I nod as Scarlett tells her boss that I’m the strong, silent type, which makes them both giggle, and makes me feel uncomfortable. I can feel my cheeks heating, so I thank them both and leave as quickly as possible.
The team is mostly dressed already when I enter the locker room, so I hurry to pull off my street clothes and shove myself into my practice uniform pants. I’m only a minute behind them as I take the ice, apologizing to Coach and letting him know I was stuck with the PR team. He pairs me with Viktor so I can practice shots on goal while Viktor practices defending the goal. What I don’t understand is why he’s brutally checking me hard as if I’m an enemy and not a comrade. What the fuck is wrong with him?
"I met your Scarlett today," I say as I lob a shot that strikes the goal’s corner post. Viktor skates to it, passes it back to me, and gets back into position. "She’s quite vibrant. Glowing with your child. You are a lucky man."
I move with the puck, ready to make the shot when Viktor barrels at me. He checks me again, but this time, he pulls off his gloves and helmet and gets in my face, my practice jersey balled in his fists as he growls at me.
"What’s your problem?” I ask, shoving him off me. "This is practice. I’m your teammate."
"Stay the fuck away from Scarlett," he hisses at me, teeth bared like an animal. "Do not look at her. Ever."
"Peace, brother," I say as he slams me into the glass.
Evan and Georg pull him away, Georg swearing a blue streak in Russian as Evan orders Viktor to the bench to cool off. Coach calls the whole lot of us over to the benches as Viktor skates to grab his gloves and helmet.
"You okay?" Evan asks me.
"Yes, I’m fine, it’s okay." And it is. Viktor Demoskev didn’t get his reputation for being a hothead from nowhere. And his fiancée is pregnant. He probably feels a lot of things, including protectiveness. And hockey players fight a lot. It’s no big deal.
As we near the benches, though, Demoskev, still practically breathing fire, glares at me.
"Hey Viktor, I meant no disrespect. Only making conversation."
"I can’t believe you are among lead scorers," he bites back. "Hard to believe such a pussy would be successful in hockey."
Georg is up in Demoskev’s face immediately. "What the hell is wrong with you? Get your head out of your ass. He’s being nice, you fucking moron."
"Third best scorer in the league. Fifty-two goals in his rookie season. Olympic prospect at fourteen," says Mikhail, the winger who pairs so well with our team captain, Evan. "What are your stats, Demoskev? Leader of the dirtiest checks in hockey history? How many hours you spend in the box each season? Back the fuck off the new guy."
Viktor’s partner on defense, Tyler, chimes in next, "No one needed this asshole here anyway. Everything was good but ownership got greedy, and now we’ve got this hand job out here upsetting everybody.”
Shouting breaks out between several of the players as I watch in disbelief. It’s only when our coach whistles that things go silent. We all turn to face him for the ass chewing that’s coming because he does not look pleased. "Grow the fuck up, you bunch of teenagers. What the hell do you think this is? A playground? No, it’s a fucking professional hockey team. You all get paid a shit ton of money to do a goddamn job, not to fight like fucking bullies in the school yard."
A round of "sorry, Coach" ripples through the group.
"Yeah, well you’re gonna be real sorry, now," he barks. "You ass-clowns get to do extra training hours until you can get along and play like a unit. I’m not having this level of bullshit out on the ice when we’re in season, so get it out of your systems, or suffer the consequences. We’re not missing out on the Cup this year. It’d be sheer stupidity if we did, what with a lineup like this. If we fire on all pistons, there’s no reason we can’t get there, so get your shit together and act like fucking grownups."
We’re all quiet for a moment as coach explains what he intends for us to do. Our punishment begins with some real remedial drills. The guys groan and most of them blame Viktor, who scowls the whole way through. When we have finished up and are in the locker room, the last thing I see of Viktor is his naked ass as he heads into the showers. His friend Tyler, however, holds two fingers up to his eyes, then points those fingers at me. He mouths, "I’m watching you," flips me off, and disappears into the showers, as well.
