Dare You to Move: PG-13, Romance
If I were to take a chronological look back on my life according to love, certain people would stand out. There was Alex, the sweetest man I’d ever known. And there was Anna, the naïve young diva who I felt I had failed; and now, there is Nikolai. The amazing man almost the same age as my younger brother, and for whom I would give my life. I’ve been around a long time-too long, I feel, sometimes. Long enough to have loved and learned, and have fallen hard; and sometimes losing pieces of myself in the process.
I suppose you could say it started with Alex. Alexander Mogilny: the first of us to abandon our homeland for the NHL, and who I had been too young and too hot-tempered to ever forgive for doing so. We met in CSKA, and played there during a time when it was even worse than it is today. Back then there were no legal reprieves; there were no images to uphold to the leagues around the world. The iron curtain was up and you lived with what went on behind it-be it corporal punishment or being forced to sign away your most basic rights, you shut up and took it unless you wanted to endanger yourself, your team and your family.
The scars on my body are not all from hockey games.
Alex was gentle. The Red Army hadn’t hardened him like it had some, and having him as my roommate may have been what kept me from going down that road as well. On winter nights, when your teeth chattered and your toes went numb from the cold, we threw away protocol and dignity and climbed into each other’s beds: putting our meager blankets and shivering bodies together to make a single warm entity. It didn’t take long for us to turn into lovers as well. At first it was hot hands stroking and soothing away the biting chill; then the wet heat of lips and mouths, spreading fire through each other’s bodies. We never got beyond that, too shy and uncomfortable in our own respective skins, but we found a little comfort in each other that, if only for a little while, banished the bitter cold.
When Alex escaped to the NHL I was crushed-even though I knew his plans, and even helped him get away by distracting Viktor. My assistance got me into shit, and Tikhonov isolated me from the protective circle of Slava Fetisov and Igor Larionov, putting me instead with the fiery, feisty firebrand known as Pavel Bure.
Pavel…attacked. He knew what he wanted and he got what he wanted, and I was a conquest to him. He was hard and fast and never stayed with any one thing for too long, easily bored with the mundane. I strove to be spontaneous, strove to be that ever-changing and ever-surprising person for him-and he loved me for it. Be it up against the outside wall of the arena, bared skin hidden only by heavy overcoats and Pavel’s body, or on my knees on the hard floor of the grungy showers-Pasha was enamored with me, because I changed for him.
Yet I had never really settled, after Alex left. He called me sometimes, from Buffalo, excitedly telling me of the NHL and pleading for me to tell him all the happenings in Russia. He was homesick, I could tell, and I would talk in a sleepy whisper in the dead of night-Alex never seemed to understand the time differentials, even when I explained them to him-too tired to care that if I were caught Viktor would kick me off the team. I was too happy to hear the voice of my best friend, safe and well so far from home.
And I longed for it. Never mind the change of conditions-no more too-thin blankets, no more punishments, no degradation because of a missed pass-but the idea of the challenge, the excitement, drew me in like a moth to flame. After a year of straining to meet Pavel’s ravenous demands and being under constant suspicion by my trainers and coaches, I was tired. Tired, and ready to leave that all behind.
So I did.
Igor and Slava knew of my intentions, though they neither helped nor condoned them. They wanted me to wait for the Curtain to fall; to wait to leave honorably. But I was young, and restless, and I went ahead and escaped to Detroit. Pavel was enraged, but I didn’t care. I got caught in the bright lights and attention that came with defecting from Russia. I loved America, I loved the NHL; and I loved having my freedom. I had help adjusting from the best C in the league, Steve Yzerman. My rookie year was a blur, but one I thoroughly enjoyed despite Viktor’s attempts to drag me back through the legal system.
And then Pavel came over as well.
The first game, first shift Detroit played against the Canucks, he took a run at me. My head was down and his elbow was up, and I think I lay staring at the Joe’s ceiling for a good minute before I was groggily able to regain my feet. Pavel had been glaring at me even as the refs, Stevie and his own captain had chewed him out. The hate, the betrayal in his eyes…
“I’ll pay you back for leaving me, Sergei.”
