Crushed: A Hockey Love Story (Vegas Crush Book 1)

by Brit DeMille

  Georg looks like I really did punch him in the mouth rather than just think about it. “Huh? Does this have to do with the girl you took skating? Oh yeah, I saw your video, lover boy. Are you hiding this girl from me?”

  My phone buzzes.

  Scott: Congrats on tonight. You are earning those bonuses. Money city.

  Evan: Thanks. Felt good out there.

  Scott: No head issues?

  Evan: Nope. All clear. Good.

  Scott: Awesome. Have a good night.

  Georg thankfully doesn’t press me any more about Holly. We find a small bar where he drinks a few too many and I drink enough to take the edge off. We talk about how much he hates Viktor Demoskev, how he hopes we can play All-Star together.

  We don’t stay out late, returning to the team hotel, finding the bar there hopping with women and other players. I see no sign of Holly, but Fiona is there. She gives me bedroom eyes, which is a surefire way to get me to head in the other direction right about now. I just avoid the whole scene, handing wasted Georg off to one of our third line defensemen before heading up to the room.

  I don’t know when things changed for me, but I realize I meant it when I told Georg I was tired of the whole game with women and alcohol and whatever. Maybe it’s that I’m nearing thirty, or that I’ve got renewed career goals to work on. Maybe it’s the mystery of Holly Laurent, because she really is still a mystery.

  I turn on a movie, falling asleep with thoughts of a brunette beauty still lurking in the back of my mind.

  Seventeen

  Holly

  Thank God I didn’t have to stay in the hotel with the team last night. I left the game and went straight to Pam’s apartment, where we drowned our sorrows in Ben & Jerry’s.

  Today we’re tooling around town, doing a little shopping.

  “No, not that store,” Pam says as I try to head into a cute little boutique. “They only sell to skinny bitches. This girl is thick.” She pats her own rear end.

  “Please, spare me the lies. You are in no way thick, but I hear you.”

  We wander down the sidewalk, mostly window shopping but occasionally dipping in to try things on. Pam tells me that the guy she met at work turned out to be already-married.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Yep,” she says, pulling her mass of blonde hair up on top of her head into a bun as we try on sunglasses. “We’d been making out during late-night rotations at the clinic and one night, this woman comes in and gets in my face. She tells me she saw a picture of us on her husband’s phone. Just a normal picture of us together with his arm around me. But still the fucker is married. No Bueno.”

  “Indeed,” I agree. What did you say?”

  “Just that I had no idea he was married, and I was sorry. What could I do in that situation? She had the right to be angry.”

  “Wow,” I say with a big sigh. “That’s cray.”

  “And how about you and hockey boy? He posted a video of you?”

  I nod and make a face. “Probably get me fired.”

  “Why? Can’t tell it’s you.”

  “I feel like my coworkers will know it’s me,” I say. “Plus, as you know, I left that whole scene in tears and freaking out like a big weirdo.”

  “Well obviously he didn’t take it personally. I feel like he posted it to prove he really likes you, Holls.”

  “How could he really like me? He knows, like, nothing about me.”

  Pam levels me with a look that tells me she thinks I’m being a dummy. “Girl, you ever heard of a thing called chemistry?”

  “I mean, yeah,” I say as we move on to look at a rack of dresses. “There’s chemistry, for sure. When he kissed me, I felt it all the way to my toes, but that’s not the same as really knowing someone.”

  “Well, you’ve got to start somewhere,” Pam says. “And sometimes love just hits you like a ton of bricks, when you’re least expecting it.”

  “Ugh,” I say. “And sometimes it hits you like a ton of bricks and leaves you lying half-dead in a ditch. Believe me, Evan Kazmeirowicz is not in love with me, I’m not in love with him, and even if I was, I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole because he’s not the kind of guy who falls in love and settles in for life.”

  Just then, the song Crazy in Love comes on in the store. Pam starts dancing and pointing at me. She sings, “My girl Holly’s so crazy in love. My girl Holly’s so crazy right now.”