The fuck?
"Welcome to the Crush," Georg says, patting me on the back. "We’re really glad you’re here."
"Right. I'm feeling the love for sure.”
Twelve
Talia
WHAT HOT LIBRARIAN?
I finish a morning conference call with the San Francisco office and stand to stretch. I should take a walk or something. I swear it feels like I hardly get out of my chair some days.
There’s a sticky note on my computer monitor that just says "Boris" with a question mark. It’s my reminder that Boris was supposed to pop in to talk about next steps with his portfolio. It’s been more than a week since I called him, and he still hasn’t come by. I’ve tried calling but he doesn’t answer, and his phone doesn’t have voice mail set up. It annoys the OCD person in me, so I may have to set it up for him the next time we talk. Mind you, I’m barely hanging on by a thread with the lack of follow-up from Vlad.
You know, I’m not that far from the practice arena and I need to walk and find some lunch anyway… Maybe I’ll just wander over that way and see if I can catch him at practice or something.
It’s hot as hades when I step out into the high-noon sun. I’m thankful I’m just in a sleeveless dress and peep-toe shoes because otherwise, I might combust. There are tourists milling about, looking at lunch menus as I step by them. When the arena comes into view, I grab three hot dogs from a street cart and shove one into my face as quickly as I can right there and then, asking the vendor to put the other two in a bag for me. He comments on my intestinal fortitude and I thank him because my iron stomach is one of my finest virtues, in my humble opinion.
At the arena, I find the visitor’s entrance. A security guard asks for credentials, which I don’t have, and I manage to sweet talk him by telling him I’m Boris’s girlfriend and that I’ve brought him lunch. Holding up the bag and giving him what I hope is a cute smile, he rolls his eyes and waves me through, telling me, "Next time, one of those better be for me." Men. Food and sex. It’s always one or the other that makes them easy to persuade.
I grab a seat as part of the team heads off the ice. I see Boris out there with a smaller group of players. One of the coaching staff has them get into a circle and they start what looks like a pretty rudimentary exercise. Each one passes the puck to another in the circle, shouting out a name. It’s very strange to watch and not at all what I’d expect from a pro-practice session.
The head coach stands on the outside of the ice, several rows in front of me, arms crossed over his chest. He’s watching them intensely.
A blonde guy smacks his stick on the ice and yells, "This is for babies!"
"Because you idiots all acted like babies," the coach yells back. "Add in a stat you know about the person you pass to."
I chuckle, pulling my second hot dog out to eat while they finish up, realizing I was right. This is rudimentary. But also, it seems, on purpose. The coach is making them do this for some reason and I, for one, am quite intrigued about what they did to earn such a belittling punishment.
Practice ends maybe twenty minutes later, and as the guys head out and down the tunnel, I rush through the labyrinth of entrances and exits, trying to find the elevator that will take me to the locker room level. When I find it, a couple of guys are exiting, so I worry maybe I’ve already missed Boris.
The blond guy who yelled about the drill being for "babies" comes out as I reach the locker room doors. He looks me up and down and says, "You need some help? Lost?"
"I am looking for a player?"
"I’m a player." He grins, waggling his eyebrows at me.
"What I shou
ld have said is I’m looking for Boris Drăghici. I’m his financial advisor. Is he still in there?"
"Figures," he says, shaking his head. He opens the door, rolls his eyes and yells, "Hey, Ice Dragon, some hot librarian is out here waiting for you to wet her whistle."
Letting the door shut once more, the guy says, "I’m Tyler. Starting defense, just so you know."
"That’s great?" I answer because I’m not sure why he’s telling me this. "Do you need an investment manager?"
He leans against the wall, all tall and broad-shouldered, grinning at me. "I mean, we could roll around in money if that’s what you’re into."
"I, uh…" I make a face because this is just weird. "I think I’m good. But thanks."
He straightens and brushes past me with a shrug. "Just because he can score on the ice doesn’t mean he can score in the bedroom."
