The Man She Shouldn't Crave

Nik walked away from the employees he was talking to, opening his arms wide as he approached.

‘Bratan, good to have you back.’

‘Good to be back.’ The two men collided in a bear hug that spoke of their long partnership.

‘Coffee, yeah?’ said Nik, making a gesture to the guy polishing the rails around the five-metre length of the bar. ‘Saw last night’s game. The Wolves pounded them.’

‘That’s what we were there for.’

‘I heard about the Sazanovs. Shame.’

‘Rykov’s gain.’

‘The NHL have signed him up instead, I heard?’

Plato shrugged off his coat onto the back of a chair and leaned up against the bar. One of the screens was broadcasting a soccer game.

Plato glanced around. ‘The bar is looking good.’

‘Four more of them opening around the city,’ said Nik with some satisfaction.

Plato picked up one of the espressos set down on the bar, idly gave a little attention to the game on the wall.

‘I also heard our guys were tearing their hair out when you fronted at Domededova without the team.’

‘Yeah, well, it doesn’t hurt to keep them on their toes.’

‘What in the hell were you doing, putting them on a commercial flight instead of taking them in the jet?’

‘The girl I was with wouldn’t have been keen on a crowd. It was simpler.’

‘Plato Kuragin disrupted business to accommodate a woman? Right. Who is she and what has she done with my best mate?’

‘She would have been uncomfortable; it was the right thing to do.’

Nik rocked back on his heels. ‘Who is she, man? Why are you being so cagey?’

Plato stirred on his feet. He didn’t know quite why he was so reluctant to talk about her. Nik was his oldest friend. There was a lot of water under that bridge. He settled on ‘Her name is Rose.’

‘Rose? Pretty. Old-fashioned.’

Old-fashioned, da. He smiled into his drink.

‘English?’

‘American. From Texas.’

‘Model?’

‘Matchmaker.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Plato shrugged, continued to watch the game above the bar—although right now it wasn’t making much sense.

‘You’re not kidding, are you?’

‘She’s got this little business—’ Plato broke off, found himself smiling ruefully as he rubbed the back of his neck. A picture of Rose perched on the coach’s bench, rummaging in that little retro bag of hers for the contract as if it were a lipstick, sprang to mind. ‘It’s hard to explain.’