Double the Heat by Deirdre Martin, Lori Foster, Elizabeth Bevarly, Christie Ridgway Page B

food.
    “You sign the lease on that apartment you checked out the other day?” asked Eric Mitchell. Sebastian had liked Eric from the minute he met him. The guy didn’t take himself too seriously, except on the ice.
    “Yes, of course.”
    He’d found a small apartment on the Upper West Side, in what the Realtor told him was “a nice, quiet neighborhood.” This suited Sebastian just fine; despite being single, he was not big into the bar scene. To play well, he needed peace, quiet, rest. He was by no means a stick-in-the-mud, just disciplined.
    Sebastian glanced around the Wild Hart. “I like this place,” he said to his teammates. “I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to spend time in the team’s original hangout.”
    Jason Mitchell, Eric’s twin brother, grinned proudly. “Great, isn’t it? Eric and me, that’s one of our hobbies: finding new bars to hang out in.”
    Ulf snorted. “Oh, you mean like that shithole with the tiki torches a few blocks from Met Gar?”
    “That place was great,” Eric shot back.
    “Yeah, if you’re over seventy and have cirrhosis of the liver.”
    Another teammate, Thad Meyers, looked around. “I think this place is the perfect replacement for the Chapter House. Low key, good food . . .” He raised his beer glass to the Mitchell brothers. “Good job, Mitchy and Mitcho.”
    “Thank you,” Eric replied smugly.
    Ulf tapped Sebastian on the shoulder, pointing at the small woman behind the bar serving a gaggle of firefighters who had just come in. “What do you think of her, huh? Pretty cute.”
    Sebastian studied her. It was true she was cute, but she didn’t stir anything in him. “Not my type.”
    “Not my type,” Ulf repeated, mimicking Sebastian’s voice. “I love the way you talk, man. You sound like The Terminator.”
    “No, he doesn’t,” scoffed the Blades’ goalie, David Hewson. “Schwarzenegger is Austrian, not Russian.”
    “So?” Ulf shot back defensively.
    “How would you like it if someone said you sounded Norwegian?” Eric Mitchell chimed in.
    “I’m Swedish!”
    “Exactly my point, you dick.”
    Ulf turned to Sebastian. “Sorry if I offended you, dude.”
    “No problem. You didn’t offend me.”
    “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Ulf continued, draping his arm col legially over Sebastian’s shoulder, and exaggerating his fading Swedish accent. “The chicks dig the foreign accent. They think it’s sexy.”
    Sebastian nodded thoughtfully. Over the years, he’d heard that from other Russian players who had retired from the NHL and had come home to coach or to play again for the Kontinental League. He was glad being foreign might add to his exoticism, but the players had also told him that Americans knew very little about life in Russia, asking silly questions. It mystified him, since the opposite was true with Russians: they knew a lot about the States.
    “You got a girlfriend?” Thad Meyers asked.
    Sebastian shook his head. He’d been engaged about three years back to a legal secretary, but in the end it didn’t work out. Since then, he’d dated intermittently, concentrating instead on his career.
    “We gotta get you a woman, then,” Thad continued.
    “I don’t need one,” said Sebastian with a chuckle. “At least not a girlfriend.”
    Ulf looked confused. “What do you mean?”
    “I wouldn’t mind”—Sebastian chose his words carefully—“a female friend. Platonic, just to do things with since I’m new to New York, you know?”
    “Platonic?” Ulf thrust his head forward in disbelief. “What are you, one of those celibate weirdos or something?”
    “What are you, a dick?” Jason shot back at him.
    “In my opinion—” Eric started.
    “Which no one gives a damn about, but go ahead anyway,” Jason interrupted.
    “It’s impossible for a heterosexual man and woman to have a platonic friendship. It just is,” Eric insisted.
    “You’re wrong,” countered Sebastian. “I have a friend back in Russia