Page 21

He tsks, ignoring him, before tucking into his desert. It’s a light, layered pastry dish with pistachios and like the meatballs, it’s heaven.

“You’ve had baklava before?” Stef’s grandfather asks me.

“I thought it was Turkish.”

He tsks again, shaking his head, and I wish I could unsay what I just said, but then he laughs. “Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t, it tastes good. Where are you from? Sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“Alexei.”

“Is that Slavic?”

“My parents are from Siberia, Russia.”

He nods as he slices his fork through his baklava. “I remember, back before I moved to the States, Russia were fighting with the U.S and we were in the middle of it all.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughs. “You weren’t even born. What do you have to be sorry for? No, I was sad the communists were beat actually, they had some good ideas.”

Stef shakes his head, smiling.

“You were born here though?” His grandfather asks.

“Brooklyn.”

“I came here in the sixties. I was following my sweetheart.” His face lights up. I fucking love it when old people are still in love.

“How long have you been married Sir?”

“Forty-six years before she passed two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He waves his hand. “We had a good life, lots of talented grandkids. Which is lucky, considering we only had two kids and that wasn’t a lot in my day. Do you have siblings Alexei?”

“A little sister.”

He nods. When he glances out into the restaurant where everyone’s resumed eating, talking and drinking, he gets a thoughtful look in his eyes.

“Things were very different around here back then. Now they want to build luxury apartment buildings for yuppies from the city. Drive the rent prices up for the locals. We’ve been trying to fight it, but it’s an uphill battle.”

I nod.

“You know what I mean, you’re from Brooklyn, what’s your rent, like ten thousand a month?” He laughs.

I force a smile, but I know how hard it is to live in New York City these days. It’s where my family’s business is, and I don’t want them to have to move just because our old neighborhood’s being gentrified and swooped on by property developers.

“What do you study Alexei?”

“Finance.”

He whistles. “You’ll be fine then.”

“He plays hockey too,” Stef says.

He’s been so quiet, I would have forgot he was there if his presence wasn’t so big and all-consuming. Honestly, I’ve been trying not to stare at him in awe since seeing him perform and realizing how talented he is.

“Ice hockey? You going to play in the NHL?”

“No way,” I smile, putting my fork down and dabbing my mouth on a napkin. “I just play for fun now.”

“He’s good though,” Stef says. “He scored a goal in the last game I watched.”

“Maybe I’ll come out and see the team play sometime.”

“Any time you like Sir, I’ll get you a ticket right up front, close enough to see the action.”

He throws his head back laughing and in that moment, he looks about twenty years younger.

Stefanos’ dad gives me a huge take-out bag when I’m leaving along with the food donations, shaking my hand along with Stef’s grandfather. The waitress plants a sloppy kiss on each cheek and calls me handsome before letting me go, my face burning.

It’s dark out now. The streets still busy from all the restaurants, convenience stores and a late-night laundromat.

Stefanos walks to the subway with me, even though I try to tell him I’m fine.

“I grew up in Brooklyn, and I play hockey, I don’t need protecting.”

“I’m not protecting you,” he says, pretending to be offended. “This is a nice neighborhood I’ll have you know.”

“Apologies.”

“I’m just keeping you company, and making sure you don’t get lost.”

I snort. That’s fair. I don’t recognize these streets at all.

I clear my throat before speaking, suddenly nervous.

“You were really good by the way.”

“Hm?”

“Playing the violin, and that other instrument, back there in the restaurant.”

“Oh, it was a bouzouki.” Under the streetlight, I’m sure I can see him blushing. “And thanks.”

We walk in silence for a few beats before he speaks again.

“You don’t think it’s just a load of screeching? The violin I mean.”

“Screeching? No. Who said that?”

He shakes his head. “No one, it doesn’t matter.”

Did his ex say that? Fucking asshole.

“I’ve never really heard anyone play the violin like that before, live I mean, and it was…” I rub my neck, my pits tingling, “… amazing. You’re amazing.”

Now he’s definitely blushing.

“Thank you.”

We’ve reached the subway and we both pause at the steps. The huge bag of take-out weighing my arm down.

“Enjoy the food,” he says.

“I’ll be enjoying this for a week,” I laugh. “Tell your dad thanks again for me.”

“I will. He loves feeding people though, so you don’t have to thank him.”

“Yeah, but he’s trying to run a business over there and he keeps giving out free food. He’s worse than my babushka.”

“I know, I keep trying to tell him, but he doesn’t listen.”

We laugh, our eyes meeting before I drop mine.

“See you back at home later then?” He asks.

“You’re not staying here tonight?”

“Nope, got classes tomorrow.”

Why does the thought of him spending the night in the next room make me nervous?