Vlad had overheard that comment, spat at me in Russian. He promised to take care of me. Vladimir Konstantinov: my quiet, hulking protector, who I would eventually lose to the cold halls of William Beaumont Hospital; to an unlicensed driver that didn’t get nearly the sentence he deserved. He gave me confidence and let me focus solely on playing, and Pavel was limited to taking his vengeance out on me off-ice only.
And so he did-which sometimes, looking back, I think was the worse revenge. Because after a while, after I had settled into American life and NHL life, I began dating again: and I fell in adoration with a young woman by the name of Anna Kournikova.
I say adoration when referring to Anna because I don’t really know if I actually loved her. She was sweet, and spirited, and naïve to such a degree that I felt compelled to protect her. She tugged on my heart with strings attached to her fingertips, dancing me to her tune; waltzing me along down a path that gave her everything.
I got a lot of crap for dating Anna. There were the jokes, and the ribbing, and the looks of disgust and disdain that I half-agreed with myself, our difference in age such a concern for the American public. But I would have given anything to her-and what she wanted was me. And so I delivered myself up into her small, perfect hands. So blinded by her electric glow, her lust for life, I thought that she would be the innocence I craved-the innocence that I found so very lacking in myself.
When Pavel stole her-no. I can’t say that he stole her, because that implies she went unwillingly. I think I failed Anna, somehow-failed her expectations; failed her as a mentor and as a guide. Maybe I didn’t do enough for her, maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to her; but seeing Anna arm-in-arm with Pavel was almost enough to break me.
He smiled.
Pavel smiled at me, as Anna ducked her head and we exchanged awkward greetings. He smiled with eyes that told me yes, this was for me; this was to punish me-his cruel, cutting revenge at last.
I resolved to do better after that. Pavel had turned love into a game-after a while he stopped seeing Anna, uninterested, and she went into the arms of Enrique Iglesias. Of the four of us involved in the little affair, I think only I was the one truly affected. Anna was young, and she got over me quickly, and Enrique was delighted to have her. Pavel was just delighted to have caused me pain. Even now I regret; years after it’s all done and I have a lover that truly fulfills me in every way.
I had failed someone I that cared for, and to me, that was unforgivable.
After Anna, there was Tara Reid. Tara…
I was a trinket of Tara’s. Someone to hang off her arm, like a Louis Vuitton purse: a symbol of status and sexuality and wealth, in the bright and blinding lights that are Hollywood. She would take me to events where we would eat exotic foods and talk with prominent people-or, at least, she would talk. I generally tried to hang back and watch, observing quietly in the background as she flirted and chatted with the rich and famous.
I found out early on that it was best to remain unnoticed at such gatherings. Los Angeles, while it does have the Kings, is not too well known for its hockey followers. The people that would approach me-the quiet, blonde Russian hockey player that had come with Tara Reid-did it because they were intrigued with my looks or with my connections; conversation was not foremost on their minds. If I were so inclined, I could write a book detailing the lascivious offers I received from those powerful men and women that so impact people’s daily lives.
And I was burned, in Hollywood. Scorched by the spotlights that were always on you wherever you went; by the flash of paparazzi cameras that stole little pieces of you and plastered them across newspapers and magazines as cheap entertainment. I know I still have the scars from that time, evident now whenever I automatically grimace when approached by a reporter. Breaking up with Tara did me better than being with her ever could have, but Anaheim was too close to busy Los Angeles for me to ever really settle. I was so distracted, on the Ducks; the actuality of leaving Detroit finally hitting me, the pressure hitting me, everything hitting me all at once until nothing felt familiar anymore. I could blame things on the lockout, on breakups, on injuries, but deep down I knew something was wrong with me-that something was failing, fading, slowly curling up and losing strength with each passing day.
Being traded to Columbus was a like ray of light in the gloom; an electric shock in my back. And, in that way, it became a blessing.
There were other blessings there to be had, as well.
Being closer to Detroit didn’t mean being closer to media attention-in fact, it was quite the opposite. Columbus was a good city; good to its hockey but rabidly loyal to its football, and only occasionally wandering the streets did I happen across someone who recognized me. The anonymity pleased me, relaxed me, and I was able to concentrate on the game again. It was a different role, there: one of a teacher instead of a student, where I was expected to help and guide and support, not be a shining star. But this newness I enjoyed, and adapted to it with ease.
