When I get back to my hotel room late that night, after the game, Pavel's there, waiting. He's dressed in a black turtleneck and black pants, and is sipping a glass of Stoli.

"I opened the minibar," he announces, holding out an identical glass to me.

"No thanks," I mutter, turning away from him, preparing to flee. Before I can make my escape, Pavel grabs my elbow.

"I want to talk about this morning," he insists.

"I don't."

"Val, we need to talk," he says, as he orders me to sit on my bed. He, of course, sits beside me. Too close to me.

"Okay, talk." I shove my hands into the pockets of my pants.

"You're obviously unhappy with me," he states, nervously, fiddling with his hands. "I thought I'd done my best to make you happy."

I immediately feel guilty; I've been feeling like that a lot lately. "It's not just you," I sigh. He rubs the back of my neck, and it feels good. Too good. I push him aside. "Pavel, we can't keep doing this."

"Who says we can't?" he asks, moving his hand to the buttons of my shirt.

I shove his hands aside. "*I* do, okay?" I cry, even though I say it every time, and every time I wind up on my back in his bed.

"You know you don't mean that," he whispers, manipulating me with his soft fingers and his soft words.

I cringe and shudder. "I...I do..."

Pavel pushes the shirt off of my shoulders, grinning at the rustling of the cloth. "You aren't putting up much of a fight."

I squirm away from his hands. This is how it started, when we were just kids. I don't like being reminded of that dark night. Being with Pavel gives me nightmares. Candace thinks it's just because I haven't been having a good season, and tells me all the time I'm putting too much stress on myself. I could never tell her what Pavel and I do together. I'd kill myself before I told her the truth.

That I was a fucking degenerate sleeping with his own brother.

Pavel tries to kiss me, but I duck my head. "Stop it, how many glasses did you have before I came back?" I ask, smelling the wine on his breath.

"Only a couple," he giggles, laying over me and pressing me down onto the bed. He slumps over me, and for a second, I think he's passed out, but he begins to giggle.

"God Pavs, you're drunk. Get OFF of me." I try to push his weight off of me, but he's too heavy.

"Kiss me, Valeri," he slurs, and I can tell this is not going to be a good night.

---

I wake up with a bruised back and bruised thighs, hanging over the edge of my bed, and afflicted with a pounding hangover. Pavel is splayed over me, completely naked, dead to the world.

Just seeing him like that makes my stomach lurch.

This is so wrong, and yet I continue to do it. I continue to let him use me.

I crawl out from underneath his limp form and slink into the showers, feeling so disgusted and dirty.

I scrub his smell off of me, vigorously, hoping none of our teammates can smell the scent of his cologne in my hair.

How long will I be able to keep up this façade?

Part 1 | Part 3