  I wave her off and walk away, hiding my resulting grin. She’s silly and loud and brash and I love her. But do I love Evan Kazmeirowicz? No. Definitely not. I lust him—I can admit that much, but love is a whole other ball of wax and he has not earned even my basic trust, so love is impossible.

  “I’ve got some pre-game prep work to do,” I say, grabbing her arm and dragging her from the store. Drive us back to your place, Jeeves.”

  “Only if you promise we can call your hot uncle Troy on the way home,” she says. “I miss that silver fox.”

  “Eww.”

  “Facetime!” she yells. “I want to see that sexy man’s face, or you can walk home!”

  I laugh out loud and shush her as we make our way to the car. “You going to come to the game tonight?” I ask, just to change the subject.

  She doesn’t fall for it. “I said we’re calling uncle Troy, girlfriend. So, get on that phone and dial.”

  I shake my head and Facetime my uncle.

  “Hey Holly-dolly,” he says, his voice tinny through the speaker phone. “What’s up?”

  “Hanging with Pam, she says hi.”

  “Hiiii!” Pam sings, smiling and leaning into the picture for a second.

  “Hey Pam, how’s my second-favorite girl?”

  “Second favorite?” she asks with mock despair.

  “You know Holly-dolly is my best girl.”

  Pam pretends to pout, making us both laugh. Troy says, “Hey, I know you usually sit in the stands to get your social media shots and whatnot, but the LA owners offered me a couple of seats in the suite upstairs for tonight’s game. I can’t make it because I’m in Vancouver doing some scouting. You and Pam want to sit up there tonight?”

  “Heck yes!” Pam yelps.

  “I guess that’s a yes,” I tell him.

  “Awesome. Good networking up there. They already know you’re killing it for the Crush on social. They’ll probably try to steal you away.”

  “Good,” Pam says quietly. “Go work for another team so you can bone that hot guy.”

  “What did Pam just say?” Troy asks. “I couldn’t hear her.”

  “She said thank you for the seats.” I give Pam a pointed look. “She’s driving.”

  “Oh, no problem. And I hate to cut this short, but I’ve got a practice to watch.”

  “Okay, love you.”

  “Love you too,” he says.

  “Love you!” Pam yells.

  “Okay,” Troy says with a laugh. “Have fun tonight, girls.”

  We hang up and head back to Pam’s place. We’ve both picked up cute dresses and decide to dress up for the game since we’ll be up in the LA owner’s box. As we get dressed, I continue to work on social media, sending out tweets and posting pre-game messaging. I’m not doing the Snapchat messages tonight, because we’ve launched a “Who’s Your Crush?” contest. We’ll pick ten winners to get a personal Snapchat shout-out before the home opener for the season. Fiona is beside herself over this idea, loving that we’re specifically reaching out to female fans. Of course, we have a few men in the contest, too, which makes it fun. It’s the first thing I’ve done, though, that she’s been really excited about, so I guess it’s a good thing.

  Pam looks ultra-hot in the emerald-green dress she picked out. She’s paired it with peep-toe booties and has her hair loose and wild around her shoulders. She’s a bit curvier than me, bigger boobs and hips. And she totally owns it. Every pair of eyes will be on her tonight. Next to her, I look plain in my little black dress and knee-high, high-heeled boots. My figure is more a
thletic than hers. I have much smaller breasts and slim hips. I’m not womanly like her, and while I don’t spend a lot of time critiquing myself or comparing myself to others, sometimes I wish I was built like her—a real knockout.

  She notices I’m quiet in the car. “You’re not going to be all emo tonight, are you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good, because I’m ready to flirt with some hot hockey players.”

  “Well, it will more be hockey owners and sponsors up in the box. We won’t see much of the players unless we happen to run into them after the game,” I remind her.

  “Then let’s happen to run into them after the game,” she says with a wink.

