Page 7 of Wyatt

The players began to exit the building. She knew most of the Blue Ox by their pictures on their website—followed their games. Knew Deke Stoner, a forward, and his rookie brother Brendon, who played defenseman. Knew Kalen Boomer, who looked in decent health after his hip replacement two years ago. It was his injury that opened up the door for Wyatt’s promotion to the pros.

The guys came out with their duffel bags over their shoulders, a couple equipment handlers pushing out the gear into a big bus.

She waited, the entire team climbing aboard, about to give up when she saw him.

Wyatt had showered, his brown hair wet and shorter, clearly cut after the Stanley Cup loss. He hadn’t shaved, a thin layer of dark whiskers along his strong jaw. He dressed like an elite warrior in a pair of suit pants, an oxford shirt, a tie. A suit jacket that made his shoulders look about a mile wide.

Oh, the press conference. He’d probably stopped in for a five-minute interview after the game.

She’d bet that was fun—reliving the moment when his mistake turned them from leaders to losers.

No wonder his mouth was pinched tight, his hand gripping his bag in a whitened clench.

He got on the bus.

She headed to the parking lot.

Roman had loaned her his Lada, a cute hatchback called a Kalina, and she slid into the front seat and took off her parka, leaving on her hoodie. The sounds of the past stirred inside her as she backed out of the lot.

You need to learn how to drive, Coco. All Americans know how to drive.

She’d been fourteen. Trying to embrace her American heritage. The year her mother got so sick.

Two months before she died.

Wyatt sat at the wheel of the pickup, two years older than her. He wore a black T-shirt, a pair of faded jeans, and a cowboy hat, just home from hockey camp.

“C’mere. It’s easy.”

It was the first time she noticed how big he really was, even at sixteen. He’d slid the seat of the pickup back and she’d crawled between his legs, sitting in front of him. He put his arms down, on his strong thighs. “You steer, I’ll work the gas. Just get a feel for it.”

They were in a field off the long road that led to the Marshalls’ massive log house, and he gunned it, probably knowing perfectly well that she couldn’t run into anything except a few cow pies.

And, of course, the Marshall family’s Cessna, parked on the runway. She’d gotten too close and he’d grabbed the wheel. “Whoops! Let’s not total my dad’s favorite toy.”

She’d laughed, happily cocooned in his arms as they veered down the runway.

“When do you leave for Helena?” she asked as he put her hands on the wheel again. She’d hated it when she’d heard the news—that he’d be spending the school year in Helena, playing on a traveling team. If he hadn’t switched positions, turned into a hotshot goaltender…

Well, she couldn’t expect that he might feel the same way about her.

But she’d given her heart away to Wyatt Marshall the day when she walked into his barn, shortly after moving in with their family and he’d said, “Shoot at me.”

He’d pointed to a basket of tennis balls. And by the end of the afternoon, had her laughing with his antics to save the goal. He’d ended up dirty, scraped, bruised, and grinning.

He’d made her laugh.

For the first time, she didn’t feel like the girl in the shadows, the Russki, the foreigner.

With Wyatt, she felt like she could belong.

Even when she nearly drove them into a ditch. He’d slammed on the brakes, shaken his head, and told her that by the end of the week, when he left for Helena, she’d be driving like Danica Patrick.

Whoever that was.

But now, as Coco pulled into the Intourist Hotel, not far behind the bus, the memory slid a warmth through her that she had nearly forgotten.

Wyatt would remember her.

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