Also in Columbus was Nikolai Zherdev.
Sweet Nikolai, gentle Nikolai; painfully shy Nikolai. Dark-haired and grey-eyed Nikolai. Snarky Nikolai who was the cause of many lies in the course of translations; laughing bright-eyed Nikolai who made me smile, and stubborn brash Nikolai who made me want to smack him over the head. Nikolai was so honest and open and truthful that I was wary of him, at first. He was a breath of fresh air after the smog of a life of lies and evasions, and I could have lived off just being near that precious innocence.
Yet, at the same time, I didn’t want him to fall into the same trap I had. I didn’t want him to get burned as I had been. I tried to take care of him, to guide him; to lead him on a path I thought would take him to a life of security and safeness. To protect him from all the hurt there was in the world.
The little brat would have none of it.
Cocky, shy, brash, beautiful-when I was with him I knew I would not be the one in control. There was no controlling him; and, like a falcon or a great eagle, to try to do so would be tantamount to sacrilege. The energy that drove him was like a small self-contained tornado and I could either sit back and watch or partake in the chaos myself, willingly dragged along to concerts both orchestral and contemporary; going enthusiastically along with his scheme to dye Rick and Rusty’s dog pink (look, it was one-day dye) or drive all night across three states in order to see the sun rise above Niagara Falls. Nikolai didn’t want protecting; Nikolai didn’t need protecting. All he wanted was to live and to experience and to be-and he made it clear that he wanted me along for the ride.
And I’d never before wanted anything as much as I desired to go with him.
But I fear that I’ve erred. I worry that I’ve made a dire mistake-these past few months have been spent travelling; spent attending high-profile galas and charity events as advised by my agent, following through on previous promises that I had made to others. And all this time, Nikolai has been waiting for me. I swore to him, swore to him at the end of the season that I would return to him-but I’ve been waylaid, hindered; distracted.
I’ve been caught up in the world again.
And as I stand in front of his Moscow apartment, weary with jetlag and my duffel a dead weight over my shoulder, I can only hope-only pray-that I haven’t screwed this up as well. That I haven’t lost out on this amazing young man that has so completely apprehended my heart.
Nikolai…
I knock on the door.
I suppose you could say it started with Alex. Alexander Mogilny: the first of us to abandon our homeland for the NHL, and who I had been too young and too hot-tempered to ever forgive for doing so. We met in CSKA, and played there during a time when it was even worse than it is today. Back then there were no legal reprieves; there were no images to uphold to the leagues around the world. The iron curtain was up and you lived with what went on behind it-be it corporal punishment or being forced to sign away your most basic rights, you shut up and took it unless you wanted to endanger yourself, your team and your family.
The scars on my body are not all from hockey games.
Alex was gentle. The Red Army hadn’t hardened him like it had some, and having him as my roommate may have been what kept me from going down that road as well. On winter nights, when your teeth chattered and your toes went numb from the cold, we threw away protocol and dignity and climbed into each other’s beds: putting our meager blankets and shivering bodies together to make a single warm entity. It didn’t take long for us to turn into lovers as well. At first it was hot hands stroking and soothing away the biting chill; then the wet heat of lips and mouths, spreading fire through each other’s bodies. We never got beyond that, too shy and uncomfortable in our own respective skins, but we found a little comfort in each other that, if only for a little while, banished the bitter cold.
When Alex escaped to the NHL I was crushed-even though I knew his plans, and even helped him get away by distracting Viktor. My assistance got me into shit, and Tikhonov isolated me from the protective circle of Slava Fetisov and Igor Larionov, putting me instead with the fiery, feisty firebrand known as Pavel Bure.
Pavel…attacked. He knew what he wanted and he got what he wanted, and I was a conquest to him. He was hard and fast and never stayed with any one thing for too long, easily bored with the mundane. I strove to be spontaneous, strove to be that ever-changing and ever-surprising person for him-and he loved me for it. Be it up against the outside wall of the arena, bared skin hidden only by heavy overcoats and Pavel’s body, or on my knees on the hard floor of the grungy showers-Pasha was enamored with me, because I changed for him.
