They’re right, of course, but I'm having a hard time channeling my anger over this fucked-up situation with Pam. I started down the hallway one day, determined to get her back, to make her listen to me—but I stopped myself before I got to the door of the therapy room. Instead, I drove all the way out to visit Ned at his rehab facility. Poor old Ned. He'd lost weight and looked good, wide-eyed. But he said it's been a hard road, finding sobriety and rebuilding his relationship with his family.
The visit helped me focus on my own sobriety, my own career goals…even if that meant I must do it without Pam. Her choice not to be with me is something beyond my control. My career and my life choices are within my control. I feel like fucking shit on the inside, but I can still do my job and do it well, and that's something.
So, when I went back out on that ice, I was a machine. Or, even better, part of a very well-oiled machine. Because Viktor, Tyler, and I have really meshed well on defense, and we just stopped allowing goals. There wasn't one goal scored on our line in the final six games of the regular season.
Now we're in DC for game three, playing against a rowdy, noisy, opposing crowd that wants nothing more than to see our championship restricted to one year.
The crowd is deafening as we head out into the second period, owning a 1–0 score. I take a look around and can't believe how many people they've crammed into the arena here. Looking up into the owner's box, I see Holly and the baby with Max Terry at their side. They all wave and I raise my hand, only to realize they're actually waving at Evan, who skates up beside me. I catch the rear view of a blonde and my hopes soar, but she turns and it's not Pam. I shove my mouth guard in and skate into position, allowing the frustration to fuel me.
We play well, holding off a flurry of shots on goal, but in the last few moments of the period, Viktor gets distracted and the puck slips by our goalie, allowing the red-and-white to score. The next shot they take is deflected by Tyler, who puts a little too much chine on it, resulting in an icing call. It's a stupid mistake, one that results in a faceoff and another score for the home team.
Evan gives us a "get your fuckin' heads in the game" speech during the break, and as we head out into the third period, I can tell our energy is just not in the right place. We fight and fight but they score once more. Despite Evan going full hockey-hulk mode we can only get one more in, and we end it in a loss.
We lose the fourth game as well, mainly because Tyler starts not one, not two, but three fights that put us on the losing end of a power play. Coming out tied in the series, Coach Brown threatens to bench him for the rest of the playoffs if he doesn't get his temper "under fucking control."
After the game, a few guys ask me to head out for drinks. I could use one, but I haven't had a single drink since the series started. I'm determined to never have to check myself into rehab like Ned, so that means self-regulation.
I go, but I get a club soda, and of course, the guys end up at a strip club. I pretend to be delighted by the attention of a very attractive dancer who makes it clear that she'd love to go into a private room with me.
"I'd take her up on whatever she's offering," Tyler says in my ear. "She's super hot."
"She is. I'm just hanging, though."
The fact is—she's not Pam. No one is Pam, and I want Pam. I get out my phone. I type, "I miss you" into a text and then delete it.
I end up going back to the hotel early, spending a restless night watching television.
At noon the next day, there's a knock on my door. When I open it, there's a scantily clad playboy bunny holding a basket. She's wearing the ears and silky butt-shorts and the little cotton tail. There's little left to the imagination, her long, toned, tan body on full display.
"Are you Georg Kolochev?" she asks in a high-pitched, girly voice.
"I am."
She holds out the basket. It's filled with bath items. "Some-bunny loves you," she says as I take the basket, a surprised look surely splattered across my face.
She walks off, leaving me holding this basket full of girly stuff like bubbles and body wash and loofahs. And she said "some-bunny" so, what the fuck does that even mean? Just a play on words because she's a Playboy Bunny? Or is it from a puck bunny?
Weird.
I toss the basket onto the counter and go turn on the shower. The team bus will be departing for game five in a couple hours. Here's hoping this weird start to the day doesn't stick with me as we move onto a pivotal game.
The whack-off session I intend to have in the shower will probably help some with the tension. But the only thing I can picture is Pam as I work my cock over in the palm of my hand beneath the spray of hot water and some soap… The two of us together at the ranch making love. Her first time having sex. How she looked as she came with me buried deep inside her. How generous she was with me. How trusting she was of me. I felt all those things. It was real.
Her name slips off my tongue as I come.
Twenty-Eight
Pam
GOD LOVE A FEMINIST
“You sent him what?" Holly asks over the phone.
"A basket full of all of the soaps and items we used at the B&B that night we said we were in love with each other," I answer.
"That's very—umm, will he even know that's what it is?"
"I don't know. It's meant to be mysterious. I had it delivered by a Playboy Bunny."
"He's not going to get that, Pammy. He's not that smart. Sorry, friend."
I burst out laughing. "Well, he's not dumb, and he put a lot of thought into that night, so I bet you he will get it. But I didn't send a card or anything, so we'll see. And there are other gifts, too, so he'll see the pieces come together, and he'll get it eventually."
"It's weird."
"Shut. Up. Evan planned a big ice-skating outing to get your attention. It's not that weird."
"Pam, he was trying to woo me. And get past the non-fraternization policy by pretending to teach me to skate."
