by Brit DeMille
“I think we can set up lines of income based on scoring, assists, All-Star participation, vote to Team Captain,” he says as he shoves French fries in his mouth.
I pick at my sandwich and try to pay attention. Honestly, though, my head just keeps going right back to Holly Laurent. I can’t stop thinking about her, especially since I had that little text exchange with her. Where she turned me down.
I don’t think I’ve been turned down by a woman since I was in, like, primary school.
“Hey, earth to Evan. You hearing me?”
“Huh?” I ask, coming back to reality. “What? Sorry.”
“You okay, man?” he asks. “I know you took that hit in the first game. You concussed? Should we have forced protocol?”
“Oh, no,” I say. “No, I’m totally fine.”
“You’re a star, Evan. We need you healthy. It’s only September and the season is long. Let’s get you checked out before you head out on the road, just to be safe. We can keep it quiet. No need to sound an alarm…just a quick check-up.”
“No, it’s cool, man,” I say, putting up my hands. “I’m fine. Just a little zoned out today.”
“I saw the glazed look you had out there after it happened,” Scott says. “Everyone saw it on the big boards. Twitter was ablaze with commentary about you getting your egg cracked. Just go see the team doc, have him take a look. Do it as a favor to me, your old pal Scott, who is trying to get you even bigger money than the last big money I got you.”
I shake my head and grin. “So what do you think about the rookie line this year?”
“You changing the subject on me, boy?” he asks, dipping three fries in ketchup and shoving in another mouthful.
“Yes, because I’m not concussed and I’m ready to talk about something else.”
“Well what do you want to talk about?” he asks. “Because you sure as hell weren’t interested in talking about money and incentives.”
“Fair enough, I guess I deserved that.”
“How’s old Georg holding up so far?” he asks, granting me my subject change now that I’ve admitted I wasn’t paying attention.
“He’s Georg,” I say with a shrug. “Ballsy, always at my side. Mostly sober.”
This earns me a raised eyebrow and dubious snort from my agent.
“Okay, mostly sober while on the ice,” I amend.
“I’ll tell you,” Scott says. “You two are a dream team most games. I’d love to take him on but he’s a risk.”
I shrug. “He likes women, partying, and hockey.”
“In that order, unfortunately,” Scott says. “He’s too wild for me.”
“He performs when we need him to, though. He hasn’t played NHL that long. I’m sure he’ll settle down.”
“He’s not a kid,” Scott says. “If he was going to settle down, he would’ve already, so don’t give me that line of horseshit. I know he wants representation, but I can’t take on a risky bet like that. If he cleans up and keeps performing, I’ll think about it.”
“Well, you’ll never convince him that women are a risk,” I say.
“I’m not talking about women,” he says. “If I was, you wouldn’t have representation either. I’m talking about the fact his liver’s probably going to defect back to Russia if he keeps it up. He needs to pick a healthier vice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, I’m not his babysitter.”
“No,” Scott says, “But you’re his friend and his teammate.”
I stew on this while I eat a bit of my lunch. I expect a hard practice, so I really should be getting something into my stomach for fuel.
“You asked about the rookie line,” Scott says. “I think they look good so far. That kid you butt heads with seems like a wildcard.”
“Kid’s got a big chip on his shoulder,” I say. “He’s so young. Too young, probably. Should’ve played minors or nationals or something first. Or gone to college and played. He’s out there thinking he’s got to make his mark immediately. Doesn’t want to be told shit. You know how it goes.”
He nods. “I do know how it goes. I’ve signed plenty of kids his age. They’re all the same. Stars in their eyes, money they’ve never seen before. Well, he’s got talent, I’ll give him that. He could probably use a good mentor.”
“I’ll assign Georg,” I say with an eye roll.
“You’ll assign you,” he says. “Because you want to be Team Captain next year. Dumbass.”
We move on, talking about Scott’s wife and kids. His wife is a teacher and his kids are both in middle school. He beams while he talks about his family, as always, and I find I envy him for it. He obviously loves being a family man, a dad, a husband. I’ve never seen myself that way. In fact, I’ve actively driven the opposite direction of any kind of commitment thus far. But he makes it look not half bad.
He gets a phone call and says he has to take it. He mouths, “Go to the doctor,” before tossing two twenties on the table and heading out, his voice getting louder as he bickers with someone about another athlete’s contract.
I finish my sandwich, pay, and then head back out. I think about heading to the administrative offices but then change my mind. I don’t want to look desperate. But maybe I could call…just leave a message. She’s probably not going to answer during the workday anyway.
So, I dial Holly’s number and when she picks up on the first ring, I find myself surprised enough that I don’t really have anything planned to say.
“Hi, uh, Holly…it’s Evan,” I stammer. Like a fourteen-year-old, nervous kid. What the hell is wrong with me?
“I know,” she says. “How can I help you?”
“Oh,” I say, at a loss. She sounds very…professional. “Well, I called to follow up on our text exchange.”