Yet I had never really settled, after Alex left. He called me sometimes, from Buffalo, excitedly telling me of the NHL and pleading for me to tell him all the happenings in Russia. He was homesick, I could tell, and I would talk in a sleepy whisper in the dead of night-Alex never seemed to understand the time differentials, even when I explained them to him-too tired to care that if I were caught Viktor would kick me off the team. I was too happy to hear the voice of my best friend, safe and well so far from home.
And I longed for it. Never mind the change of conditions-no more too-thin blankets, no more punishments, no degradation because of a missed pass-but the idea of the challenge, the excitement, drew me in like a moth to flame. After a year of straining to meet Pavel’s ravenous demands and being under constant suspicion by my trainers and coaches, I was tired. Tired, and ready to leave that all behind.
So I did.
Igor and Slava knew of my intentions, though they neither helped nor condoned them. They wanted me to wait for the Curtain to fall; to wait to leave honorably. But I was young, and restless, and I went ahead and escaped to Detroit. Pavel was enraged, but I didn’t care. I got caught in the bright lights and attention that came with defecting from Russia. I loved America, I loved the NHL; and I loved having my freedom. I had help adjusting from the best C in the league, Steve Yzerman. My rookie year was a blur, but one I thoroughly enjoyed despite Viktor’s attempts to drag me back through the legal system.
And then Pavel came over as well.
The first game, first shift Detroit played against the Canucks, he took a run at me. My head was down and his elbow was up, and I think I lay staring at the Joe’s ceiling for a good minute before I was groggily able to regain my feet. Pavel had been glaring at me even as the refs, Stevie and his own captain had chewed him out. The hate, the betrayal in his eyes…
“I’ll pay you back for leaving me, Sergei.”
Vlad had overheard that comment, spat at me in Russian. He promised to take care of me. Vladimir Konstantinov: my quiet, hulking protector, who I would eventually lose to the cold halls of William Beaumont Hospital; to an unlicensed driver that didn’t get nearly the sentence he deserved. He gave me confidence and let me focus solely on playing, and Pavel was limited to taking his vengeance out on me off-ice only.
And so he did-which sometimes, looking back, I think was the worse revenge. Because after a while, after I had settled into American life and NHL life, I began dating again: and I fell in adoration with a young woman by the name of Anna Kournikova.
I say adoration when referring to Anna because I don’t really know if I actually loved her. She was sweet, and spirited, and naïve to such a degree that I felt compelled to protect her. She tugged on my heart with strings attached to her fingertips, dancing me to her tune; waltzing me along down a path that gave her everything.
I got a lot of crap for dating Anna. There were the jokes, and the ribbing, and the looks of disgust and disdain that I half-agreed with myself, our difference in age such a concern for the American public. But I would have given anything to her-and what she wanted was me. And so I delivered myself up into her small, perfect hands. So blinded by her electric glow, her lust for life, I thought that she would be the innocence I craved-the innocence that I found so very lacking in myself.
When Pavel stole her-no. I can’t say that he stole her, because that implies she went unwillingly. I think I failed Anna, somehow-failed her expectations; failed her as a mentor and as a guide. Maybe I didn’t do enough for her, maybe I didn’t pay enough attention to her; but seeing Anna arm-in-arm with Pavel was almost enough to break me.
He smiled.
Pavel smiled at me, as Anna ducked her head and we exchanged awkward greetings. He smiled with eyes that told me yes, this was for me; this was to punish me-his cruel, cutting revenge at last.
I resolved to do better after that. Pavel had turned love into a game-after a while he stopped seeing Anna, uninterested, and she went into the arms of Enrique Iglesias. Of the four of us involved in the little affair, I think only I was the one truly affected. Anna was young, and she got over me quickly, and Enrique was delighted to have her. Pavel was just delighted to have caused me pain. Even now I regret; years after it’s all done and I have a lover that truly fulfills me in every way.
I had failed someone I that cared for, and to me, that was unforgivable.
