Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “But I’m not going to be here much longer. A few months at the most. As soon as my divorce is final, my visa will be invalid. What happens when I go back to Russia?”

            Marta turned away. “I have to go.”

            “Wait.” Elena gripped Marta’s arm to try to keep her from walking away. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

            Marta paused, her face frozen in a hard mask of resolution. “You too.” Then she turned around and ran down the alley.

            Elena watched her go, once again feeling a connection to her father that had never been there before. The spark of excitement for this new piece of the puzzle flickered against a cold breeze of fear for Marta’s safety. Was this how her father felt all the time? Elena understood so much about him now that used to make her so angry—his long hours, his frequent absences, and most of all, his secrecy. She now knew why he would never tell her what he was working on. He wanted to protect her. She’d kept Vlad in the dark about this for the same reason. She didn’t want him to get hurt.

            She’d already hurt him too much.

            Several minutes after Marta left, Elena walked five blocks to a bar where she called for another Uber. It was midnight by the time she got home. Elena unlocked the door to her studio apartment and quickly locked it again behind her. After toeing off her shoes at the door, she donned her house slippers and walked the five short steps to her tiny kitchen. She filled her kettle with water and then set it on the two-burner stove. A few minutes later, she carried a steaming mug of tea to her cluttered desk, which was wedged next to a futon that doubled as a couch and a bed. She could have had a larger apartment; Vlad had offered to pay for something much more lavish several times over the years. But she could never bring herself to accept the offer. She didn’t want to be any more of a burden on him than she already was.

            But that, too, was a mistake she had vowed to correct. Elena tried to block out all the voices of recrimination in her head as she dug into the pile of notes and documents she’d been able to compile. She’d arranged everything chronologically—something else she’d learned from her father. Just start at the beginning and build the timeline. When gaps appeared, you knew where to focus your research. The problem was, there were still more gaps than not in the information. And this information Marta had given her tonight was no different. Just one more clue. One more unanswered question that would lead to more questions. And time truly was running out. Once she went back to Russia and got a job at a newspaper there, she wouldn’t have the same freedom to work on this. Literally.

            The sudden shriek of her phone sent her heart into her throat. She answered it without checking who it was because only Marta called this late, and it couldn’t be good. “Marta? What’s wrong?”

            “Um, Elena?”

            Elena pulled the phone from her ear and looked at the number on the screen. Josh Bierman. Confusion tugged her eyebrows together. He was the family contact for Vlad’s hockey team. Why would he be calling her?

            She returned the phone to her ear. “Yes, yes, this is Elena.”

            “It’s Josh Bierman. I’m sorry it took so long to call, but I wanted to make sure I had the best information. He’s being looked at by the trainers and the team doctor, so—”

            Elena shook her head. “Wait. Slow down. What are you talking about?”

            “Vlad.” Josh paused. “Weren’t you watching the game?”

            Guilt infused her blood like poison. She hadn’t been following Vlad’s team. She knew they were doing well, that they were pretty far into the playoffs, but she didn’t know details. She didn’t even know what city he was in. “No. I— No. What happened?”

            “Vlad got hurt in the first period.”

            She heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. Or maybe that was just her brain’s way of not accepting the news. “How—how bad?”

            “We’ve stabilized him for now, and then he’ll be taken to Nashville Orthopedic Hospital. I can get you a chartered flight out of Midway Airport at two thirty a.m., and you can meet us there.”

            Her brain finally caught up. “A hospital?”

            Most professional teams in America had on-site medical units that rivaled emergency rooms, which said as much about the state of American health care as anything. They only sent players to hospitals for bad injuries.