by Brit DeMille
We shake hands. “Hey,” I say. “What do you do here?”
“I’m an interim communication team member,” she says. “I’ll be filling in for Holly while she’s on maternity leave.”
“Ah,” I say with a nod. “Cool.”
“And you?” she asks.
I take in her curvy figure and sky-high heels and perfect makeup. She’s pretty, I’ll give her that. But she seems unsure of herself, or her work or something. I guess being an interim anything would probably take a person down a peg professionally.
“I’m a physical therapist,” I say.
“Oooh,” she says with a smile. “Get to be hands-on with the players?”
I laugh. “Indeed I do,” I say. “It’s not a bad gig. I get to fix them and inflict pain. It’s like a non-sexual S&M shop.”
“Jesus, Pam,” Holly says with an eye-roll.
Scarlett just laughs. “I like her,” she says. “I mean, you married the hottest guy on the team so don’t pretend you didn’t notice the abundance of muscles around here.”
“Okay, time to go,” Holly says. “See you tomorrow, Scarlett. We’ll work on that plan first thing.”
We head out and down to the pub outside the arena. Holly orders a Sprite and complains of heartburn, then orders like three fried appetizers.
“Counterintuitive much?” I say after she orders, and the waitress walks away.
“Can’t help it. Baby wants fried cheese sticks,” she says. “And jalapeño poppers.”
“Yikes,” I say. “This is crap you wouldn’t have eaten if someone had paid you before you got pregnant.”
“I know,” she says with a cringe. “I don’t know, I just want it all the time now. Evan says I should let myself indulge every once in a while, so…”
“So, you’re loading up tonight, got it,” I say. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge the giant margarita I’m going to drink.”
“Of course not,” she says. “So, you said Georg came down today?”
“He did,” I answer. “Didn’t seem to have a purpose. It was cute and awkward.”
“He likes you,” Holly says.
“He didn’t seem to like me at your wedding. And I haven’t heard a thing from him since LA, really.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean anything. I mean, I saw the way he looked at you in Colorado.”
“Like he wanted to chop me to bits and bury me in the back yard?” I ask.
“No, it was less stalker and more smolder. I saw it,” Holly says. She lifts her chin as if to defy me to argue with her. She’s feisty when she’s preggo.
“He smolders, no doubt,” I agree. “But if he wanted me, he’d have come and got me. Besides, he’s not long-term material anyway. He drinks way too much. He probably needs rehab.”
“That’s not a lie,” Holly says. “But what do you care about him being long-term material anyway? You kick dudes to the curb the minute they start to get serious.”
“My mother raised me well,” I say.
“Your mother is on her fifth husband,” Holly says.
“Your point?” I ask.
Scarlett wanders in as we’re talking. She walks over and says hello, and Holly scoots over, inviting her to sit for a minute. She looks relieved at the invitation, but says, “I don’t want to impose.”
“The more the merrier,” I say. “Pop a squat.”
“I was just going to pick something up to take home,” she says.
Holly shrugs. “We just ordered. Feel free to join us. I was just grilling my friend here on a visit she got from Georg Kolochev.”
“Oh, he’s super sexy,” Scarlett says. “That long hair. The scruff. He’s such a bad boy.”
“He’s bad alright,” I say sarcastically.
“Are you…dating?” Scarlett asks.
“No, definitely not,” I answer. “We hung out a time or two back in the spring. Besides, the non-fraternization policy and the nature of my job really mean I couldn’t date him even if I wanted to.”
Scarlett’s face falls. “Yes, you’re right. Of course. I mean…I wouldn’t step over a line. You know. I get it. Just looking. No touching.”
I don’t say it, but I want to get in this woman’s pretty face and tell her I don’t give a flying fart if she screws players – she just better stay away from Georg. I know he’s not mine, but the thought of him with someone else just…
“You okay there, Champ?” Holly asks, breaking me from my thoughts. “You look like you’re the one with heartburn.”
“Speaking of heartburn,” I say as the waitress comes back and unloads a tray worth of appetizers. I look at Scarlett and say, “She’s having grease for dinner tonight.”
“It’s just an appetizer,” Holly says as she stuffs a cheese stick into her mouth. Mouth full, she says, “I’m haffin’ dinner wif Eban later.”
I feel both of my eyebrows go high up on my forehead as I witness this madness. Holly does not shove cheese sticks in her face. She does not talk with her mouth full. And she does not stuff herself with junk before going to actual dinner. Pregnant women are weird.
“So, Fiona seems kind of severe?” Scarlett says.
Holly lets out a little huff. “She can be, but she’s a pro at media management. She just takes a while to warm up. Just do a good job and you’ll be fine.”
“That’s good advice,” Scarlett says. “I’m sure I won’t ever do as good a job as you have. I mean, I followed the Crush accounts all last season. You killed it. I applied for the communication specialist job mainly so I could learn from you.”
“That’s sweet,” Holly says. “It’s not brain surgery. Just be creative. The guys are mostly up for anything.”
“They seem like it,” Scarlett says. “And how do you manage their personal social media use? Like, do you integrate it at all?”
“Obviously not,” Holly says. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have pictures of players drinking shots from between a woman’s breasts, right?”
“Yeah,” Scarlett says. “I guess not.”