  Eighteen

  Evan

  Georg pulls on his pads and says, “Who’s the girl?”

  “Well, if you ever actually listened to me when I talk, you might be able to figure it out,” I say as I pull my jersey over my head.

  He ponders this for a moment. I can see that he’s trying to remember our conversations, trying to piece together anything I might have said about a woman.

  “Jesus, Georg, don’t blow a fuse over it. You need to dry out and maybe your brain will retain information longer.”

  “I resemble that remark,” he says, grinning.

  I just roll my eyes. “You want to make All-Star, you probably need your liver functioning.”

  “My liver functions fine. And more importantly, my legs and arms work well enough to cover your ass on the ice and keep you scoring. And my cock works fine, too, so I can celebrate inside a warm, wet pussy after each win. So, fuck drying out.”

  I cringe. This is how every conversation about Georg’s drinking goes. I try to be funny about it, and then he tries to be funny back. Then I get a little more serious and he gets pissed. It’s never caused an issue with our friendship, but I’m guessing someday it might.

  After we’re dressed, we huddle up. Our owner, Max, is here for this game and he gives us a pep talk, telling us all how great we’re playing and “how damn proud” he is of all of us. He also announces it’s time for players to vote on a co-captain for Chalamet. He pats Chalamet on the back as he talks about what an amazing player he’s been, about his leadership skills, and about how much the league will miss him. Max makes jokes about Chalamet being the youngest retiree in the nursing home and tells us all how much he wants to see him take home the cup in his last year of play.

  We’re all asked to cast a vote before we head out. I vote for myself, and then grin, wondering what would happen if everyone did the same.

  “What are you grinning about?” Fiona asks as she sidles up to me in the tunnel.

  Max walks up beside her and says, “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “Oh, nothing, just thinking. Hey, on another note, I did the exclusive with Kacey you asked for.”

  Fiona looks perplexed. “I didn’t ask for an exclusive.”

  “Oh, maybe she asked for it and you approved it?” I ask. “She said she spoke to you about an exclusive before I played the last home game. She wanted to talk about my injury, and if I was going to be able to play out the season.”

  “I wasn’t aware you’d done that,” she says. “We are always present for official interviews.”

  I think my jaw might break from clenching it so hard. “So, you’re telling me Kacey King did not, in fact, get approval from you for the interview? She lied?”

  Fiona purses her lips and looks pointedly at Max. “Well, I’m sure it was just a miscommunication. We’ve got so many things going on lately, the request probably just slipped through the cracks. Did it go okay?”

  “It was fine.” I decide not to mention I’m pretty sure the only reason for the interview was to get me alone.

  “Well, no harm done, then,” she says quickly as if relieved to find an out from this conversation. “Feel free to call me, though, if you’re ever unsure of something. I’m here to support you.”

  Yeah, I’ll bet. She’s just one more woman trying to crawl into my bed. To think, not so long ago I might have taken her up on it. Now, I’m just annoyed at the attention and innuendo.

  We head out to start the game and as we warm up on the ice, I look around for Holly, realizing she wasn’t in the tunnel doing her usual social media work. She’s not anywhere in the lower stands. As I try to be inconspicuous with my searching, Georg sidles up next to me and says, “Dude, you see the women in the owner’s box tonight? There’s a blondie up there I would probably propose to just to get her underneath me in bed.”

  I look at the box, which is situated between the lower and upper bowl of the arena. Sure enough, there are two women standing at the front. One is curvy, blonde, and laughing wildly at something the man on her left is saying. The other is staring at me. It’s Holly. She raises a hand and gives a subtle wave. She looks amazing in a black dress, her hair in a long braid that hangs around her shoulder. I wish I could get a closer look. I wish I could touch the exposed part of her skin. I wish I could kiss her. But I can’t, so I just nod to let her know I’ve seen her.

