Crushed

by Brit DeMille

  “Well now,” Georg eggs me on, “about time you get into the show a little.”

  “I appreciate her artistry,” I say, grinning.

  “I appreciate her tits,” Georg says. “but I would more appreciate her twat in my face.”

  “I don’t think this is that kind of place,” I say.

  “We’ll put our twats in your face,” a girlish voice says.

  We turn and find three women behind us. They’re young-ish, early twenties, and all dressed scantily with cleavage bared. Georg grins like a wolf when one says, “Don’t you all play for the Crush?”

  “Are you hockey fans?” one of the guys asks.

  “We are!” the tiny one with short dark hair says as she jumps up and down.

  Great, puck bunnies. How the hell did they find us in a strip club in Manhattan?

  Georg pulls her onto his lap and she giggles, pulling out her phone so they can take pictures together. She pulls out a Sharpie and has him and the other guys all sign her breast with it. I shake my head when she tries to hand me the pen. She makes a pouty face that turns back into a smile when Georg whispers something in her ear. Likely, it’s something derogatory about me, but I don’t care.

  Another of the girls goes to hang with the other guys, but the third, a dark-haired girl with a tiny waist, sits on my lap.

  “I’m not really into this,” I say. “I’m sorry. Nothing personal.”

  “Gay?” she asks with a giggle.

  “No, definitely not.”

  “Taken?”

  “Nope,” I say, taking a swig of my beer.

  “Well, then, why not take what’s being offered?” she asks.

  “I’ve got a game tomorrow. Superstitious,” I lie.

  “Okay, well, at least take a selfie with me?”

  “I guess I can do that.” I cave to her request, determined to blow this shit show the minute she’s off my lap.

  She holds her phone out to take the picture but right before she captures the image of us, she grabs my hand and slaps it onto her boob. She snaps the picture before I can even pull my hand away.

  “Come on,” I say. “Delete that.”

  She giggles and hops up, running over to my teammates. All of the girls take pictures before they finally take off, saying they’ll be at the game tomorrow.

  I shake my head, knowing those pictures will be all over social media by night’s end. I kind of want to call Holly just to tell her it was a non-sanctioned boob grab, but I stop myself. My annoyance must be all over my face, though, because a wandering stripper comes over and asks if I need a “pick-me-up.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Dealer’s choice,” she says. “Lap dance out here for twenty. Private dance for fifty. You can touch for a hundred.”

  “I’m good,” I tell her, “but thanks.”

  She shimmies all around me. “I’d let you touch for free, big guy.”

  “No thank you. Go see my friend over there, the guy with the long hair.”

  “Suit yourself,” she says, heading over to Georg, who is glad to slip a twenty in the waistband of her tiny thong knickers.

  I stand up and lean over their little lap-dance situation. “I’m heading back to the hotel, calling it a night.”

  “Ti durak,” he says cheerfully.

  “Yes, I’m a moron,” I say. “As always, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And don’t end up in the hospital. I need you on the ice tomorrow, fuckwad.”

  He waves me off and I shove my hands in my pockets as I make my way for the door, calling for a car service to come get me and take me back across the bridge. Holly came on this trip. Maybe I should see what she’s up to. Maybe warn her about the titty-grab picture. She’d probably want a heads up, right? That there’s likely something potentially negative coming on social media?

  I decide to text her as I sit in the back of the car.

  Evan: Fair warning. I was accosted by a fan and she made me touch her boob. It’ll probably be on social media soon.

  Holly: Hello to you, too.

  Evan: Sorry. Hello. And sorry in advance. I did not initiate the boob-grab. I was assaulted.

  Holly: You are a grown man. You may grab a boob if you wish, as long as it was desired and consensual.

  Evan: Why are you always so cool and practical?

  Holly: Why are you telling me about a boob-grab picture?

  Evan: Thought it might affect your social media work.

  Holly: Where is the eye-roll emoji?

  Evan: Okay. Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  Holly: I will shield my innocent eyes from such images of debauchery. Where did said boob-grab photo occur, may I ask?

  Evan: Err…

  Holly: House of sin?

  Evan: Pretty much. Strip club in the city. Not my idea.

  Holly: Let me guess, you were accosted and forced to drive into the city to look at half-naked women against your will?

  Evan: Yes, that.

  Holly: Well, at least your story is consistent.

  Evan: What are you doing right now?

  Holly: Texting you. Watching Chopped.

  Evan: Want to skinny-dip in the hotel pool when I get back?

  Holly: Pass.

  Evan: Want to meet me at Rockefeller Center for ice skating?

  Holly: Tempting but no.

  Evan: Where is the crying emoji?

