had more time; in fact, outside of hockey I had all the time in the freaking world.
And right now, this sounded like exactly what I needed to do.
Chapter Twelve
Vlad
It seemed as if the Rowe-Madsen men were determined to poke this grumpy bruin.
After my nonsense with Tate, and yes I knew it had been nonsense but yet it had bubbled out of me like pus from a gangrenous wound, I’d planned on distancing myself from Tate for a few days, or at least a few hours. My life was out of control. I was out of control. Anxiety gnawed at me as I made my way out of the barn, eager to go home, sit and think, plan, plot, and try to find a path back to my once orderly life. Instead Ryker Madsen cornered me as I was leaving and snared me with the one thing that I could never say ‘Nyet’ to—children in need.
I, of course, had many charities in Tucson that I donated my time and money to, as we all did. Penn spent a goodly amount of his free time helping to raise funds for the local domestic abuse shelter, one of the few responsible things he seemed capable of doing. I helped raise funds for cancer victims in memory of my cousin who had died at eighteen from that terrible disease. I’d even had my agent set up a fund to help children who survived cancer go onto college by paying tuition for one child per year. I donated to animal rescues, and several bird rescue and avian sanctuaries in the state. Back home, I sponsored youth hockey teams and sent money to orphanages. Still, this sled hockey team was not one that I was familiar with, but if they needed help, I would be there. My tangled feelings for Tate would be pushed aside. Or so I thought.
But I’d been played for an idiot. Because Tate was right there and I couldn’t back out now. One word from a child getting excited as I arrived was more than enough to have me stay.
During the next two hours, my head became more chaotic as I watched Tate interact with the children on the mini-sled team. I’d heard of sled hockey, of course, and had even written a few checks to the Tucson league, but this was my first hands-on experience. It was beyond moving to see all the children, and adults, with disabilities hitting the ice. And Tate…
Well, Tate was incredible with children. His genuine goodness and warmth drew the children to him, as well as the adults involved in the league. I found my gaze moving to him time and again, his smile stirring up the mess of confusion in my heart and head. Finally, after a photo-op with the director of the league, Jonas McKenzie, a strikingly handsome ex-Army captain who’d lost a leg serving his country in a faraway desert, I managed to break free. Ryker and Tate stayed behind to talk with Jonas. I needed distance.
Once I was home, and Frank was seated on the windowsill calling “Suka! Suka! Suka!” at my neighbor as he washed his car, I pulled up Facebook, hoping to get lost in the mundane mindlessness of social media and funny parrot videos.
“Frank, come have a grape,” I called in Russian. It was a blessing that no one in my community spoke my native tongue. I was sure Phil next door would not appreciate being called a bitch for hours on end. The bird ignored me, happier being crude at the moment, it seemed. There were no funny parrot videos to watch, so I visited the Russian chat group the NHL players had.
I was pleased to see that Stan Lyamin was online and talking about socks with holes in the toes and a puppet he was trying to make for his youngest son. I smiled at the discussion, keeping mostly to myself, and wondering how it was that Stan had managed a marriage with one of his teammates. True, he was not a team captain but he was the goalie, which was just as important a role in the locker room dynamics of a team. Had he and Eric had troubles with loving and playing together? Or was it me making the problems? He too had family back home to be concerned about, or so I thought.
I sent him a private message and we were soon talking to each other with no other loudmouthed Russians interfering.
“Zdravstvuy, drug moy,”