Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story

by Miller, Raine

  "No, never," I answer, smiling back. "What can I help you with?"

  Boris sighs. "I just moved here from Austin, and—"

  "Hockey!" I exclaim. Boris tilts his head in question. "I’m sorry. I was trying to figure out why your name sounded familiar. You’re a hockey player. Right?"

  "Yes, I played for Austin and was traded to the Crush. I have an investment guy in Russia, but I am concerned my investments are not being well-managed. I have a larger contract here and I want to protect it, make sure it's working for me."

  "Do you have many expenses, Boris? Do you need a lot of it to be easily liquidated?"

  "No, not at all. I am living very simply at the moment. I just want to protect what I have. And also, for the longer term. We can never be certain how long a career in the NHL is going to last. It could be over tomorrow with a bad injury and I've been at this for a while now. I really hope to finish out my playing career with this team."

  "Okay, well, you’re in the right place." I smile at him encouragingly. "Do you have any of your current investment paperwork with you?"

  He shakes his head. "I wasn't sure what you would need and thought I'd just stop in to talk for a moment. Everything is at my apartment. Can I get my papers and take you to dinner to talk about it?"

  Not what I was expecting.

  A dinner invite from a potential client.

  A smoking hot potential client I might add.

  Shit.

  I can't accept his invitation. Can I?

  Did I mention he's fantastically beautiful and he needs my help?

  Five

  Boris

  Very Perky Indeed

  Shit. Talia’s mouth is hanging open in surprise. I wonder if she thinks I'm being inappropriate.

  "I hope I have not offended you," I say quickly, trying to smooth things over. "I don’t cook, and I just moved here. I thought maybe we could eat and talk because I skipped lunch today…and I don’t really know the city yet…I feel kind of dumb eating by myself."

  I must sound like such an idiot, babbling on like this to her. Govnyuk.

  Talia blinks and then says, "I’m not at all offended, Boris. I'm also new to Las Vegas. I haven’t figured out the single-appropriate restaurants yet, either."

  "Oh, yes. Good."

  She checks her watch and says, "I have a few calls to make but if you come back at seven, we can walk somewhere nearby. Bring your statements."

  I rise from the chair and hold out a hand, which she shakes before turning back to the computer, peering through her thick, dark frames, and picking up the phone. I guess that means this meeting is over for the moment, so I thank her and head for the door.

  * * *

  On my walk home, I think about this Talia Wentworth. First, Scott definitely wrote Nathaniel, right? Or did I read his text wrong and just assume it would be a man? Maybe it autocorrected to Nathaniel when he typed Natalia. It wouldn't be the first time that's happened. But she’s so young, just twenty-three. How can someone so young be representing the many millions of dollars that athletes make each year? She seems competent, though, and certainly seemed to know what she was talking about. Still, this is a big contract and I'm worried my personal investments are falling way behind where they should be. I really need someone who is a pro at this, so I call Scott back.

  "Hey man, I hate to bother you again, but you said Nathaniel Wentworth, right?"

  "No, sir. Natalia. She’s female," he answers.

  "Did you know she's only twenty-three?"

  "I know she’s young, Boris, but I promise she’s a top dog. Harold swears by her, calls her a genius. She comes highly recommended. Don’t sweat it."

  "Okay, then. She seems smart—"

  "She is. Just give her a shot."

  I thank him and hang up, then decide a shower is probably in order. I change into a green Polo dress shirt, rolling the sleeves up to my forearms, dark jeans, and a pair of soft leather loafers. I don’t pay ton of attention to fashion, but I think I look presentable. I gather my financial papers and shove them in a folder, and then head back out to walk the few blocks to her office again.

  She’s on a call when I get there; talking a mile a minute about how the market is very volatile right now. "I don’t know of any sure bets in the stock market right now, sir, but I agree this one seems solid for the long term," she’s saying. She looks up and holds up a finger to let me know she’ll be a minute. I wander to the window and look out at the setting sun to the west. Right at my feet are open file boxes. I see names of several pro athletes. Like, names you’d see in the news all the time. Very famous current athletes and ex-athletes. Scott wasn’t kidding; if this young woman is working with these clients, then she really must be a financial whiz.