  Holly: You’re not crying. You’re too busy looking at naked women.

  Evan: I am in a vehicle, alone, on my way back to the hotel. Honest engine.

  Holly: Who says honest engine?

  Evan: Scout’s honor?

  Holly: LOL. You’re no boy scout. Goodnight, Evan.

  Evan: Goodnight, Holly.

  Damn. Thwarted again. That woman has self-control like no one I have ever met before.

  I’m going to have to up my game with her.

  Eleven

  Holly

  So, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I immediately open up social media. And, yep, there’s the aforementioned boob-grab picture, complete with tags to the team. Thankfully, I’ve set it up so I can un-tag photos which are deemed inappropriate. I do just that, though I can’t do anything about the hashtags that put the photo into the mix of photos I have previously approved and placed on purpose.

  I scan the picture. I can see Georg’s hair just off to the side, but the focus is definitely on Evan and this fangirl, her long hair silky around her shoulders, his hand copping a feel of her ample breast. He’s smiling, and it doesn’t look forced.

  See? This is why I can’t give in to this guy. He was out at a strip club, paying women to dance naked for him. He willingly put his hand on another woman’s breast for a photo-op. It just doesn’t sit well with me. And he just casually mentioned it in a text, acting like it was totally on the woman, like he had nothing to do with it.

  But here’s the rub: I can Google him and find countless other like-type photos. Evan likes the attention, has since well before he ever joined the Crush. This is just who he is–-a slobbering, boob-grabbing pig who likes to have his way with women and then jettison them off into nowhere, as if they never existed. There’s even a blog online where women talk about sex with hockey players. Evan is mentioned more than once, and always as a player. I need none of that in my life right now. I think I will stick to dream-Evan, and the untold pleasures of my massaging shower-head.

  I must keep my work life separate from my personal life. I mean, not that I have much of a personal life to speak of. It’s been really hard to meet people in Las Vegas. My coworkers are nice, but they don’t really socialize much, maybe because of the weird fraternization policy, and while I’ve met a few of my neighbors, no one has struck me as friend material yet. And forget meeting men. Not that I want to. Not really.

  On the plane out to New Jersey, the whole team, the coaching and training staff, and the media team were all on board. It was fun. I enjoyed the camaraderie of having a work team, and the excit
ement of heading out on our first away-stretch was really special. I do love my job.

  I’m not angry with Evan. I mean, he is who he is, and he was that person long before he took an interest in me. But I won’t let myself believe his interest is in anything other than a quick interlude, sex without strings. And I’m just not that girl.

  I type one line of text to him before turning off the light and trying to sleep: I’m not the girl for you.

  We’re doing three away games in a row, starting in New Jersey, then to New York, and finally Philadelphia. During the New Jersey game, I’m on my phone and laptop simultaneously, live-tweeting the game and running promos on the other channels throughout the whole thing. We’re getting a lot of engagement, which is awesome, and whenever we score people become all riled up online. The game is also really exciting. I don’t know why I didn’t realize how exciting hockey can be. Hockey moves very fast, and I’m finally starting to understand the basic rules. Evan and Georg both get sent to the penalty box at the same time so watching the team rally while New Jersey is on a power play becomes a nail-biting scenario.

  There’s a big fight at the end of the second period, where one of the New Jersey players takes a swing at one of our rookie players. The kid’s tooth flies out of his mouth, a moment that gets replayed on the JumboTron about fourteen times. The crowd loves it and the kid seems none the worse for the wear, so I shoot out a few short videos of the incident, getting almost instant feedback from our fans. They are somewhat bloodthirsty, but I guess many hockey fans are.

  Fiona has a press conference set up after the game and, of course, Evan is at the center of it, along with David Chalamet, and the rookie Mikhail. Evan scored a hat trick in the first period, while David and Mikhail paired up for scores and assists on two more goals in the third. It was a pretty spectacular win for the Crush, and the press is pretty amped up as they fire questions at the guys.

  Everything goes fine, for the most past, though the rookie is salty throughout the whole thing, making a comment about some players being puck-hogs, and how he appreciates that the Team Captain is a mentor and team player. Even I can tell, from where I sit at the back of the room, Evan has to use all the self-control he has to keep from responding to the underhanded attack. The reality is it’s Mikhail who hogs the puck, but his shots on goal are wild and uncontrolled. He certainly lacks the finesse of Evan and Georg, who both work well together.

  David says something totally diplomatic about it being great to have such diverse talent on the team, diffusing things before anyone can make more stupid comments on the record. Evan looks relieved and relaxed, but Mikhail looks ready to attack at any moment. The press can sense it, and one asks if the winning streak can continue with such obvious animosity on the team. David easily diverts this one, too, and Fiona steps in quickly, saying that the team needs to get going. She shoos the reporters out and the three players head back to the locker rooms.

