Pietro Olyokintov waited patiently for his teammates to queue up and leave the ice. He shifted his weight from skate to skate, hoping to reduce the pain in his aching knees. There would be no locker room celebrations that night. They’d lost. He’d lost. He had been checked into a sideboard during the penultimate play of the game, coughing up the puck to a Wilkes Barre defenseman whose outlet pass eventually resulted in the game winning goal against them.
As he stepped off of the ice and onto the rubber pathway that would lead him to the visitor’s locker room, he surrendered to his interior voice of native Russian.
Olyokintov had hoped that by immersing himself in the culture of North America, he would reflexively think in English. But there it was:
Okonchatel’no.
Finally.
As he exited the rink, Olyokintov did not raise his head. He knew that the portal for visiting players would be ringed with the new-era of hockey fans, celebrating their victory with extended digits and gestures of oral sex.
Olyokintov’s left knee gave way without provocation as he walked down the corridor among his teammates. He finessed his hockey stick to his left arm to use as a crutch with a nonchalance born of repetition, hoping that his coaches had not seen him buckle as he closed the twenty meters between himself and the locker room.
Once safely in the room, Olyokintov gingerly slid among the torsos of his teammates and came to face his locker. He untied his breezers and allowed them to
drop to his ankles. He reached up and retrieved a crucifix he’d secreted on the top shelf along with a photograph of his wife and son, kissed them both, and then stowed them in a side pocket of his duffel bag.
Olyokintov continued to follow his post-game rituals. He seated himself upon the bench and, gripping the shoulder blades of his sweat-drenched jersey, pulled it up and over his head, then tossed it into a team laundry bag in one uninterrupted motion. His breezers followed a similar arc across the room.
Olyokintov paused. He would need to flex his knees to unlace and step out of his skates. If his coaches or teammates were to see the level of pain he was about to endure, they would never again allow him onto a professional ice surface.
As he tensed the muscles around his knees in anticipation of agony, a body positioned itself before him, screening his face from the rest of the room.
Kostin Alendreypov bent low and shared a confidence with his Russian teammate.
“Eto ne tak ploko.”
Pietro Olyokintov and Kostin Alendreypov had come up together in the Russian Junior Hockey League (the MHL) playing for Omsk. Both seemed destined for success in the Kontinental Hockey League. But the Detroit Red Wings of the National Hockey League had other plans and selected both players in the 2015 NHL Entry Draft. The Red Wings had demonstrated a draft strategy with international focus in the past, having drafted and signed Russian ice hockey players Sergie Federov and Vladimir Konstantinov. Remaining faithful to that successful formula, the Red Wings’ management selected Kostin Alendreypov in the fourth round of the 2015 Draft. But when General Manager Alexander Venice attempted to negotiate the release of Alendreypov from his contract with the MHL, Russia’s indignity of having lost Federov and Konstantinov was thrust upon him and he was pushed away. Now distanced from the spirit of detente that had allowed the Russians to release Federov and Konstantinov, the Russian athletic community had no interest in allowing the West to continually poach upon their pools of athletes. Hoping not to repeat the past, the Russians circled Alendreypov with propaganda, noise and distractions, diluting word that he had been drafted by the NHL. Undaunted, Venice enrolled a journalist who successfully slipped a message to Alendreypov affirming his fourth round selection and Detroit’s desire that he play for the Red Wings. Months passed. Russian priorities blurred with the distraction of international crises. So Red Wings officials, sensing the distraction in Russian athletics, rendezvoused with Alendreypov before a post-game interview at a Russian youth all-stars exhibition match in Portland, Oregon, escorted him past the podium and onto the team’s private plane, bound for Detroit, Michigan.
Olyokintov’s introduction into the NHL was more circuitous. As a youth hockey player, he had signed a contract to serve in the Russian army for twenty-five years. His defection to the United States would have triggered his conviction in the Russian legal system with consequences visited upon his wife and young son. So, Red Wing management embarked upon a backwater campaign of bribes and influence peddling to have Olyokintov medically discharged from the army due to a series of concussions he had endured in youth hockey. Then, in another moment of Russian governmental turmoil, Olyokintov followed prearranged instructions and boarded the plane, now mythologized in Detroit as Air Emigre, bound for Budapest and eventually for Detroit.
Ironically, neither Olyokintov nor Alendreypov enjoyed success in the NHL.Olyoki ntov had shied away from physical contact because of his history of concussions and knee injuries and eventually played himself off of the Detroit Red Wings. Alendreypov had lost his heart, or so said the hockey executives surrounding the antiquated water coolers around the league. He was so homesick for Russia that his loneliness had found its way onto the ice, leading to his demotion. Both athletes were released by the Red Wings and consigned to the Braddock Knights of the American Hockey League on the same day.
“Eto ne tak ploko.”