  She finishes her call and I turn around, just in time to see her stand and knock a cup of coffee all over her white blouse.

  "Shit!" She grabs a wadded-up napkin and tries to dab at it, to no use. "Well, at least it wasn’t hot," she says annoyed.

  "Do you have another shirt?" I ask.

  "Do I have another shirt," she repeats, more to herself than to me. Then she smiles brightly and says, "Why yes, I do," as she comes out from behind the desk to root around in the box by my feet.

  It’s such a tiny office. Just barely room for her desk and chairs and a filing cabinet. Adding several unpacked boxes just makes it feel even smaller. And now she tells me to turn around so she can change her shirt. She’s not a foot away from me and she’s pulling off her white blouse right behind me. I don’t know what to think. She’s clearly oblivious to the danger this could pose to her if she were ever alone with the wrong person. I look out the window, but I can still see her reflection in it, now in nothing but a white, lace bra…

  And surprise, surprise. I'm not dropping my eyes. I'm going to have a good look at what she's showing because, well…guy here. Like I told Georg the other day, I'm not a monk.

  Her breasts are on the small side but what they lack in size is made up for in perkiness. Her long legs are topped by a tiny waist that I could probably span with my hands. I thought she was just a numbers nerd with her big glasses and quick mind, but Talia is a lovely package. She's pretty and smart. Also really fucking sexy with those perky tits that have grabbed my attention and won't let go. I don't know why I didn't notice how attractive she was when I met her earlier.

  Hold up just a minute.

  I should not be thinking about her this way if she is to be my financial advisor. This is a professional relationship.

  "There," she says. That must be my cue to turn around. When I do, she asks, "Better?"

  She has changed into a white T-shirt. It’s got a V-neck and slim line that tucks nicely into her black skirt. It’s barely different from what she had on before, just slightly more casual. I feel my face settle into a slight grin. Suddenly, all I can think about are those perky tits of hers and what they would look like without the damn shirt. I mentally kick myself back to a more appropriate line of thinking. She could be the answer to why I’ve felt something isn’t adding up with my savings and investments. Perhaps literally. I can’t come off as some horny weirdo.

  "What kind of food are you in the mood for, Talia?"

  Hopefully, it's not shrimp.

  Six

  Talia

  Life and Stuff

  I only come up to Boris’s shoulder. He’s truly massive, with wide shoulders and huge biceps. In profile, his straight-line nose and sensuous lips are really attractive so it’s hard not to stare. Physically, he’s masculinity personified, but I'm getting the impression his character is quieter, more reserved than I first thought. He's an interesting dichotomy.

  "You know that I just moved here for a trade to the Crush." His hands are in his pockets, his shoulders just slightly stooped as his eyes flit toward me shyly. "What has brought you to Las Vegas, Talia?"

  "My boss, Harold Shaw, asked me to come here and build his entertainment and athletic business. Vegas is a great market and
we already had a handful of high-profile clients here. If I'm successful, we can grow our company."

  "So just like that you picked up your life and moved?"

  "I could ask you the same," I say.

  "A trade is a trade. There is no choice in it."

  "Well, I suppose not, unless you decide to go free agent."

  "My contract was not yet eligible, but I am okay with it. I got a nice package to come here—better than Austin. Which is why I need someone to assist with my portfolio."

  "I gotcha."

  "But you did not answer my question, Talia."

  Man, I love the way my name sounds coming out of his mouth. "Which one?"

  "Your boss said go so you went? So easily? Didn't you have to leave friends or family behind?"

  "Oh, that. Well, my family is in LA. And I was going through, um…some personal stuff back in San Francisco, so a move was actually welcome. Fresh starts and all, you know? Plus it gives me a chance to show Harold I can build new business for the firm. It’s a win-win for me."

  "Twenty-three seems like very young for needing a new start," Boris observes. Why is he so persistent? Is it because he’s testing me?

