The Penalty Box (Vancouver Wolves Hockey #3)(4)

“Why shouldn’t you take it personally?”

“Yeah.”

“Because you’re you and I’m me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Well, that’s the answer you’re getting.”

“You’re like a baby Krista, all teeth and claws.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Laughter punched out of him, changing his entire face to something close to perfection. I dropped my gaze from his face because sometimes he was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him.

I added, “You need to get in there. You have an award to receive.”

“Mark Ashford is receiving the award. I only have to stand beside him.”

Mark Ashford was the GM of the Vancouver Wolves. He was also a hard-ass who demanded perfection. “This is your opportunity to show Ashford you are a responsible member of his team.”

“I am responsible.”

“You also have a reputation that precedes you. Krista worked hard to get you this gig. Don’t blow it.”

His eyes never left my face. “You liked the view?”

I opened the door and gestured for him to move. “Yes, your million-dollar view is almost as nice as the one I have from my shitty apartment.”

He moved to the door but paused in front of me. I tilted my head back to look up at him.

“Thanks for your help.”

I swallowed. “Just doing my job.”

Only when he moved past me could I bring air into my lungs. Without speaking further, I took off in the opposite direction from him, needing to put as much distance between us as possible.





Chapter 2





MICA





I stood on stage, overlooking the three hundred guests who listened intently to Mark Ashford speak. He was receiving an award on behalf of the Vancouver Wolves, for all the community work we did as a team. Krista thought it’d buy some goodwill with Ashford, so she had volunteered me to stand on stage with him, representing the players on the team. It would take more than one award to get on Ashford’s good side, but I’d take what I could get.

My eyes were gritty from lack of sleep, and I worked not to run my hand over my face. I hadn’t slept in close to 36 hours. Last night, I had been heading to bed, when Andrusha texted me, inviting me to one of his famous poker games. Andrusha was my childhood best friend. We had grown up, side by side, in our small Russian village. When we turned 18, we served our mandatory year in the military together in the same unit. For my entire life, his friendship had been a lifeline. He was more family to me than my own.

Andrusha had been the one to follow me to Canada. I joined the Vancouver Wolves, and he joined the Vancouver sect of a Russian gang known for their heavy involvement in organized crime. Six years later, he was now in charge. I didn’t condone how he made his money, but I resolutely looked the other way. He did his best to hide the less than savory aspects of his work from me, and I didn’t ask.

Andrusha had been the one to realize that my reputation couldn’t afford an association with him, and he had insisted that our lives no longer intertwine regularly. I had fought him on that, but he was unwavering in his decision. With the rare exception, we no longer associated with each other. I both resented and respected the sacrifice he made on my behalf, but I missed him. He was the one person in this world who felt like home.

Last night was the first time I had heard from him in months, and wild horses couldn’t have kept me away. Like every other night with Andrusha, we drank a lot of vodka, played a lot of cards, laughed and reminisced.

The crowd erupted in applause, pulling me back to the gala. Mark Ashford turned to look at me, a smile on his face. I dutifully stepped forward while someone walked across the stage with an award. Together, Mark and I stood, jointly holding the award, while cameras snapped.

Movement caught my eye. Between the tables walked three men who looked completely out of place.

Oh fuck.

I recognized one detective from this afternoon. Detective Wallace. The crowd gasped as he got on the stage and walked towards us.

“What the hell?” Mark Ashford asked under his breath.

The master of ceremonies rushed forward to intervene, but paused mid-step when the detective flashed his badge at him.

The detective stepped up to Mark and myself, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

“Mica Petrov?”

“Yes.”

“What the hell is going on?” Mark Ashford interrupted.

I knew exactly what was going on. Early this morning, I had been sleeping off our late night in Andrusha’s office. That was when the police had raided his dock warehouse. Which brings me to the real reason I was late to the hotel. I was handcuffed in the back of a police car for most of the day while they searched the warehouse. When they had found nothing, they had reluctantly let me go.

The detective ignored him and stared up at me. “We’d like to take you back to the station for questioning.”

“What is this about?” Mark sputtered. “We’re in the middle of an awards ceremony.”

“Am I under arrest?” I asked, my voice dead calm.

The detective held my gaze. “Not yet. But if you’d like us to haul you down to the station in handcuffs, I’d be obliged.”