by Brit DeMille
I give him the finger as he heads off to the squat rack.
Georg and I have been friends since hitting it off in our first year on the team. He’s my road roommate. We’re about the same age, which is nice since we’re both older than a lot of the guys on the team now. I feel like an old-ass man sometimes, but I feel like this is an all-star year, and I’m gunning for captain next year. I’ve paid my dues in hockey for longer than some of these boys have been weaned from their mama’s titties. Okay, maybe not that long. But long enough. It’s time. And Georg is no competition for captain. He drinks too much, and he makes the news too often. Always up to antics with cars, with women, or partying at some sin-den that’ll be trending on social within hours. Yeah, Coach’s mantra might be shots on goal, but fast cars, fast women is Georg’s at the moment.
Which is not to say I don’t like my fair share of the puck bunnies. I do. They are generally very easy to procure, though I prefer not to see anyone more than two or three times. Anything more than that and it looks and acts like a relationship. And I do not want one of those.
Georg does, but he always gets bored about six months in. If I had to guess, Bambi’s probably on month seven right about now.
I run three quick miles on the treadmill before pushing myself through the punishing CrossFit workout one of our trainers put up on the board. He switches out the routines every day, with a twelve-minute loop designed, I think, to make us feel like we’re dying.
As I wait for Georg to finish up his weight work, I ask, “Did you see the woman who came in with Troy today during scrimmage?”
“Nope. Didn’t even notice Troy, the old bastard. Why?”
“She was a hottie,” I say smoothly. “I just wondered if they brought her on to scout or something.”
“Hot scout?” he asks. “Huh. How’s you have time to look her over?”
“When I checked the rookie, I just looked up and there she was.”
“Did time slow down for you in that magical moment?” he asks, his voice faux-sweet.
I punch him hard in the arm. “Don’t be a dumbass.”
“Ow,” he says, but he’s still grinning. “Well, just find Troy and ask who she is. It’s not so hard.”
“Yeah, I know. If she’s a scout she won’t be around much. Might be good for a quickie now and again.”
“I guess,” Georg says. “I make it a policy not to hump the help, though. Just makes life easier in the long run.”
“You’re not wrong there, friend. I screwed one of the trainers for the Olympic team once. It was okay, not earth shattering and certainly not good enough for a second round. You would not believe how much pain she inflicted on me in the gym afterward.”
We start up a conversation about our times on separate Olympic teams as we head to the showers. Georg grew up playing the same as I did, though he played in the States a lot sooner than I did, and then fumbled around longer in the minor leagues. We got picked up the same year, and he loves to bring up the Olympics. I have no idea why. I mean, it was a good gig and I was super young. Cocksure. A lot like young Mikhail, I suppose. I had a lot of piss and vinegar in me, and something to prove. I took a shit-ton of risks as a player, got injured a lot, played through my injuries.
I’m not exactly conservative now, but I guess I’d say I’m a more thoughtful player now. And having Georg as my right-hand man has been a good match. He’s a defender, but he’s got his eyes on the goal, too. If he plays as well as he did last season, I’ll bet he’ll be right there on the all-star team with me.
As I shower and change, most of the guys have left already. I say goodnight to Coach and head out toward the parking lot, finding the sun and heat overwhelming after a day in the barn. I look around, hoping to catch a glimpse of the dark-haired beauty, but no such luck. It’s fine, I’ll just think about her on my drive home instead.
Three
Holly
The HR manager was probably miffed to have to come in on a Sunday, so after the paperwork was signed she spent exactly three minutes showing me around before heading out. She leaves me sitting at a laptop in a cubicle with a stack of new employee info to read.
I head home instead because, really, why sit in a dark, empty office on a Sunday if you don’t have to. Downside? I’ll still know practically zero tomorrow, when I will be expected to work, and there will actually be people around. Upside? It’s still early enough in the day that I can enjoy the pool at my complex for a few hours.