  "Ah…well, you know. Life and stuff."

  I literally cringe at how dumb that just sounded.

  I’m nervous talking about this. I feel awkward and I keep running my hands over the front of my skirt as we walk. It’s weird and I know it, but my hands are sweaty and gross. I mean, I can’t just come out and tell this cute, new potential client (for whom I've already indulged in inappropriate and objectifying thoughts) that I moved here because I’m a homewrecker. No, that would not be a good way to start things out even if it's true.

  Why does he have to be so pretty?

  I remind myself to think of this dinner with Boris as if it's an interview. Is there any good way to spin the fact I left my last job because I slept with a client?

  Negative. It will probably never matter that I didn’t know the truth…

  Ugh. I feel like I might throw up right about now. And why won’t my hands stop sweating?

  "So…you’re from…Russia?" My voice is oddly squeaky, but the need to steer him away from asking about why I left San Francisco is imperative.

  He shakes his head. "I was born in Romania. My mother is Russian and my father is Romanian. My parents split shortly after I was born, we moved to Prague, in the Czech Republic. My mother and I moved again when I was twelve to return back home to her native Russia. I have lived in many places."

  Of course he has. In comparison, I lived at home until I was sixteen, then the dorms for all four years because I was too young for an apartment, and now I’m here. In a word, I feel underwhelming. But he is fascinating.

  “How did you start playing hockey?”

  "I always got in a lot of fights in school." He gives a somewhat apologetic shrug. It’s kind of endearing, as if he’s embarrassed about it. "My teachers suggested hockey to help manage my aggression. I did not do well academically, and it was frustrating, so I was always bad. Acting out in school helped to draw the attention away from my poor marks. At hockey I excelled though, and by the time I was a teenager I just wanted to quit school altogether. Thankfully, I was sent to an Olympic training facility shortly after. So really, hockey is what saved me."

  "Wow," I say, not bothering to hide my utter fascination. "I can't even imagine how anyone would ever decide to willingly quit school. I loved school. Every minute of it. I’d like to go back for a master's degree at some point."

  We stop at the entrance to a restaurant. It’s got an Irish vibe, though Boris only looks at the menu posted at the entrance for a split second before looking off into the distance. I assume he doesn’t like Irish food, so we keep walking, stopping at three more restaurants before I realize there is a pattern emerging. At this rate, I'll starve to death before any food appears on a plate in front of me.

  "You want me to decide, Boris?"

  He shrugs and gives me a sheepish grin. "I'll eat any kind of food. I don't need anything fancy, in fact, I'd be happy with a hamburger."

  "Well, lucky for you, so would I."

  I try to ignore the flip-flop happening low in my belly when his handsome face lights up with a warm smile and he nails me with his gorgeous brown eyes.

  I do try.

  Even if it's impossible.

  Seven

  Boris

  Terrifying and Sexy

  I try my best to concentrate on the menu, but soon realize it's unnecessary when Talia begins to read aloud from hers.

  "The garbage burger," she says excitedly. "Yummy. Avocado, tomatoes, mayonnaise, mustard, ketchup, onions, mushrooms. Sounds like heaven."

  "Sounds maybe like a belly ache."

  "Okay, how about the taco burger? Salsa, sour cream, taco chips, olives, onions."

  "Onions again? Before our very first conversation about my finances? I don't think so, Talia." Teasing comes easily with her for some reason. And that is strange for me. Georg would be the first to tell people that I am serious and the most loyal person he knows…after I’ve eventually accepted someone into my world.

  "Fine, killjoy. How about a classic cheeseburger with lettuce and tomato?"

  The waitress comes with our drinks, a beer for Talia and an iced tea for me. She makes a face at my boring beverage choice and then rattles off her order, choosing the garbage burger without onions. However, she does order onion rings on the side, with a wink.

  I shake my head and order the classic cheeseburger and French fries. When I look from the waitress back to Talia, she’s got her head tilted, her eyes narrowed, and her lips set in a line.