“You did, did you?” she asks.
“Yes, I wanted to let you know I really think you’re missing out on a great opportunity. I’ve literally been on skates since I was a wee little thing. I’d be a bloody good teacher.”
She lets out a little huff of a laugh. “Well.”
“Well, what?”
“Well, your accent,” she says. “The offer does sound better when it comes out like that. In writing, you sound American.”
I laugh. “Well, thank the saints for a European accent. Is that a yes?”
“It’s still a no, I’m afraid,” she says apologetically. “I still need to eat, and my paycheck allows me to do that.”
“What if I could guarantee you wouldn’t lose your job?” I ask.
“Because you’re God? Or a secret owner of the Crush? How could you possibly guarantee it?”
“You are quite feisty,” I say. “I like it. And no, I am not God, though I have been called that name before.”
“I assume this is your way of telling me you’re good in bed,” she shoots back. “Not the way to my heart, hearing about your other conquests.”
I laugh out loud at this. “Well, I do understand that. But no, I was actually thinking of my teammates, who call me that when I score more than a hat trick in a game.”
“Ah,” she says. “A hat trick is three goals, right?”
“Right, and I could teach you all about it and more if you agree to a skating lesson with me. We’ll totally focus on the game. And I give you my word I will be a perfect professional and gentleman.”
“What about Fiona?”
“Fiona already heard my opinion on this matter, and Bud approved it right in front of her. He outranks her, and I could have her fired tomorrow if I really wanted it.”
“You have that much power over the back office?” she asks incredulously.
“Well…actually…I don’t know. But I know I covered this with both of them already. We’re golden. I promise.”
She laughs. “You drive a hard bargain. Let me think about it.”
“So, it’s not a hard no, then.”
“It’s not a hard no. Now let me get back to work before I really do get fired.”
�
�Okay, bye for now, Holly.”
“Bye, Evan,” she says softly before she ends the call.
Okay. I feel better now. I can go to practice and bash some rookie heads and not be distracted by the one who nearly got away.
Nine
Holly
“That was really fun,” I say as I follow Evan into his penthouse apartment. Of course, he lives in a long-term rental section of a big casino resort. He’s a total baller like that.
His place is spacious with smooth leather furniture and hard-wood floors. The living room has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the lights of the Strip. It’s stunning, really, and I stand there for a long time just watching the twinkling lights.
Evan’s presence beside me creates a crackling chemistry that feels palpable. It makes my heart skip a beat, just like my heart skipped a beat every time our eyes met while we were at the skating rink. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come up. The invitation was heavy with sexual tension because every time we touched on the ice, it felt like I might combust.
“This is really beautiful,” I say. “This view.”
“It never gets old,” he says.
“My view is of a fenced-in, postage-stamp-sized backyard on one side, and a row of condos that look just like mine on the other.” I don’t know why I even offer the information it sounds so lame.
“Well, home is wherever you hang your hat.” I sense he has moved right behind me.
I turn to look at him, to maybe make a joke about an old-fashioned saying, but instead, his face is right there, so close, and his lips are—
“I’ve wanted to kiss you all night,” he says, leaning in close so I can feel his lips move against my ear. “The way your cheeks looked in the ice rink, so pink. And your eyes were so bright. I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more.”
I can barely get real words out, but I manage, “So do it.”
And he does. His beard is softer than I’d expect as his lips brush against mine. The kiss is soft, tentative, but my body wants more, so I open to him as his hands find my face. My arms wrap around his waist, my hands find their way up his shirt, my skin on his skin.
His tongue flicks against my bottom lip, an invitation I accept, opening my mouth, sighing loudly.
We move, still kissing, falling onto the soft leather couch, him between my legs. His hands roam, pushing my sweater up. I pull it hastily over my head and find him just as eager, his teeth nipping at my nipples through my thin, lace bra.
My hands push at his shirt, fumbling as I work the buttons, pushing it away from his chest. I think I gasp a little as I take in the panels of his stomach, the definition of his pectorals. I run my hands over his skin, over the hair on his chest that dissolves into a happy trail down beneath his jeans.
My explorations continue as I cup between his legs, feeling the hardness of him, contained neatly by his pants. “I want them off,” I breathe, “I want to feel you.”
We both work our pants down our legs, then our underwear. But while I’m ready, ready for him, he disappears, sliding down the length of me, his face finding the apex between my thighs, his tongue lapping at the already-wet folds there. He finds my aching, swollen clit and flicks it with his tongue as his fingers find my entrance and sink inside.
My back arches and I moan something indecipherable. He knows what he’s doing, that Evan, every motion of his tongue, his fingers, pushing me up a cliff wall. I can see the top. I know I’ll fall over the edge soon, into some abyss.
“Come for me, Holly,” he says.
And there it is. The sensation of falling. Of not breathing. Of forgetting my own name. My body tingles as the waves come.