When I arrive home, I wonder if I’ll ever get tired of walking through my new front door, knowing the place behind that door is mine. It was love-at-first-look for me and my new condo. From the vibrant blue entryway, to the huge kitchen decked out with stainless appliances, to the master bath with a tub big enough for laps, to the grotto shower that can fit at least four people, I was smitten. Not, of course, that I’m adventurous enough to have three other people in the shower with me. I am a one-man-at-a-time kinda girl.
I find an empty lounge chair under an umbrella, laptop in hand, fully intending to watch a bunch of hockey on YouTube. Instead, I find myself Googling “Evan Kazmeirowicz.”
Six-foot-three. Damn. I’m tall at five-foot-nine, and he’s half a foot taller. I’ve always had a thing for big dudes and this Evan is a big dude, indeed. I read his stats–led the team in scoring last season, leading to a multi-year contract. Works in tandem with a defensive player named Georg Kolochev. They’re both twenty-seven, and both started with the Crush at the same time. Kind of a bosom-buddies thing, as is evidenced by a plethora of photos of the two of them on and off the ice together. The off-ice photos are mostly accompanied by skimpily-dressed young women. Great, two man-whores.
There are a few videos of them talking about their games. Georg’s Russian accent is pronounced, where Evan’s has more of a British sound to it. It’s sexy, no doubt. I’ll bet lots of women drop their panties just to hear his voice.
I slam my laptop shut after realizing I’ve been ogling Evan Kazmeirowicz for more than a half hour. He’s on the team. I work for the team. It would not be a good start to my career to have an affair with a player, no matter how hot he is. And no matter how he makes my lady-parts tingle with joy.
Nope. I need to go do my homework and learn about the game of hockey. Bring on the touchdowns!
Kidding.
I make sure to arrive at the office early the next morning because after lunch, I’ve arranged to meet Troy for more training on the language and logistics of hockey. Four hours of watching highlights and game clips last night helped some, but the live action instruction from Troy is so much better.
Coffee mug in one hand, I make my way into the office suite, excited to find the place buzzing with activity and feeling completely different than it did on Sunday afternoon. In my cubicle I power up my computer as my boss pops her head in.
“I thought it was you,” Fiona Starling says.
She looks sharper than I remember from my interview, in an expensive-looking dress. Her brunette hair is in a blunt bob to her chin and she wears funky eyeglass frames that accentuate the color of her bright blue eyes. Fiona is the media queen behind the Las Vegas Crush. Frankly, she intimidates me, but I’m an athlete and I’m used to intimidating coaches, so I am just viewing her as I would any of my college coaches. Tough, cunning, and hopefully someone I can learn from.
I stand up and shake her hand. “Hi, Fiona, good to see you.”
I know I sound too eager but whatever, I’ll just go with it.
Fiona smiles but I can tell it’s fake. She’s probably rethinking her choice to hire me. She says, “So I hear our star scout has been schooling you on the game a bit?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Yes. Troy and I watched a scrimmage yesterday. We’re going to meet down at practice this afternoon. I’m eager to start getting some social media traffic going.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” she says. “Well, let me know if you need anything at all.”
“Thanks,
Fiona.”
She walks away without another word.
I spend the morning reading through the social media pages of some of our competitors, getting ideas for how they use platforms to tell stories. I also meet briefly with the folks in the Crush’s charitable foundation office to get a sense of which guys are out doing good in the community. Those are awesome stories to use on social media.
When my uncle shows up, I realize I’ve worked through lunch. Luckily, he’s a man of ample resources, so he leads me to one of the arena’s many food stands, unlocks a door, and tells me to grab whatever I want. The choices are, of course, junk food or more junk food, so I just grab a water and a candy bar masked as an energy bar before we head back out.
“Are you just allowed to take what you want?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says with a grin. “I bring potential players here sometimes and offer snacks to sweeten the deal.”
