Nickolai's Noel by Alicia Hunter Pace

Author:Alicia Hunter Pace [Pace, Alicia Hunter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: F+W Media
Published: 2014-11-30T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Ten

Three months later

“Maybe since today everyone is Irish, I should pick an Irish name.” Nickolai took a bite of his soft-boiled egg. He didn’t like the pancakes at The Café Down On The Corner as much as Cracker Barrel’s, but the eggs were better. But he didn’t eat pancakes very often anyway, and The Café Down On The Corner was only a block from Noel’s apartment—where he’d spent every night since Christmas when he wasn’t on the road.

Noel put her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand.

“Really? What’s your Irish name going to be?” She was pretty in her bright green sweater.

“Patrick? Like the Saint.”

She sipped her coffee. “Can’t you do better than that?”

He didn’t really know many Irish names. “I don’t think so. Sean? Is that one?”

She nodded. “What would your last name be?”

“O’Glazov. I’ll be Sean Patrick O’Glazov.”

She leaned back in her chair and laughed, all soft and musical. He hadn’t gotten tired of hearing that laugh in almost three months, and he didn’t think he ever would.

“So, Sean Patrick—may I call you Sean Patrick?”

“Saint Sean Patrick, I think.”

“Don’t push it. You’re not even wearing green.”

“These are the clothes I always wear on the team airplane.” He smoothed the purple and silver striped tie that he wore with a gray suit and white shirt with French cuffs.

“Oh, I am well aware of that.” She smiled at him over her coffee cup. Noel teased him about his superstitions but, the way he saw it, this was no time to be taking chances. He was leaving in one hour for three away games in four days—Tampa, Winnipeg, and New Jersey. If they won any two of the three, a trip to the playoffs was guaranteed. But he didn’t speak of that. He had never uttered the words Stanley Cup, and he tried not to think them.

“So, Saint Sean Patrick, are you going to have O’Glazov put on the back of your jersey?”

“I might,” he said. “You never know.”

“And I suppose you’re suddenly going to start drinking some flavor of Gatorade other than orange and stop kissing your stick before and after you tape it.”

“Is not superstition. A stick must know it’s loved.” Noel should know she was loved, too, and he hoped she did. He just wasn’t sure when would be the right time to say it. But he did love her, so much—had ever since they’d sat in front of the burning Yule log and eaten cookies together. If the season was going well, life with Noel was everything he thought he’d never have.

She laid her hand on his. “I wish I could be there to see you play.”

“Me too, lyubimaya.” And he did. She’d been to every home game since Christmas, and he always felt more powerful when she was in the arena. “But we couldn’t travel together or sleep together. I wouldn’t like that. I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too. But this weekend is a good time for me to go to Louisville.

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