesy to wonder why I had nearly thrown up on the ice and been a fucking slug since then. What the hell does that say?”

Vincent didn’t say anything, only looked at me with a unknown expression. “Anna..”

“No! Don’t start with me, Lecavalier!” I crossed my arms, pacing on the side of my bed, wondering how to get him out of my apartment so I could sleep the rest of the night away.

“Do you miss Italy?” I froze, in the midst of wondering if I should beat the man with my pillows. His tone was pitying me. I didn’t want his pity.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re homesick. You haven’t seen your parents since a year before the Olympics.” I scoffed, turning to him.

“That’s the least of my concerns, Lecavalier. Want to know the honest, brutal fucking truth? My dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass about me! All he wants is a damn gold medal every four years. He wants the fame he could never have. My mother just wants to make him happy! She said she would call me months ago, and never answers my calls, yet never calls back. She didn’t even call me on my birthday. How do you think that felt?” I stepped into the bathroom, wrenching my jeans off in exchange for shorts, and a random t-shirt. I walked back into the bedroom, sliding under the sheets and comforter, preparing to cry myself to sleep. “Just please go away.”

I faced the way, hoping he would get the idea to go away. But my captain had other thoughts, as I soon heard the ruffling of cloth, and weight in my bed. I turned slightly, to see Vincent slipping into my bed, wearing only the t-shirt he came in, and his boxers. I returned to my position, only for him to wrap his arms around me, pulling my body against his.

He kissed my cheek, before beginning to mumble in my ear. “I just want you to open up to me.”

Pfft. You have no idea, Captain Dearest.

Within moments, his breathing deepened, allowing me to slide out of the awkward moment, at least on my end. Snatching my pillow and an extra blanket, I slipped into the living room, still not fully satisfied with myself.