There were so many people here today, so many more than she expected. It was a rough bunch, pushing and shoving, shouting. “How did she let Catherine talk her into this?” she thought, as some large, sweaty man behind her bumped into her for the third time. The doors to the arena opened and out stepped Alexander Semin, Niklas Backstrom, Mike Green and Alex Ovechkin. They made their way through the crowd, signing autographs and murmuring to their fans, as they tried to get to their cars. Green, Catherine’s favorite and the reason Sophie was here, passed by her and she turned to try to get his attention. The burly man behind her shouted something at Semin and shoved her from behind making her fall to her knees.
“Are you okay?” said a low voice with a Russian accent. She glanced up into the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. It was Ovechkin.
“Um… I’m fine,” she choked. She’d never been star-stuck before, but his smile caught her off guard as he offered her his hand. He looked fresh from the shower. His shaggy brown locks hung damp on his forehead. He still sported the mustache and beard scruff he always wore, but it was neatly trimmed today. He was dressed in a black dress shirt and black slacks. His suit jacket was hooked over his arm.
“You are bleeding,” he said as he gently brushed the dirt and gravel from her palm. He motioned to one of the large men dressed in black that accompanied the hockey stars outside. “Take her to Shaffer. I be right there.”
“No, I’m fine, really…,” she said, but stopped short at the determined look on his face. She got the distinct impression that he did not lose many arguments.
She was led through the entrance and off to the locker room. The security guard explained the situation to Dr. Shaffer and she was getting her hands cleansed when Ovie walked into the room.
“Is okay?”
Shaffer answered before Sophie could speak. “She’s fine, just some scrapes. I was going to put this antibiotic cream on her palms and then she can go.”
Ovechkin took the tube of cream from Dr. Shaffer and rubbed it on her hands himself. Sophie was speechless. She’d never been fussed over before, certainly not over some tiny scrape. She had
been a tom-boy her entire life. Cuts and scrapes were the norm for her.
“Does it sting?” he was asking her.
“No, it feels good,” she said, shocked by his personal attention. “Thank you.”
He held her small hands in his huge ones and inspected her palms. “Not too bad,” he smiled. “What is your name?”
“Sophie,” she said and returned his smile, glancing back up into those startling blue eyes again.
“You here for autograph, Sophia?”
“Actually for Green’s, for my friend Catherine.”
“For Greenie, huh? For your friend?” he asked. “But who you like?” he added with a crooked grin.
“Uh,” she choked, “I’m actually a Pens fan.”
“PENS FAN?” he exclaimed with a laugh. The two other men laughed with him. She had almost forgotten they were even there.
“I love watching you play though. You’re fun to watch,” she offered, realizing that admitting she was a fan of his biggest rival was not exactly an appropriate way to thank him. He said something to the security guard in Russian and then looked back at her.
“She must be good friend for you to come down here, get scraped up and still not get autograph.”
“I’ve known her all my life,” she said, knowing that this story would be even better to Catherine than an autograph.
“Maybe mine would be okay?” he asked and signed the picture that Catherine had given Sophie. It was of Green and Ovechkin celebrating after a goal in the playoffs the year before. All she could do was nod. She was completely dazed by his kindness. She knew who he was, of course, knew quite a bit about him, but never once did it occur to her that he was the kind of man to take this kind of time with someone he’d never met. The security guard reappeared with a red jersey in his hands.
“And for you. A Pens fan need an extra special autograph, especially after being injured,” he grinned devilishly. He signed the jersey on the big number eight on the back and handed it to her. She was astounded.
“I don’t know what to say. You are very kind, Mr. Ovechkin.”
“Alex.”
“Alex,” she smiled bashfully and looked away. His gaze was so intense. She felt like he was scrutinizing every part of her.
Another one of the men in black entered and told them that the lot was cleared. Alex then proceeded to walk her to her car and held the door open for her as she got in.
“Thank you,” she said, as much for his kindness as for the jersey.
“Anything for Pens fan,” he laughed and closed the car door.
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