I blink a few times as the ecstasy subsides, unsure for a moment what planet I’m even on. Evan moves up my body, kissing at my stomach, the underside of my breasts. When his mouth closes over mine, I taste sweetness and musk and his beard wet with my arousal.
He slides inside of me, a perfect fit that makes me cry out, my hips flexing toward him as he begins to move. My hands find his bare ass, my fingernails dig into his skin, driving him forward, faster and faster.
He never stops kissing me as he moves. Our tongues swirl together and I only break away to breathe, so he puts his mouth on my neck. My breasts rub against his chest, my nipples so hard they ache.
I feel myself inching closer, closer, and when he tells me to let go, he lets go, too. He roars his pleasure as I soar once again, my pussy tight around his cock, my clit pulsing in gripping spasms.
When he collapses on top of me, his head on my bare breasts, I reach up and stroke that dark, soft hair of his.
This feels right. I hardly know him, but this feels right, and…
I wake up with a start, sitting straight up in bed. Oh my God. I just had the hottest, sexiest dream about Evan Kazmeirowicz. It felt so real. Real enough that I absolutely ache between the legs, my abdomen heavy with desire, my underwear soaked.
I guess it has been a while. I haven’t been with a man since my ex-fiancé. The one who cheated on me.
Time for a hot shower. I trudge to the bathroom, turning on the water and stepping out of my pajamas. Thank God for the massage mode on the shower head, makes it much easier for a girl to get off in a pinch.
I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe I had such a dirty, dirty dream about a player. I swear I already told myself I wasn’t going to go there with him. No way. He’s a total player and even if it was as good as all that, it would only be a one-time thing, and then I’d feel crummy about myself, and it would be all weird at work, and I’d probably lose my job, and, and, and—
See? Not a good idea.
I decide to text Pam. She’s always good at helping me through these peculiar situations.
Holly: Pammy-jammy!! Holy cow. I just had a HOT sex dream about hot hockey player. Help!
Pam: Details.
Holly: No way. Just very hot.
Pam: Make it real, my child.
Holly: Can’t if I want to keep my job.
Pam: You’re killing me with this.
Holly: I’m killing you? You’re not the one who woke up in need of an immediate trip to vibrator-land.
Pam: No need for vibrator if you just sex the guy up. You know he wants you. Unless the invitation to learn to skate was, like, just an invitation to learn to skate.
Holly: No. I’m sure it was just a ploy to get into my panties. And he’s a player. I saw him flirting with the blonde from local TV station, so…
Pam: Whatever. You know you need a good romp. Just go, get off, and move on. Don’t make a thing of it.
Holly: When have I ever just gone and gotten off?
Pam: True. But you can always start now. Go!
Holly: No way. I have morals.
Pam: Ugh. Goody two-shoes.
Holly: Says the girl who has yet to officially lose her v card.
Pam: A technicality really. I know stuff. Changing subject now. Are you still coming this way?
Holly: Yup. I’ll try to get you a pass so you can sit with me for the game.
Pam: Yippee! Will there be mullets? I won’t come if there are no mullets.
Holly: There are a few mullets, yes…
Pam: Woohoo!
Holly: Maybe I should do an Instagram series on Hockey Hair?
Pam: YASS!
Pam and I go back and forth with all kinds of ideas for different social media series I could do, and while some are really stupid, others are actually pretty good. I write in my journal as we text, and when we finish our conversation, I genuinely feel better.
I can do this. It was only a dream. I do not have to allow myself to get wrapped up in this guy. Just because he’s super-hot, and super successful, and seemingly not a total jerkwad, does not mean that I should just drop my pants and let him have his way.
Like some animal.
Like some, hot, wild, primal male…
Ugh. I’m taking another shower.
Ten
Evan
“Don’t you remember the days,” Georg muses as he tips his vodka on the rocks to his lips.
“I remember lots of days, buddy,” I say. “Be more specific.”
“Sochi,” he says, slurring a little. “Babes, late nights, games played on two hours of sleep after lots of drinks and sex we couldn’t even remember the next day.”
“You couldn’t remember,” I say. “I remembered just fine because I wasn’t blackout drunk.”
“Perdoon stary,” Georg says with a burp and a laugh.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say with an eye roll. “Call me an old fart.”
“What about that hot blonde television reporter?” Georg says. “She wants you. You’ve had her before. Take her again.”
“Take her? I’m not a caveman.”
“Oh I forget, you are such a gentleman,” Georg says. The other guys laugh.
“Okay, so I’m not,” I say with a shrug. “I still don’t want Kacey. Already been there, brother. You think she’s so hot, you take a shot.”
The music picks up and the lights go low. A dancer comes out, so our attention goes to the show on stage. Georg and the other guys are all drop-jaw, making hooting sounds, throwing money up on the stage. The woman is gorgeous, tits totally fake, with long, red hair. She’s very fit, with good abs and shapely legs. She’s a good performer, too, a good dancer. I throw a twenty on stage, just to show my appreciation.