He makes a face like he’s waiting for me to laugh. I frown a little. “Did I miss a joke?”
He elbows me. “Sweeten the deal? Candy?”
I just blink at him.
“Okay, it’s Monday. I get it. I’ll try harder next time.”
We take our seats at center ice. I call it the midline and Troy quickly corrects me to “red line.”
“Each period starts with a center ice faceoff,” he says. “Faceoff happens after a team scores, as well.”
“Oh, like soccer?” I ask.
“Yes, a lot like soccer. In fact, some of our guys are on summer soccer leagues because it’s a game with a lot of similar concepts.”
“Cool. I dated a soccer player in college.”
“Oh yeah?” he asks.
I give a one-shoulder shrug. “Nothing serious, but I did learn a lot watching his games.”
I get out my phone and pull up the Twitter account for the team. Fiona gave me full reign on social media posts and asked me to rally the masses to get them excited for pre-season, so I start taking photos with my phone and tweeting them out with Troy’s help on captions.
The Team Captain is David Chalamet, a Canadian in his final season with the Crush. Troy tells me he’s a fan favorite, and well-known for work he does with the team’s charitable foundation.
“I remember they told me about him,” I say. “He does a big event each year for kids who have cancer, right?”
“He does,” Troy says. “He’s a real nice guy, real genuine.”
I snap a photo of him on the ice and send it out with a link to his event page on the foundation web-page.
“Are the other guys not as nice?”
“Oh, I think it’s like any industry,” Troy says. “There’s good and bad. They all have ego and talent, but some have more ego than talent. There are a few I wouldn’t leave alone with you in an empty room, and at least one I wouldn’t leave alone with you in a crowded one.”
“Ohhh,” I say in a dramatic tone. “A lady killer?”
“They’re all lady killers, and one or two who play for the other team, so to speak. Several are married, but it doesn’t stop the puck bunnies from giving it the old college try.”
“Excuse me…puck bunnies?”
Troy grins. “Sorry, crass term for hockey groupies.”
“Indeed. I’m offended on their behalf. Yikes.”
“It’s one of those terms we don’t use on social media, if you didn’t already pick that up.” I can tell he’s trying to keep it light. I can also tell he’s a little embarrassed about his use of the term. He clears his throat and says, “Sorry. Been around sports dudes too long.”
Troy switches to more hockey specifics, but I tune him out as I thumb out a few more tweets about how the rookies are holding up in scrimmages. I find a few of their stats and toss them out with photos from the stock files.
The team has a Facebook and a Snapchat, as well as an Instagram account. I’m told that we use Snapchat on game days, and I’ve gotten permission to grab Snapchat images and video while the team heads out to the ice for each game. For now, I just focus on teasing specific team members and their stats.
I snap back to attention when one of my favorite songs plays. It’s a Fall Out Boy song called Immortals. I start dancing in my chair.
“Like this one?” Troy asks.
“I do. I confess I’m a bit of a pop-punk girl. I always blasted this song when I was running distance.”
“It’s a good one,” he says. “Music is a big part of the hockey experience. And teams are superstitious, so they pick one lead-in song and stick with it pretty much year-after-year. The deejay has a ball, though, matching music to what’s going on out there on the ice, and sometimes to what’s going on in the stands.”
“Like how?” I ask.
“Oh, there’s a kiss cam, so when that’s going, he might play something goofy and romantic. When there’s a really big play, he’ll put on something high-energy. The music is meant to help energize the crowd.”
I bank this information, figuring I can use the music cues to come up with some fun social media stuff. Like maybe I can match each player with his favorite songs or something. While I’m writing that down in my idea notebook, there’s another crash against the glass.
“Paybacks are a bitch!” I hear, and I look up to find the face of Evan Kazmeirowicz smooshed comically against the glass, as the rookie from the day before taunts him mercilessly.
As this scene unfolds, some cheesy, old rock ballad plays. The lyrics are like, “Lady…of the morning…love shines…in your eyes.”