  "What?" I ask after the waitress has gone.

  "Are you illiterate, Boris?"

  My cheeks heat instantly. How perceptive this young woman is. And there is no judgment in her voice, only curiosity. She genuinely wants to know about me. I am beyond embarrassed. My first attempts to answer her come out in a lot of grunts and a shitload of ahs and ums. I bite my lip. My heart feels like it might pound out of my chest and start flopping around on the floor any second. Fuck me.

  And then she puts an end to the torturous loop of my stuttering by speaking again. Thank sweet Christ.

  "I’m just asking." Her voice is soft and kind as she looks intently up at me with her eyes, the color of the stormy sea. "I need to know so I can be assured that you have full understanding of everything we look at together. If something takes more explaining, that’s fine, but I don’t want you in the dark if we’re going to work together."

  "I’m not," I say quietly.

  "Not what?"

  "Illiterate." I hate that word even though I know she doesn't mean it in a derogatory way. "I can read, although not very well in English, as it is not my native language. My mother spoke in Russian to me from birth, so I learned that as well as being taught in Czech and English at school. It was never the speaking that was the problem for me anyway. It was the reading and the writing of the different languages that gave me so much trouble. But numbers? Forget it."

  "Dyslexia?"

  "Yes. Small print makes it worse. Numbers might as well be an alien language. They float and move, and I just can’t get a handle on them. It's always been this way. Also, the reason I struggled in school so much, but I'm not dumb."

  "I didn’t think you were dumb. Not for a minute. But do you read your contracts before you sign them?"

  "Usually no," I admit. "I'll set up a call and ask for an overview. I pretend I am busy and don’t have time for a full review."

  "So, you have advisors you trust, then? To ensure you don’t get hosed?"

  "Some," I say, though I’m certain I just winced a little and gave myself away.

  Talia levels me, her blue eyes bright and insightful behind her thick eyeglasses. My heart continues its crazy pounding beat behind my rib cage. I feel like I'm on trial.

  "So…your contract with the Crush?"

  "Didn’t read it," I say, taking a
sip of my tea. "Got the highlights from my agent, Scott Rose."

  "And your current investment strategist is in Russia?"

  "Yes, in Moscow."

  "Do you have a current contract with this guy?"

  "No paper. It is a gentlemen’s contract."

  Talia sits back and huffs, rolling her eyes. "That is nuts, Boris. Seriously. Very risky. How much are they taking in commission and fees? What are they investing in? Are you at least looking at the numbers to see if the amounts go up or down each quarter? Are you making them review your portfolio with you periodically?"

  I’m overwhelmed by all her questions. They are rapid-fire and her posture is just as aggressive as she sits forward, elbows on the table as she catches my gaze and refuses to let go.

  Honestly, it's terrifying. But it's something else too—intensely sexy.

  "I know the numbers are not where they should be, but they always tell me it’s the markets and everything will rebound. I have worked with them a long time."

  "Well, they’ve probably been ripping you off for a long time, then," she says sharply. Talia pushes up her glasses and then holds out a hand. "Here. Gimme. Let me see those reports."

  I hand over the folder, and she proceeds to scrutinize each page, even pulling a pen out of her purse and making marks and circles. Her expression is intense at first, then changes. To something like shock or panic. Oh shit. She looks up and stabs me with dark eyes.

  "Tell me."

  "Boris, does your ass hurt? Because these guys are totally screwing you."

  Eight

  Talia

  BITCOIN AND BLOCKCHAIN?

  Holy shit! This poor guy is getting screwed.

  The more I look through these investment reports, the more I realize what a joke his financial "management" has been. Here’s a professional athlete at the top of his career with his biggest contract to date in motion, and these shysters a continent away are nickel and diming him for every fee possible, making up reasons to syphon money from his accounts, and investing in the riskiest of risky bets. There is no friggin’ way he could ever make his money grow over time in this situation. And if I had to guess, there’s a river of green flowing right out of his accounts and into theirs. Because they think he’s too stupid to catch any of it.