Alendreypov paused after delivering his words of encouragement into the ear of his countryman. Then, in a feat of faux horseplay and true friendship, lendreypov artfully untied both of Olyokintov’s skates and deposited them into the duffel bag along with his hockey socks. His mission completed, Alendreypov secured the buttons of the towel around his waist and padded his way to the shower room, oblivious to the protests of his teammate.
Olyokintov played his role, feigning annoyance at Kostin’s goofy behavior but silently invoking a prayer of thanks for his comrade’s generosity.
Olyokintov delayed his departure for the showers, listening to his teammates as they filed past him, dismissing the occasional inquiry about his knees or accepting a conciliatory pat upon his broad shoulders for his part in their loss.
When he finally raised his head, Olyokintov had expected the locker room to be empty. Instead, he found himself sharing the room with four grim-faced, suited men posted in the four corners of the room.
“Is everything okay?” he asked in English, aware of his Russian inflection.
Each man looked at the other as if seeking permission to respond.
“All fine for now,” responded the most senior of the sentries. “We’re just here to facilitate a trade.”
Olyokintov felt his heart jump.
“Is it me? Am I to be traded?” asked Olyonkintov, unable to resist.
“It’s not you, Pietro,” the man responded. “But you’ll want to board the team bus quickly tonight. The team will be leaving ahead of schedule.”
“Thank you,” responded Olyokintov.
He briefly considered extending the conversation but decided against it, wishing not to provoke any nevezeniye or bad luck.
He rose, turned and limped into the shower room, massaging his sore shoulder as he walked. Pietro scanned the room until he identified the familiar frame of Alendreypov.He made his way unhurriedly towards his countryman and waited for the shower next to him to clear. He turned on the taps for hot and cold water, attempting to maximize the noise level around them. Then, he leaned into the ear of his comrade.
“Kostin. I think one of us is about to be traded,” Pietro confided, modulating his voice so as to be heard only by Alendreypov.
“Pochemu?” responded Alendreypov, leaning into his teammate but avoiding eye contact.
“Because there are four suits in the locker room waiting to deliver the bad news,” responded Pietro.
“FOUR suits?” repeated Alendreypov, swiveling his head now to fix the eyes of his friend.
Alendreypov’s physical response surprised Olyokintov, and he involuntarily stepped back. Then he grinned and put a hand on Alendreypov’s shoulder.
“Relax. It’s probably not you. You’re playing like shit. Who would want to trade for you?”
But Alendreypov didn’t bite at the good-natured jibe. He appeared momentarily distracted, then snapped back to the conversation.
“Vam nuzhno vybrat’sya otsyuda. Bystryy. Popast’ na avtobus.”
Now Pietro was concerned. His friend’s advice to get onto the bus and leave quickly suggested a level of trouble far beyond the delivery of a trade notice.
“Don’t ask, Pietro. Please get dressed and go,” urged Alendreypov before his friend could press for an explanation.
“But the boy? What’s to happen with the boy?” persisted Olyokintov.
“Acch. The boy,” repeated Alendreypov. “I’d forgotten in the moment….”

“Don’t worry, comrade. I will teach the boy in your absence,” Olyokintov offered.
Alendreypov nodded, assenting to the agreement.
“You know what? You coach the boy and your fate could end up being the same as mine in a matter of weeks,” counseled Alendreypov.
Olyokintov smiled and put a hand on Alendreypov’s shoulder.
“What is it that is said in that American gangster movie? ‘This is the life we have chosen?’” asked Olyonkintov.
“‘This is the life we have chosen,’” repeated Alendreypov, shaking his head. “Now. Go.”
Olyokintov ducked under the shower just long enough to appear conspicuously wet, then hastily exited the shower room, leaving Alendreypov behind. In contrast, Alendreypov slowed his routine to a crawl, loitering until he was the last player to shower.
Eventually, he too shut off his shower. He secured his towel around his waist and walked into the evacuated locker room.
“Are you Kostin Alendreypov?” shouted the senior suit. All four men, positioned well apart from one another, were square-shouldered to Alendreypov’s location. They were armed but held their handguns to the ceiling, watching Alendreypov for sudden movements.
Alendreypov was naked except for the towel wrapped around his waist. His instinct was to smile at the irony of his situation and the number of off-color jokes it raised, but he resisted his impulse. They might yet shoot him. He raised his hands above his head in acquiescence.
“Answer me! Are you Kostin Alendreypov?” yelled the man once again.
“Yes. Yes. I am Kostin Alendreypov,” he responded.
“My name is Agent Boyer. F.B.I.”
The senior-most agent held up his wallet, opened to display a badge and an identification card.
“You’ll dress and come with us.”
“Why?” asked Alendreypov.
“You are being detained on the suspicion of espionage.”
Alendreypov nodded his head, understanding. Alendreypov reached for his shirt. Slowly. As he drew it to his chest, he thought he could hear the sound of the team bus pulling away from the Coliseum.

Cover design for A Symphony of Spies by Maria Rodrigues