  When the game starts, my head is totally in it. My team just voted for co-captain and I need to show them I can stay on task, even though I know Holly is up in the owner’s box with guys probably pawing all over her. Knowing this somehow makes me feel more aggressive and I use it to my advantage.

  On the first period break, Georg says, “You know those women?”

  “You know one of them,” I answer. “Holly, the social media manager for the team. She was in the black.”

  “Oh? Well, I barely noticed her because of the blonde.”

  “Maybe a friend of hers,” I answer with a shrug. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, I need to meet her.”

  “Stay in the game, please. Don’t think about women. Think about winning this game.”

  “Aye-aye, captain,” he says with a salute.

  We skate back out and though Georg gives a long look at the two women, he does seem very focused in the second period, helping me avoid a big collision on the glass, which allows me a chance to wiggle free and take the puck down and into the net for our first score of the game.

  I look up and find Holly going wild, jumping up and down and high-fiving her friend. I find myself grinning like an idiot, knowing she’s watching. I actually see Max come down and stand with her. They chat for a minute and she pulls something up on her phone. He smiles and pats her on the back amiably. He must have just figured out she’s the one who’s been killing it on our social media feeds.

  Georg is relentless in the second break. “Dude, I need to meet her. We can’t let her leave before I meet her.”

  “Holy shit, dude,” I snap back, “there will literally be seventeen women waiting outside after the game. You can choose whichever one you want, if you need to get your dick wet.”

  “It’s not only about sex, I really just want to meet her. You know the social media girl. Send them a note. Tell them we want to have dinner with them after the game. I’ll even put on a clean shirt.”

  I roll my eyes. “Wow. Really pulling out the big guns with a clean shirt. Yeah, okay, two more goals and I’ll send word for them to join us for dinner. You got this?”

  He hoots and grabs my helmet, putting our heads together. “Hat trick, coming up, boss!”

  We head back out, the game tied one-one, and score just a minute into the period. I see Holly up in the box, taking photos or video with her phone. I’m sure hoping a video of the goal will be on social media. It was a beauty.

  The rest of the game is fast and furious, with no more goals despite both teams taking shots-on-goal like nobody’s business. About three minutes to the buzzer, we go on a power play. Chalamet gets the puck, fakes a shot on goal which sends the LA defensemen scrambling while I grab and go, skating like my life depends on it, taking a shot that looks like it will sail above the rim. It doesn’t though, it drops in over the head of the goalie, and there we have it—another hat trick.

&
nbsp; Coach pulls the line and sends in Mikhail and another rookie to play the last two minutes. They play well together, Mikhail a lot more controlled than usual as he scores his first goal in the NHL.

  I grab an usher who stands nearby and ask her to write a note to Holly Laurent in the owner’s box, asking her and her friend to hang around the west entrance after the game so Georg and I can take them to dinner. She grins and agrees, tells me good game, and heads off.

  Six wins into the pre-season and the Crush are looking good to hold the top spot in the league as the real season begins. We are a loud, obnoxious bunch of animals in the locker room after the game. Max comes down and huddles us all together. He gives another speech about how proud he is of all of us, of how exciting our team has been to watch this season.

  “Keep it up,” he says loudly. “And without further ado, I wanted to announce your co-captain for this year, and team captain for next year, is...Evan Kazmeirowicz. Evan is our leading scorer this season, and he is leading us to the cup. Congratulations, Evan!”

  Everyone hoots and hollers, slapping me on the back. Georg grins ear-to-ear and says, “Congratulations, asshole. Did you get us a date?”

  “One track mind, much?” I ask, smiling broadly. “I sent word to them. Let me check my phone.”

  The other guys head off to the showers and there are several texts awaiting me. I start with my agent.

  Scott: Good game tonight. Congrats on being voted co-captain. You fucking rock.

  Evan: Thanks, man.

  Scott: Fiona let me know that Kacey King’s request had not been approved. Bad blonde.

  Evan: Meh. No stress. Just won’t take her word for shit in the future.

  Scott: She wants you.