All I can come up with is a lame, "Whatever."
A few minutes later, I’m still racking my brain, trying to think of something better than "whatever," when Boris steps out. He sees me and his eyes go wide.
"Hey there, champ," I say, probably too brightly. I feel weird and awkward. Which is nothing new, because I feel weird and awkward most of the time when I'm around people I don't know very well.
"When Tyler said a hot librarian was waiting for me, I wasn’t sure what he meant."
"I, uh, well…" I stammer, trying to find any words as a possible response to his comment. "I’m, ummm, neither hot nor a librarian, so I’m not sure either. I told him I was an investment manager and he said something about, uh, rolling around in money. I mean, there was a time once that I thought I might like to be a librarian because I like to read a lot but once I learned about depreciating assets, I thought maybe libraries in their traditional sense might actually fall into that category. I mean, I love real books, don’t get me wrong. I like the weight and the feel of turning a page. Oh, and the smell. Nothing like it. But really, e-books have effectively taken away the need for librarians in the traditional sense. As a financial analyst, I’d never allow a client to invest in traditional publishing, for example. I feel like librarians are a dying breed."
As I wind down, I realize poor Boris’s eyes might look a little glazed over.
"Oh, God. I do this sometimes. Holy crap, did my senseless rambling make you malfunction? Sorry."
He blinks and gives me a glowing smile. "No, I found it fascinating."
"Really?"
"Yes, I mean, I don’t read, as you know, so I never think about things such as libraries. You have. It’s interesting to me."
I feel my lips pull into something like a wince or a cringe, because I’m sure he’s just placating me. Most people let me babble and couldn't care less what my random brain is analyzing, unless it’s something that can make them money.
"But you've probably figured out by now that I didn’t come here to talk to you about libraries, Boris."
"Yeah, I know." He looks down at the floor before lifting his eyes back up to meet mine, with maybe the hint of a blush to his cheeks. Oh Jesus, send help. Blushes from this guy might just kill me dead if I don't exert some self-control over myself—stat.
"Do you want to take a walk?" I suggest.
"I’m headed toward home on foot, so sure."
We make our way out to street level and Boris pulls on a pair of sunglasses that raise his hot quotient by a billion. Gawd. I mentally give myself a head slap to remove all sexy thoughts from my brain so I can have a serious business conversation with him.
"You were supposed to come see me last week." I figure a gentle scolding is in order since he did miss an appointment.
He bites on his upper lip and gives a nod. "Sorry, yes. The team was not…ah—not working smoothly together as a unit. We are arguing a lot, so Coach Brown makes us have extra practice each day now to work on team cohesion."
A tiny laugh escapes my throat and when Boris looks at me questioningly, I say, "No wonder. I saw those junior league drills going on and wondered."
Boris just shrugs. "I don't mind though because I want to perform well for my new team. I’ll do whatever is necessary to help us all work better on the ice together. This coach knows what he’s doing. I have faith these drills will help."
We continue walking as I find myself thinking about how trusting Boris seems. How easygoing he appears. He's not the typical professional athlete, at least not among the hard-partying Crush players. I've seen the stories on PlayersBeingBad.com that detail the parties, the fights, and the general craziness that goes down behind the scenes of a pro sports team. Some of them have settled down, sure, but there are still plenty more who live up to Sin City’s reputation to the fullest. The flirty defenseman Tyler who called me the "hot librarian" (thank you very much) comes to mind. But Boris doesn't fit that mold—not even a little. I continue to be astonished by how simply he seems to live his life, how easily he lets conflict just roll off his back. He must have some vices, right? A boy scout on the outside and a filthy animal between the sheets, maybe?
Of course, I could name myself as being that way (kind of)…before I got burned.
Not that my drama has anything to do with Boris.
Nope, I’m not bitter at all. And I’m definitely not projecting my own issues onto this super nice gentleman, pro-hockey hunk of a man.
Who is my very professional client, and not a sex object, Talia.
