I Hope He Is A Gentleman

Russian went by slower than usual, if only because all I could focus on was going out afterwards. Eventually, though, class did end, and I rushed out of class with such a speed that I'm sure made some of my classmates curious. When I reached my house, I dragged my younger sister by one year upstairs and begged her to find me something appropriate to wear. With a smirk, she dug through her closet and returned with a small, bright red skirt, and a black blouse with the shoulders cut out to tuck into it. I actually felt... kind of hot, to tell you the truth.

"Keep your hair straight," Hannah instructed boldly, before sitting me down in front of her vanity and applying decent amounts of black eyeliner and mascara. I tried fluffing up my dark brown hair in a poor attempt to give it some more volume, but when Hannah was done, I realized that wasn't necessary: my eyes were all I could focus on.

"I didn't realize you were so good with makeup," I complimented, leaning forward to get a better look at myself. She didn't completely overload my eyes with shadow, but I certainly did have a prominent smokey eye.

Hannah just shrugged and began looking for something for my lips. "My roommate freshman year taught me a couple of things. Here, you can take it with you for tonight," she added, handing me a small tube of red lip stain. "But god, Remy, I swear if you lose my favorite -- "

"I promise, I promise," I replied with a small laugh. "It'll get back to you in one piece."

"Please be careful tonight," Hannah begged, comparing a black wedge bootie with a black pump. "I don't think I trust hockey players and alcohol."

"But you trust me, right?" I asked, taking the black bootie (much more me, and hopefully comfortable) and slipping it on my foot. Hannah handed me the other one. She sighed heavily and fell back on to her bed. "Look, if I'm not back by 1:30, call me. If I'm not back by 2, tell mom and dad."

"And if you're not back by 2:30, then I'm just going to call the police." I laughed, but agreed. For the next half hour, Hannah and I sat at the kitchen table, chatting aimlessly about her schoolwork and the cute boy she sat next to in her history class. I had texted Geno my address during Russian, and since only responded to say thanks, I assumed he wasn't having any trouble finding it.

I was right. At almost exactly 10:00, the doorbell rang. Hannah sprang from her chair and nearly sprinted to the door. "So, which one are you?" She questioned, and I nearly died on the spot.

I don't think he had ever been asked his name that way before, and it clearly took him a second or two to figure out what, exactly, Hannah was asking him. "Uh, Geno?" He was wearing a pair of dark jeans with a grey button down. God, did he look handsome.

"This is my sister, Hannah." I said, and Geno nodded.

"She has to be home by 1:30, okay?" Again, I nearly died.

"Is fine," replied Geno calmly. "I watch her."

"Bye, Hannah," I stated through gritted teeth, brushing past her and out on to the porch. Geno let me walk down the steps first towards his car.

"Das vedanya, you two!" Hannah exclaimed in her horribly, terribly humiliating Russian accent that made me cringe. I heard the door slam behind me before I could turn around and glare at her.

"She thinks she's funny," I muttered as I closed the passenger side door at the same time as Geno closed his.

Geno disregarded my comment, turned the ignition of his car on and said, "You look nice." I think my cheeks turned the same color as my skirt, and I instinctively attempted to pull my skirt down a little further on my thighs.

"Thank you," I replied, and for the next couple of minutes, we sat in silence. "So... who else is coming to the -- the -- " My mouth began to stutter over a word I didn't know. Club? I felt stupid for not knowing. Geno took his eyes off the road to look at me, and I just slumped slightly.

"Club," he said in Russian. I repeated the word to myself, ensuring that I wouldn't forget it in the future. "Mostly the younger guys. James, too." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "You dance with him?"

"Maybe." I said curtly. I would rather dance with Geno, though.

There was a line extending down the block after Geno parked his car in a neighboring lot. But with a quiet confidence, Geno went straight to the front of the line with his hand on the small of my back. I'm not going to lie and tell you his touch felt like fireworks or something, because it didn't, but his hand did feel protective and ensuring. I tried not to notice the glares I got from people who were patiently waiting their turn while Geno's status as a professional athlete meant we weren't waiting for more than thirty seconds.