"Well, I'm wooing Georg. So there."
"You're already in love with each other. Just go tell him you were stupid and you want to get back together."
"Nope. I want to do the grand gesture. I need him to know I'm willing to put myself on the line for him. And he needs to feel it coming from me one hundred percent."
"Okay, fair enough. Well, speaking of which, how did your meeting go with Bud?"
"It wasn't just Bud," I say. "I had Devon, Max Terry, and Patrick from HR in there. I explained that Georg and I met prior to my working for the Crush. I told him about the night of the fight with Viktor, and that we tried to ignore each other for the sake of the team's policy. I shared that we were in love, and that I knew I could manage my relationship with him in a more private manner, but I was willing to leave the Crush organization if they were inflexible."
"And what did they say?" I can hear little Dany cooing in the background, and it melts my heart a little at the sweetness.
"Devon said she felt that Georg's focus on career and personal health has been spurred on by his positive relationship with me. Max Terry said he wanted his players to be happy and healthy. He felt Georg was integral to the integrity of the team, so he wanted Georg to be happy off the ice as well."
"Well, it's all good, right?" Holly asks hopefully. "Max was our saving grace, too."
"Yeah, that was all good, but HR said the biggest problem is we had sexual relations on the property. Patrick felt that alone was a dismissible offense. And he's not wrong. But Devon pushed back and asked him if he would also fire Georg, or if it was a one-sided, sexist policy that would allow players to do whatever they wanted while staff took all the hit for it."
Holly snickers. "God love a feminist."
"Right? Anyway, they ended up agreeing that I was an asset to the therapy team, and made me promise that my relationship with Georg would in no way be played out at work. So I promised that, though I intend on it being very much a part of work if we make it to game seven."
"Oh boy," Holly says.
"I guess there's still time to get fired, then?"
"Most definitely." But I'm smiling to myself this time, because I now know what I really want.
Make that who I want.
We finish up our conversation so she can get some pre-game work done while the baby naps. Me? I'm planning my next delivery.
I've put a lot of thought into expressing how my feelings for Georg developed. It might seem quick. I mean, we've just been an on-and-off thing for a little less than a year. But each experience with Georg has chipped away at my heart, bit by bit. I've realized that while we've certainly had some seriously hot sexual moments together, our connection is so much deeper than that.
So, I put the finishing touches on my second gift. I've gathered a pack of playing cards, some Texas hold ’em chips, bar snacks, and other fun, Vegas Strip-related items in a basket. The main item, though, is two passes to ride the LINQ.
I wrap up the basket and tie it with a bow, then call to have it delivered to Georg as soon as he gets off the plane when the team returns from game five.
I get a text from Holly as all of the pre-game activity is happening, telling me Georg came on the ice and immediately scanned the crowd and the owner's box. I know he's looking for me, hoping I'll be there.
As it is, I haven't really watched many of our games from the stands. It makes me too nervous, so I prefer to watch from home still. Also, I yell a lot and it's less embarrassing to yell in my own home than in a stadium full of people.
The game is really exciting to watch, meaning I do a whole lot of the aforementioned yelling. Evan and Georg are a machine out there, working hard to keep the puck in range of our goal. But despite a flurry of shots on goal and a big power play early in the first period, we don't manage to score, so we sit at zero-zero heading into the second period.
The second period is fast and furious, too, with both teams playing dynamic offense. There's a short fight between Mikhail and an opposing defenseman after Mikhail gets checked while making a breakaway toward the goal. Both players get sent to the penalty box for the outburst as the DC fans scream for blood.
Two quick shots on goal after the melee result in one goal for our opponents, and we head into the second break with a deficit.
When the team comes out for the third period, I can see on their faces the resolve, the will to win. The camera focuses on Evan and Georg as Evan puts his gloved hands on the sides of Georg's helmet. Their foreheads press together as Evan says something to his friend, who nods sharply in response.
Suddenly I find myself in tears and shaking with anxiety. I pull out my phone.
Pam: I 'm such a jerk. I didn't even text him to tell him good luck in the series.
Holly: Yep, that's pretty jerky.
Pam: Not helping. You're supposed to be my friend.
Pam: I'm freaking out, here.
Holly: As your friend, I'm also here to tell you the truth.
Pam: He must hate me. I've really screwed this up.
Holly: You can text him now.
Pam: What good will that do?
Holly: He'll see it after the game. He'll know you've been thinking about him.
Pam: Ugh. I'm an idiot.
Holly: Hang in there. Stick to your plan. GTG
I pace the room, crying like a baby all through the third period. When the Crush lose, two to nothing, I fall into a heap on the floor. It's not about the loss, though that sucks. It's really this awful realization that a person who loves another person should have at least reached out with well wishes. I'm horrible for not even supporting him with a "good luck tonight" at the very least.
I don't recognize myself anymore and it makes me sad. Hurting Georg makes me sad.
I grab my phone, starting and stopping several texts. Coward much?
Finally, I shut the thing off, take two Melatonin, and force myself to get some sleep.
Holly’s right. I have my plan, and now I just need to see it through.