“Okay, see you at home.”

I tell myself I’ll be asleep by the time he gets home, but after dropping the donations off at the refugee center and riding the subway back to the apartment, I’m wired.

I find myself watching one of those house flipping shows – Stef left the app where he streams them from open on the TV.

But I’m spiraling. Seeing Stef perform at the restaurant, and his family’s reaction to him doing what he loves.

Then talking to his grandpa about hockey.

It’s ignited something inside me I push down every day.

That desire to do something that excites me.

I know I’ll never be good enough at playing hockey again to make any real money from it. But what if I could still be around it?

I open my laptop and search for finance internships in the NHL.

A few things come up. One that stands out right away in Vancouver.

Vancouver’s a long way away from my family, but it’s an eight week program and it could open doors.

If it didn’t work out and I didn’t get a permanent position from it, it would still be good experience.

I could still apply for jobs in banks. Though it might be a little tougher if I don’t start applying before graduation.

I don’t even like to think about how many Ivy League graduates will be applying for those very same jobs.

But the thought’s in my mind now, and I can’t push it away without at least doing something about it.

I’ll apply. What harm can come from applying? They might reject me anyway.

I find another one working for the Nashville Predators and apply for that too.

I already have my resume and my personal statement all written out from when I was applying for the bank internships. I just have to tweak them a little to talk about my love for hockey, but writing about what I love about hockey is so much easier than bullshitting about wanting to work in a bank.

By the time Stef gets back, I’m still wired, but in a nice way. Working my way through an entire season of his favorite house flipping show.

The sound of him putting his key in the door has my heart pounding in my ears.

He looks so casual as he lets himself in, carrying his violin in its case. His hair still tied back off his face.

“Hey, you’re up.” He says. “Oh and you’re watching my favorite show.”

I know my face is burning, but there’s not much I can do about that.

When he puts his violin case down, takes his shoes off and sits next to me on the couch, I can’t take it anymore. The proximity. The fact his skin somehow smells like how I imagine the fucking sun to smell.

“You want some vodka?”

I feel his gaze on the side of my face, but I can’t even look at him.

“I know you’ve got classes tomorrow but… I’ve got some really good stuff, proper Russian standard-”

“Sure, I’ll have one, if you’re having one.”

I jump up like someone lit a fire under my ass. Any excuse to put a bit of distance between us and numb myself a little.

My hands are shaking as I pour out two glasses in the kitchen. I take a sip before refilling my glass and bringing them in.

“Yiamas!” He says before clinking his glass to mine.

“What does that mean?”

“It’s like saying cheers, it means to your health.”

I raise my glass and touch it to his. “Yiamas.”

I can’t help it, I watch him take a sip of the vodka. The liquid bobbing down his smooth throat. His tongue brushing his lips as he licks them after.

“Oh my God, this isn’t gross at all!”

When I laugh, my whole body lights up. “That’s because it’s not nasty vodka.”

“I didn’t have you pegged as a vodka drinker.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs. “Because you’re a jock, thought you’d just drink beer from the keg.”

I nearly spit my drink everywhere.

“I don’t know whether to be offended that you’re stereotyping me as a jock or relieved you’re not stereotyping me as a vodka-drinking Russian.”

He laughs, brushing a strand of hair from his eye. “I guess life isn’t a cheesy comedy movie where college students are all stereotypes played by actors in their thirties.”

Fuck, he’s so smart, and funny, and talented, and beautiful, fucking hell he’s beautiful.

I lean closer, close enough to smell his aftershave and the vodka on his breath. I can see by the confusion on his face that he’s not expecting me to kiss him. I don’t even know what I’m gonna do, not fully, not until my lips touch his.

I can’t even remember the last time I kissed someone. It will have been a girl, and it will have probably been over a year ago. And it will have meant nothing. But this…

His lips are as soft as they look and I can taste the vodka on his tongue when I coax his mouth open with mine. He’s kissing me back. He’s actually…

“Fuck.” I wipe my mouth as I snap back to my spot on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I…”

I stand up, trying to put as much distance between us as possible.

“Alexei, it’s okay.”

“I don’t know what happened, I’m just tired, and I had some vodka.”

He looks down at the glass. The couple of sips I took like two minutes ago. He looks shook and confused and I fucking hate myself.

“Can we just… can we forget about this? Please?”

He nods, slowly. “Of course. If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.”

I run off to my room, slamming the door behind myself.

Shit fuck shit. I squeeze my eyes together, trying to push out the way Stef’s lips felt on mine.

It gets harder every day to pretend. To deny myself the things other people just get to have.

Since I met him, it’s impossible. But I can’t let myself to do this.

I’m so close. I can’t fuck it all up now.