He must have been here multiple times, because Geno led us both to the back of the club where the rest of the team was, as well as a number of beautiful women. A couple of guys approached Geno right away to say hi, and some even recognized me. Ben Lovejoy smiled, as did Kris Letang. Sidney Crosby merely looked at me, and then quickly back to the girl he was taking to. "Want drink?" Geno asked closely to my ear. I nodded, and he suddenly vanished. I felt incredibly alone and vulnerable.

"Hey," a voice came, but it wasn't Geno. I turned around, and James Neal was standing right next to me, a half empty drink in his hand. "What's going on?"

"Not much, you?" I responded, moving my small clutch from one hand to the other.

"Do you want anything to drink?" He asked, lifting his drink up incase I hadn't heard him. Over his shoulder, I could see Geno returning to us with two drinks in hand -- something red and fruity looking in one, and a beer in the other. Geno and I made eye contact, and he stopped walking, his mouth set in a firm line.

"Yeah," I responded, turning my attention back to James, and trying to give him a flirty smile. "I'd love one." He grinned as turned quickly towards the bar. One drink with James turned into two, which turned into four, which turned into me being pretty freakin' drunk. All throughout the night, Geno and I would make eye contact, but so long as I was standing with James, he wouldn't come anywhere near me. And when James and I made it on to the dance floor? Forget it. Geno sat in the back or with some of his friends, but that was it.

At around 1:00, I was wedged in between James and the wall, and seated directly across from Geno. Sidney sat next to Geno with a gorgeous redhead on his lap, and she and James were having an animated conversation about... fuck. Something. Something funny, clearly, because Sidney and I kept cracking up. Geno was laughing too, but didn't contribute anything else to the conversation. As the discussion died down and the girl and Sidney became engaged in their own conversation, James leaned closer to me and whispered, "I'm getting pretty tired, you want to head out?"

I laughed, but nodded, and James took my hand gently and led me out of the booth. Geno's eyes went wide, and he began pushing at Sidney, who turned towards him with a glare, but got the picture, and helped the redhead stand up so Geno could get up. He caught up to his quickly and forced James to let go of my hand. "Is late. Remy needs to go home. I take her." There was no room for arguments by the tone of his voice, but that didn't stop James.

"I've got her, G, it's fine," he insisted, but Geno wasn't having it.

"I take her here, I take her back," Geno pressed. "Go home, James." James sighed, but looked at me. The choice was mine. I looked between James and Geno, my eyes flickering between the two men. James, with his boyish charm and enthusiasm, or Geno, who was basically glaring at me by that point. However, a flood (or perhaps a trickle?) of common sense came back to me, and I put my hand on James' bicep.

"It's okay James, you look tired, you should go to bed. Geno can drive me." Geno exhaled, grabbed my hand tightly, and basically dragged me out of the club.

The first half of the ride was tense and silent, and even though I was still pretty tipsy, I knew better than to say anything. Geno finally spoke. "I can't believe you were going to go back with him." His tone was hard, almost condescending.

"You told me to dance with him," was my pathetic response.

I could tell by the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened that that statement enraged him, but his tone of voice didn't quiver. "I told you to dance with him, not to fuck him."

Hearing Geno speak like that was a strange sensation for me, a Russian student, because obviously my professor had never used such crass language in front of us before. If I wasn't so drunk, I might have been excited to be having such a colloquial conversation. "Don't be presumptuous," I spat.

"Don't use words you know I won't understand," was Geno's retort, and I felt bad. That wasn't fair of me to use such a large word that he couldn't respond to. I hung my head and was silent. He won.

Again, we were silent. By the time we reached my house, I couldn't decide if I was angry, frustrated, embarrassed, or was going to be sick. Geno hurried out of the car and before I even had the chance to open the door, he did it for me. With slow movements, he helped me out of the car and up the stairs to my front door. Neither of us said anything. "Thank you for the ride back," I said, looking up at Geno. He shrugged as I opened the door, and nothing else was spoken before he turned away and walked back towards his car.