Twenty-Nine
Georg
MISS MARCH…SO HOT
The team is quiet, sullen, on the flight back to Vegas after our loss in game five. Now we're in a corner. We absolutely have to win game six or we've handed the series to Washington, DC. Evan's sitting at the back with the offensive coaching staff, talking about how to better capitalize on our shots on goal.
When we land, all I want to do is to crawl in a cab, go to my apartment, and sleep for the next fifteen hours. But as I walk down to get my bag, I'm greeted by yet another Playboy Bunny in a skimpy costume. She's holding a dry-erase board with the words: "Some-bunny really, really loves you, Georg Kolochev."
She hands me another basket, and I sigh as I take it. The other guys are looking at me like, "What the fuck?" but I just grab my bag and leave, not even bothering to look inside this new basket.
We have a full day off before game six, and I end up spending it with Dale in the gym. We work on stretching and strength training, and then I alternate from an ice bath to a hot tub. When I get home, there's another stupid basket sitting in front of my door. I bring it in and heft it onto the table, next to the one from the airport, realizing I never even looked inside.
When I dig into the second basket, it has a bunch of card games and snacks. There's a card and if I was hoping it would be signed, I'm disappointed. Inside, there are passes to ride the LINQ.
"Weird," I say out loud.
This third basket has some funny stuff in it:
A new men's dress shirt.
A sexy green dress that looks vaguely familiar.
Boxing gloves.
Mix tape with a random assortment of songs ranging from techno to country, including Night Fever by the Bee Gees.
And then it all makes sense. Holy shit. This woman…
The baskets are all from Pam. She's the 'bunny' that loves me.
These things represent different times we've hung out. Different moments we've had together.
The first basket was a nod to our time in the bathtub, the moments we spent together making love, expressing our love. The second basket, silly little reminders of the Strip and our fun night on the LINQ. The third basket, a story about clean shirts and dancing and the fight with Viktor. She hasn’t used words, but she’s shown me how much she loves me. God, I fucking love her. It’s been miserable without her, especially before our most recent game. But this? Her gifts intended to prove her love to me? Hell, yes, I’m smiling. Like an idiot. But who the fuck cares?
I pick up the phone to call her but my finger hovers over her name and I find myself unable to make the call. Maybe I should text her. I don't know. I mean, she hasn't reached out once since we broke up, or whatever that was when she broke my heart. Nothing. Not even a "good luck" as we headed into the series.
But the thoughtfulness of these baskets, the story they tell…it makes me want to go straight to her apartment, tell her I love and forgive her, and make love to her until my dick stops working. As much as I want that option, I know it's not what I should do. The way we left things was fucked up sure, but we both knew how we felt and what needed to happen in order to move forward. Pam needs to make these gestures for herself. She's the one who must take the first step back to us, and she knows where I am. And I don't mean that in a selfish way at all. Her past has left her with a lot of baggage to unpack and move on from. I get it. Only she can make that happen. This is her way of telling me she's working through it I suppose.
I need to keep my head in the game, though. We need to advance to a game seven, and I need to stay focused. So I don't call. I don't go see her. I don't text. But I do go to sleep with a smile on my face. I'm going to get my Pamela back, because she does love me after all.
I can wait for her as long as it takes.
The next night, we're suiting up and Tyler is babbling about some woman he took home the night before.
"I just need to bury my sorrows in pussy," he's saying. "She was okay in bed. Hot chick. Great body. Amazing tits. But, you know, kind of boring in the
sack. But whatever, I got off. That's what's important."
"Was I like this before I got married?" Evan asks, making a disgusted face.
"Maybe not quite so bad," I answer, side-eying Tyler, "but I probably was though, huh?"
"You were definitely like this," Evan agrees. "Pam got your whoring ass straightened out."
"Yes, and then smashed my fragile heart to pieces."
"I thought you said things were looking up with you two, G?"
"They are. Just trying to focus on the game. One thing at a time, you know? But I am hopeful."
Holly has set up a social media staging area in the previously mirrored tunnel. There are pre-recorded messages for all of us to watch on screens lining the walls, and cameras on each of us to capture our reactions for social media as we watch our personal messages.
I'm far back in the line, so it takes a few minutes. I bounce from skate to skate, trying to stretch out, limber up, preparing myself mentally for my job. Some of the guys have funny messages from fans, some have sweet messages from family.
When I finally get up to the screen, there are two messages with my name on them. I push the prompt for the first and am astounded when my father's face pops up. He's got hair like mine, but his is gray, thinning. His eyes still have the sharp look of a longtime coach.
"Privet, syn," he says before switching to broken English. "I—hearing good things of your recent…agreement…of the Crush team."
I let out a little laugh and mutter, "Contract. The word is contract."
"Las Vegas is very far from home, but we are to pay attention to your…work…there in the America. I am coach of past and proud of your playing. Also, I am your father and proud of my son."
I feel a little crunch in my chest, the want to cry, which I will absolutely, totally, never, ever do in front of my teammates. But this is really something. I call home sometimes, but my father has never told me he was proud of me.
Sin Shot: Vegas Crush #2 Page 19