After Anna, there was Tara Reid. Tara…
I was a trinket of Tara’s. Someone to hang off her arm, like a Louis Vuitton purse: a symbol of status and sexuality and wealth, in the bright and blinding lights that are Hollywood. She would take me to events where we would eat exotic foods and talk with prominent people-or, at least, she would talk. I generally tried to hang back and watch, observing quietly in the background as she flirted and chatted with the rich and famous.
I found out early on that it was best to remain unnoticed at such gatherings. Los Angeles, while it does have the Kings, is not too well known for its hockey followers. The people that would approach me-the quiet, blonde Russian hockey player that had come with Tara Reid-did it because they were intrigued with my looks or with my connections; conversation was not foremost on their minds. If I were so inclined, I could write a book detailing the lascivious offers I received from those powerful men and women that so impact people’s daily lives.
And I was burned, in Hollywood. Scorched by the spotlights that were always on you wherever you went; by the flash of paparazzi cameras that stole little pieces of you and plastered them across newspapers and magazines as cheap entertainment. I know I still have the scars from that time, evident now whenever I automatically grimace when approached by a reporter. Breaking up with Tara did me better than being with her ever could have, but Anaheim was too close to busy Los Angeles for me to ever really settle. I was so distracted, on the Ducks; the actuality of leaving Detroit finally hitting me, the pressure hitting me, everything hitting me all at once until nothing felt familiar anymore. I could blame things on the lockout, on breakups, on injuries, but deep down I knew something was wrong with me-that something was failing, fading, slowly curling up and losing strength with each passing day.
Being traded to Columbus was a like ray of light in the gloom; an electric shock in my back. And, in that way, it became a blessing.
There were other blessings there to be had, as well.
Being closer to Detroit didn’t mean being closer to media attention-in fact, it was quite the opposite. Columbus was a good city; good to its hockey but rabidly loyal to its football, and only occasionally wandering the streets did I happen across someone who recognized me. The anonymity pleased me, relaxed me, and I was able to concentrate on the game again. It was a different role, there: one of a teacher instead of a student, where I was expected to help and guide and support, not be a shining star. But this newness I enjoyed, and adapted to it with ease.
Also in Columbus was Nikolai Zherdev.
Sweet Nikolai, gentle Nikolai; painfully shy Nikolai. Dark-haired and grey-eyed Nikolai. Snarky Nikolai who was the cause of many lies in the course of translations; laughing bright-eyed Nikolai who made me smile, and stubborn brash Nikolai who made me want to smack him over the head. Nikolai was so honest and open and truthful that I was wary of him, at first. He was a breath of fresh air after the smog of a life of lies and evasions, and I could have lived off just being near that precious innocence.
Yet, at the same time, I didn’t want him to fall into the same trap I had. I didn’t want him to get burned as I had been. I tried to take care of him, to guide him; to lead him on a path I thought would take him to a life of security and safeness. To protect him from all the hurt there was in the world.
The little brat would have none of it.
Cocky, shy, brash, beautiful-when I was with him I knew I would not be the one in control. There was no controlling him; and, like a falcon or a great eagle, to try to do so would be tantamount to sacrilege. The energy that drove him was like a small self-contained tornado and I could either sit back and watch or partake in the chaos myself, willingly dragged along to concerts both orchestral and contemporary; going enthusiastically along with his scheme to dye Rick and Rusty’s dog pink (look, it was one-day dye) or drive all night across three states in order to see the sun rise above Niagara Falls. Nikolai didn’t want protecting; Nikolai didn’t need protecting. All he wanted was to live and to experience and to be-and he made it clear that he wanted me along for the ride.
And I’d never before wanted anything as much as I desired to go with him.
But I fear that I’ve erred. I worry that I’ve made a dire mistake-these past few months have been spent travelling; spent attending high-profile galas and charity events as advised by my agent, following through on previous promises that I had made to others. And all this time, Nikolai has been waiting for me. I swore to him, swore to him at the end of the season that I would return to him-but I’ve been waylaid, hindered; distracted.
I’ve been caught up in the world again.
And as I stand in front of his Moscow apartment, weary with jetlag and my duffel a dead weight over my shoulder, I can only hope-only pray-that I haven’t screwed this up as well. That I haven’t lost out on this amazing young man that has so completely apprehended my heart.
Nikolai…
I knock on the door.