One Timers

“Yes, I know my name is Russian. And I sound Russian. My parents are both from Russia. But I was born in St Paul, Minnesota. I lived there for the first eighteen years of my life, before I moved here for school. I am an American citizen.”

I turn to look at the counter next to me, suddenly intrigued by the petite blonde having almost the same conversation I had with my customs officer not five minutes ago. Her Russian features give her heritage away immediately, just like the way she pronounced Russia did. But, like me, she’s holding an American passport.

I can tell she’s absolutely gorgeous, even though I haven’t gotten a good look at her other than from behind. Her blonde hair is pulled into a loose messy bun like I usually see some of my teammates’ wives wear when we’re lounging around the house. Her small frame is covered with an oversized sweater that’s hanging off her one shoulder. Black leggings poke out from the bottom to a fairly beaten up pair of Docksiders. Her steel gray bag hangs over her shoulder, partially open. She turns slightly to reach into her bag and I catch the sight of black framed glasses and a nose piercing.

Despite her slight Russian accent, she’s clearly and American.

“Mr. Galchenyuk?” A new customs officer says, getting my attention.
“Sorry, yeah?” I respond, snapping out of my haze.
“I’m sorry for the confusion. It seems as though Officer Andrews doesn’t know his hockey as much as he should.” He chuckles, nervously.
“That’s okay.” I respond with a smile. Somehow, my frustration has disappeared slightly.
“If we can just see your visa and passport again, we’ll fix this whole mess.”
“No problem.” I respond, handing the two documents over.

A couple minutes later, I’m finally in the clear.

“I’m so sorry about the mixup, Mr. Galchenyuk.” The new officer says again.
“It’s no problem. I get this everywhere I go.” I respond.
He smiles sheepishly.
“Have a great day.” I say.
“You too. Go Habs.”

Once I’m through the most frustrating part of the airport, I plop my carry on down on a bench next to the baggage claim. I pull my hat low and shuffle through my bag to pull out the leather case I have designated for my passport and visa.

As I’m zipping up the case, a steel gray bag drops on the bench next to mine and a slew of Russian curses are muttered in a low tone. I peak up from under my hat, noticing the blonde rummaging through her bag. She chucks her passport into it and pulls out a phone. I notice it doesn’t turn on when she presses the button and she curses again.

Normally I’m ridiculously careful with what I do and who I talk to. But something inside me decides to throw all caution to the wind. I reach into my own pocket and pull out my phone, handing it to her.

She looks up at me and it’s the first time I get to see her entire face. Her green eyes look at me, confused.

“Для страны, это, мол, такой добрый, канадские таможенные никогда не хочет верить, что вы говорите им.” I say. (For a country that's supposedly so kind, Canadian customs never wants to believe what you tell them.)

She smiles a little, blushing.

“Каждый раз, когда я приезжаю через вот они меня расспрашивать.” She responds. (Every time I come through here they question me.)
“Your phone is dead and you need to call someone. Please, use mine. You can delete the call when you’re done if you’re afraid I’m some creep.”
“Thank you.” She says, taking it from my hand.

She dials a number and speaks softly when the person on the other line picks up. When she’s done, she hands it back to me.

“Not going to delete it?” I ask.
“No. I trust you.” She blushes, looking down at her feet. “Natalya Golovanov.” She finally says, sticking out her hand.
I chuckle.
“Definitely a Russian name.” I respond, taking her hand in mine and pressing my lips to it.

What the hell is going on here? I’ve never kissed a woman’s hand before. I’m just not that smooth.

“Because Galchenyuk isn’t as Russian as it gets.” She responds, surprising me.
“You know who I am?” I ask.
“I’m from Minnesota. The hockey state of America.” She states. “And you’re one of Montreal’s most favorite players.”
“Well now I’m slightly embarrassed.” I admit.
“Don’t be.” She smiles.

I notice the beginning of the bags start to come out through the little window and sigh.

“Ah, there’s my bag.” She says, looking over to the carousel.
“Please, let me help you.” I respond, following her over.
“Oh, no. It’s so heavy. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”

She blushes and points to her bag. I lift the steel gray suitcase up from the carousel and lower it to the ground.

“That is heavy.” I laugh. “How long are you going to be here?”
“I’m going to school here.” She responds. “So except for a couple weeks in December, I’ll be here until June.”
“Oh. Well...”

I don’t know what else to say. I spot my bag coming through the window, the large Habs logo instantly gaining attention from those around us. I realize how risky I’ve been. With the season starting soon, the entire city of Montreal is getting excited. A large bag with the logo all over it is a tell-tale sign of a player returning to the city. And now that I have to go pick it up, it’s almost guaranteed that I’ll be swarmed by fans wanting autographs and pictures. I sigh.

“Here.” Natalya says, handing me her bag and pushing me away from the gathering crowd and curious eyes. “Meet me outside those doors.”

I pull my hat even lower and head for the opposite side of the room. The automatic doors whoosh open and I make my way to a relatively empty corner. I keep my focus down until I see the familiar Docksiders appear. I look up and Natalya is buckling under the weight of my gigantic bag. I quickly take it from her, throwing it over my shoulder.

“спасибо.” I say. (Thank you)
“No problem. I owed you for letting me borrow your phone. Everyone in there just thinks I’m the biggest Habs fan in all of Montreal now.” She smiles.

I take a deep breath, staring at the beauty in front of me.

“There’s a Russian restaurant in the city that’s my absolute favorite. It’s so authentic, it’s like my бабушка is in the kitchen. But none of my friends ever want to go there with me.” I say, fiddling with one of the straps on my bag. “Would you like to have dinner some time?”

She smiles and her green eyes twinkle a little.

“I’d love to.” She responds, just as a car horn blares. She looks over to the offending vehicle and sighs. “I’ll get your number from my incredibly impatient roommate.”
She starts to pull away from me, but I lightly grab her wrist. She looks back at me.

“It was wonderful to meet you.” I say.
“You too.” She responds.
“I’ll be looking forward to your call.”
“You won’t be waiting long.”

I let her go, watching as a small brunette pops out of the car to help her get her bag into the trunk. They embrace slightly and the brunette looks over at me, catching me watching them. She says something to Natalya, who turns to smile at me before getting into the front seat.

As they drive off, I start to come back into the real world. I’m standing at the airport, carrying a gigantic bag with the Habs logo on it, while the entire city is coming down with hockey fever.

I quickly hail a cab and hop in, giving the driver my address. I pull out my phone and call Gally, who’s blown up my phone in the past hour with distressed texts.

“I thought maybe you got deported, ya crazy Russian! Did they not let you in the country or something?” He answers.
“Actually, I did get caught up for a couple minutes. Not in customs, though. But that’s not the point.” I respond. “Where are you?”
“We’re all at Prusty’s. You’re the only loser not here.”
“Okay, well I’m in a cab on my way to my place. I’ll be there soon.”

I hang up and drop my phone into my lap, choosing to take in the city rolling past through the windows.

“Good to be back?” The driver asks, eyeing me in the mirror. I notice the Habs sticker on his dashboard and smile.

Notes

Sorry this took so long. Hope you all enjoy it.