Troy is singing along, swaying to the beat and when I side-eye him, he chuckles and says, “Styx, man…never gets old.”
I make a face of distaste and shake my head, my attention back to the glass, where Evan and the rookie are tussling again, to the dismay of the coach, who sends them both to the bench to cool down.
Evan skates off, and my stomach gets that lurchy butterfly feeling as I take in his chiseled features, a five o’clock shadow of scruff on his cheeks. His dark hair stands on end as he pulls off his helmet and glares at the other guy.
“Rookie’s trying to show he can piss the same distance as the big guys,” Troy says. “He’ll settle down eventually.”
“Does that Evan guy have a temper?” I ask.
“They all do from time to time,” Troy says. “Fighting is part of why people pay for seats like these.”
“Seems kind of brutal.”
“Eh,” he grunts with a shrug.
The rest of practice, I alternate between answering tweets, writing down ideas and questions, and checking out hot, hot Evan Kazmeirowicz, who’s back on the ice, moving like lightning along the ice during a scoring exercise.
“He’s fast,” I comment, mostly to myself.
“He’s fast indeed,” Troy says. “Some wingers are more defensive, but he’s an out-and-out scorer. See the guy to his right? He’s literally Kazmeirowicz’ right hand man. Georg Kolochev is his name. They’re a formidable pair.”
“Aww, bromance,” I say sweetly, making my uncle laugh.
“Write that down in your little book. People will love it.”
I giggle but do write it down. I’ll have to see what I can find out about their relationship off the ice, but really, I can still do the story with just their on-ice performance.
They do move well together, like a well-oiled machine. At one point, I find myself staring blatantly at the pair, only to realize they’re both staring right back at me. The defenseman, Georg, wiggles his eyebrows and elbows his friend, who grins and looks at his skates. I feel my cheeks heat and look quickly down at my phone.
I have got to learn to be around these players without acting like some teenage fangirl. Yikes.
Four
Evan
Preseason game number one is in the books. It wasn’t my best game ever, but we won, and I scored twice, so I guess I’ll chalk it up as a good start. Of course, I got checked big time because that stupid rookie wasn’t in the right spot when I was ready for a pass
. If he’d have passed to me when I got to the line, I’d have chucked the biscuit right into the net and scored a third time, but nooo, the motherfucker was showboating, hogging the puck, and it gave too much time for their defensive players to move on me. Bam! Right into the glass, helmet off, taking a beating.
After I shower up and dress, I head out to the postgame press event Fiona has set up. I see the hot brunette across the room with Troy Laurent, the team’s best scout. They’re together every time I see that chick. So, either he’s her silver fox or she’s a new scout. I hope against hope it’s the latter because…eeeew. I mean, he’s all right for an old-timer but damn. What hot, young woman wants old cock when she can have—
“Hi, sexy,” a familiar voice says, breaking me out of my thoughts about hot chicks and old balls. It’s Kacey King, a local television news personality. Speaking of hot…Kacey is all big tits, blonde hair, and oozing sex in a tight, black dress paired with fuck-me heels.
Did I mention I may have boned her? Just once. I mean…look at her. And it was good, maybe more than good, but it was end-of-season and I was a little drunk after our last game...and we just never really connected again after that.
So, it’s awkward, sort of, when she puts me on camera right away, her blue eyes sparkling with mischief and invitation as she asks me questions about the preseason and the big hit I took tonight.
“It looked like you were out of sync with the new players a bit,” Kacey comments. “Are you concerned about taking another hit in next week’s game?”
“Well, we take hits no matter what, but we can definitely stand to play more like a unit. I can take it though, I’m a big boy, and the fans like a good crack at the glass every so often.”
“Especially when they get an up-close glimpse of one of Las Vegas’s most eligible bachelors,” she says with a sexy grin.
“Oh gosh,” I say, rubbing my hand over my beard and grinning. “Did that list come out again?”