  When everyone is out of earshot, Fiona grabs my arm. “That rookie is going to be the death of me,” she says.

  “Why put him on camera?” I ask.

  “We need young blood on camera. He’s a hard worker. Fans like him.,” she says. She sighs and puts her hands on her hips. “This is Chalamet’s last season, and he’s a total diplomat. Kazmeirowicz is a fan favorite and probably Team Captain next year. I don’t know. I’m going to have to do media training with some of these young guys to make sure they’re all polished up.”

  “Did you do media training with Evan and David?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “They were both naturals on camera. Some people just get it.”

  “But Evan’s always all over social with women and parties and cars,” I say. “Surely that can’t be good for the brand?”

  “I think people feel some of that is part and parcel to an athlete’s life,” Fiona says. “Though I am sure our fans would be overjoyed to see him settle down. I’d love to fix him up, see him propose to someone. Our own little version of a royal wedding.”

  “Has the Crush ever had a well-known player get married?”

  Fiona thinks about this, her lips pushed to one side. “I don’t think so,” she says. “Not since the advent of social anyway.”

  She makes a curious little noise and wanders off without so much as a “see you later.” Fiona has not been effusive about my work, which is a bummer. I have the metrics for year-over-year engagement and I know my work is generating lots more traffic than they’ve ever had on social before. I can’t tell if she just doesn’t like me, or if maybe she doesn’t get what I’m trying to do. I’ve given her plans, which she approved, but she still doesn’t seem to get excited about what I’m doing. She’s always sort of professional with a dash of disapproval. I’d kind of hoped for supportive and mentoring. I’d settle for something in between, just a shade warmer than the cold tone I get from her most of the time.

  I have been working more video into my feeds, getting Boomerang moments on ice, which have been really popular. I plan to do some pre-game video at the next few games, as well.

  Oh well. I sigh and look around the now-empty press room. Guess I’ll go back to my hotel room and get my pre-game posts lined up for tomorrow.

  Just because I’m a glutton for punishment. And a little bit lonely, to be honest, I shoot Evan a text from the staff bus on the way back to the hotel.

  Holly: Good game tonight.

  Evan: Thanks. Nice work on social. I’m thumbing through it all now.

  Evan: Too much of that rookie’s face on display, though. Need to focus on those of us who are most handsome.

  Holly: LOL. Noted. I’ll get more Chalamet in there tomorrow night. He has good helmet hair.

  Evan: His locks are quite luscious.

  Holly: Luscious. Good word. Maybe I’ll use that in my mullet series.

  Evan: You’re doing a mullet series?

  Holly: Well…a hair series. But there are bound to be a few mullets.

  Evan: Hockey hair. It’s a tradition.

  Holly: I think the mullet tradition is probably about fanned out.

  Evan: Never. I’m growing one now.

  Holly: That’ll attract the ladies.

  Evan: You have no idea…

  Holly: Speaking of which…Fiona wants to see you settle down.

  Evan: Settle down?

  Holly: You know. Find a little woman. Put a ring on it.

  Evan: Err. Excuse me. I’m having a panic attack.

  Evan: Unless the woman she wants me to settle down with is you.

  Holly: Definitely not.

  Evan: Well then…

  Holly: She has royal wedding in her head.

  Evan: Am I marrying a princess?

  Holly: I suppose that’s up to you.

  Evan: Have you ever seen the movie Kingsman?

  Holly: Yes. Lady with blades for legs. Heads exploding. Cinematic masterpiece.

  Evan: You hated it?

  Holly: No. I liked it a lot.

  Evan: I love you.

  Holly: Ummm…

  Evan: I mean…your taste in movies.

  Evan: Anyway. He says he’s always wanted to kiss a princess.

  Evan: That’s what that made me think of…

  Evan: *Crickets* Did I lose you?

  Holly: What? No. I was thinking that he does more than kiss the princess.

  Evan: Yes. He. Does.

  Evan: And all I want to do is teach the princess to skate.

  Holly: Well, the princess is not interested.

  Evan: I think she is. At least a little.

  Holly: I told you, I’m not the girl for you. But we can be friends.

  Evan: Ugh. Knife in my heart.

  Evan: Dreaded friend-zone.

  Holly: Well, I’m not in the market for a boob grab, so…

  Evan: I told you, accosted!

  Holly: Likely story. Have you ever Googled yourself?

  Evan: That sounds dangerous.

  Holly: It was for me.