Oh geesh.
"So Boris, I’ve been thinking…" I give myself a mental slap to get my thoughts back in line.
"About?"
"Well, I think maybe your investment folks in Russia might be taking advantage of you. I’m not sure yet to what degree, but I’ve reviewed your investments six ways to Sunday and there's some really weird shit going on there."
Boris stops walking and looks at me, his mouth set in a frown. I can’t see his eyes, so I’m not sure if this is a look of concern or anger, or where that anger would be directed.
"Are you suggesting my financial agents mismanaged my investments, or that they have stolen from me?"
"I’m, uh, not totally sure…"
"I think you are. Talia, I do not know you well, but I do know you are intelligent and perceptive. I have no doubt you have a very good idea of what has happened to my investments."
My mouth opens in surprise. I shut it and we start walking again. "I’m seeing some evidence of money being withdrawn from your portfolio and not reinvested. I see high-risk ventures which seem to be specifically chosen to explain away large drops in value. There seems to be double-dipping on fees. And the fact they don’t let you call them whenever you need to, make you go through a middle-man like Vlad…it’s just shady. They know you don’t read contracts and you don’t analyze the investment materials line-by-line. They expect you will simply trust them, and I think you’re getting ripped off." He takes a few deep breaths and looks to the concrete, but I didn’t miss the anger beneath the surface.
"Would you like to get coffee?" he asks, gesturing to a coffee shop. I realize we’re now only doors from my office, and we could just go there, but I do love coffee, so I nod and we head inside.
After I order a double-shot latte and Boris orders his iced tea, we take a seat along a row of windows, Boris in his athletic shorts and T-shirt, looking very fit and his usual effortlessly sexy human. And me…the non-sexy librarian with, yet again I realize, hot dog mustard on the front of my pale blue dress.
I rub my forehead with my hand, trying to stop the headache that’s suddenly blooming there.
"Are you okay?" Boris asks.
"Nothing a giant cup of caffeinated amazingness won’t help." I salute him with my coffee cup.
"Okay, so I am sorry I did not come to visit you," he apologizes again. "It sounds as if you had plenty to share with me. It’s just I spend a lot of time at the arena with physical therapy and practice sessions."
"It’s okay, Boris, I totally get it. I’m probably very low on your priority list as you’re settling in."
>
"No, not true. My financial situation is quite important to me, as my new contract is in play and I don’t want to lose more than I already have. I came to you for help, Talia, and I'm just sorry I haven't been able to get back to you sooner."
I consider him for a second. "So, I had a crazy idea."
"Which was?"
"Maybe we can hire you a part-time assistant? Like, someone to manage your calendar, organize your bills, prioritize things for you? Just, maybe, ten hours a week. The person can take calls for you, set appointments…you know…help keep you organized?"
"I don’t think that’s necessary."
I fold my arms over my chest and stare him down. He takes a drink of his tea and looks out the window.
"Look, Boris, people are taking advantage of you. It’s important we have someone looking at all angles of your life to make sure it doesn’t continue to happen. Getting you help you need is a first start. I can help you find the right person, someone you can trust."
"I trust you," he says quietly, still looking out at the sidewalk traffic going about their Las Vegas business as usual.
This warms my heart, but it’s not enough. "That’s awesome, so trust me now when I’m saying that I think this is a good first step in getting your finances on track."
One corner of his mouth puckers, a sign he’s considering my idea. Finally he sighs, and focuses back on me, a half smile on his handsome face. "Okay, Talia. If you think it will help, I will give it a try."
"Great. I’ll do a little digging and find some folks for us to interview together. I promise this will be really good. And it will make me feel better to know someone is looking out for you."
Boris nails me with his chocolaty eyes and asks, "But who looks out for you, Talia?"
My breath catches in my throat, and it takes me a second to bring my shorted-out brain waves back online.
I manage to steel myself enough to say, "I do."
Even though I know it’s a lie.
Thirteen
Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story Page 6