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He threw his head back and scoffed. “Do I dance? Are you kidding? Just wait and see ... but it won’t be a tango like Tango,” he said, referring to the team’s Latin lover Tomás Carrera.
“I was at that lunch when you and Tomás were the guests of honor and he tangoed with his sister.” I stopped myself just in time before I said he was hot! “I’d love to hear you on your guitar doing some rock,” I said, remembering that he played but wouldn’t do it that day.
“Yeah, well I’ve got to have a few rums under the belt before I do that,” he said, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I didn’t see you at the lunch, where were you?”
“On a table right over near the windows ... I was a guest of Sasha’s, and the media always get bad tables at those events because they’re freebies.”
“Fair enough you freeloader,” he teased.
The Russian turned the car into the Suns’ large parking lot and word did travel fast – there were photographers lining the entrance and on the road.
“Do you always get a media turnout like this for your Ball? Impressive,” he said.
“No, never. Um, I’m thinking Sasha’s tweets and Facebook posts might have done the trick,” I warned him. I wasn’t sure how he would react to being hassled and his photo and mine appearing everywhere, especially when we had both agreed earlier that we were a little social media shy, and I was very conscious of not taking up where his ex-girlfriend had left off in that regard.
“Seriously, for us? Wow, must be a slow media night,” he said and shrugged.
That was it? Totally unphased. I breathed a sigh of relief. The Russian pulled the car into a parking space and I could see several of my teammates heading inside with their dates on their arms. The coach had stopped for an interview in the doorway – she looked very glamorous; it was weird seeing everyone dressed up when we were more used to seeing each other in sports kit and gym gear.
The Russian was around my side of the car before I had barely reached for the door handle. He opened my door, extended his hand and I took it as he helped me from the car. I grabbed my clutch bag and squinted as the flashes went off. He closed the door and locked it behind us. The Russian hooked his arm and I slipped mine in.
“You look beautiful,” he said, again. “Ready?”
I nodded and smiled at him. “Thank you again for coming with me,” I said, while I had the chance. If nothing else happened, this would be a memory I would never forget and The Russian would have helped make magical a night that might have been terribly depressing.
“The pleasure is mine,” he said, as he looked me over.
So sweet, so smooth. Let the night begin.