“They have the right to have their own online presence. The only time we get involved is if there’s something illegal or borderline–and usually the guys will take whatever it is right down.”
“Georg Kolochev’s account…” Scarlett says.
“Tell me about it,” Holly says with a sigh. “He hasn’t posted in a while but most of his stuff is party, party, party.”
“Is it true he’s an alcoholic?” Scarlett asks.
“That’s probably none of your business,” I bark.
Both women stare at me from across the table, looks of shock on their faces.
“I don’t mean…I mean, I’m sorry if I…”
“I’m just saying that we shouldn’t make assumptions about people. And we shouldn’t judge them just because they have pictures of themselves partying on Instagram,” I say.
Scarlett nods, looks at her phone, and says, “Oh, well, I’d better be going. Thanks for letting me hang.”
Scarlett leaves in a hurry and Holly just stares at me, a look of mild amusement on her face.
“Jealous much?” my friend asks. “You bit her head off.”
“She’s annoying,” I say.
“Man, you are a crank today,” Holly says. “Have another drink. Chill out.”
“I mean, there’s a policy. We can’t date the players,” I say, as if this is even remotely connected to why I was so mean to Scarlett.
Holly opens her mouth but then shuts it again. She reaches out and grabs some fried nonsense and pops it in her mouth.
“I like him, Holly,” I finally say. “But I just don’t think it could work. I’m, well, me. For one. And for two, he’s Georg. We’re on two different ships, sailing in different directions.”
“Two ships, sailing in different directions?” she repeats. “What kind of horse manure is that?”
I grin and shrug. “Change of subject. I need to know if you and Evan still do it while you’re preggers, a
nd if so, how is it possible?”
“That’s a very personal question, Pamela,” she says. She eats another cheese stick. “But since you’re my very best friend, I will simply say that we do indeed make love and that it requires some ingenuity from a logistics perspective.”
“Aren’t you worried he’ll, like, poke the baby?” I ask.
“Do you even know a single thing about human biology?” Holly asks, throwing a piece of food at me.
Truth be told, I know a lot about biology. There are many other things I don’t know about, though. Relationships. Sex. Long-term commitment.
Guess I’d better get on the ball, huh?
Chapter 4
Georg
Practice has been good all week. We have a couple of rookies on the team who’ve been fun to mess with. This one kid, Tyler, is a total hot-head. I love fucking with him on the ice just to get him riled up. I swear, these rookies come in with such chips on their shoulders. It brings me great pleasure to take them down a peg.
As I’m pulling off my gear, ready for the weekend, I hear two guys in the shower talking about trades. And then I hear my name. So, naturally, I stroll back and turn on a shower, interrupting their conversation.
“Heard my name,” I say. “Know something I don’t?”
Nothing like having a conversation like this while everyone’s naked. It just sort of puts things in a totally new perspective.
“Nah,” they say at the same time.
“I thought I heard my name and the word trade in the same sentence, though,” I say as I soap up. I wash my pecker and balls as I ask the question, just to make it more awkward.
“Just heard they might be making some high-level trades to cut budget. Send high earners off, bring younger guys with lower salaries in,” the one guy says. He shuts off his shower and wanders off, clearly done with this conversation.
“I don’t think it’s true,” the other guy says. “Why cut people who helped lead you to a championship?”
And then he’s gone, too, and I’m left soaping myself alone, with only my own thoughts to keep me company.
Of course, the first thing I do once I’m clothed is call my agent.
The next morning, we’re in Max Terry’s office.
“Good to see you Ned,” Max says. He holds out a hand, a gold watch on his wrist, his shirt cuffs monogrammed.
Ned Saunders, overweight and sweaty, holds out a hand and shakes. I can see the distaste on Max’s face. Ned has sweaty hands. I don’t shake his hand because it’s just disgusting.
“Good to see you, too,” Ned says. “What’s this rumor we’re hearing about trades?”
“On Georg?” Max asks. He looks genuinely surprised.
“On high-cost players,” I say.
“Not sure what you’re hearing or where you’re hearing it,” Max says, “but I’ve got no intention of messing up a good thing. We took a hit when Chalamet retired and replaced him with a couple of rookies. I didn’t go big because I didn’t feel like we needed a superstar. We’ve got you and Evan – the dream team.”
“So I’m not on the chopping block?”
“Not so long as your play stays good and your off-ice adventures are kept to a minimum. I can’t have bar fights and middle-of-the-night calls for bail this year,” Max says.
Ned is picking his way through a bowl of mixed nuts on Max’s office coffee table. He’s literally touching nuts with his bare, sweaty hands, and then putting them back in the bowl. It really is disgusting. I really need a new agent.
He seems to sense me staring at him, so he straightens up and takes a handkerchief out of his jacket, then wipes his sweating forehead before saying, “Georg was part of a winning combination out there last year. Having him on the trade list would be bad for the team.”
Both Max and I stare at him like he’s grown two heads. Did he hear any of the last five minutes of conversation, or was he so completely engrossed in finding the perfect cashew to actually listen and do his job?
“Yes, well,” Max says. “We’ve established that Georg is not on the trade list, Ned.”
“Oh, well, that’s great,” he says.
“Max, I appreciate your time,” I say. “I assure you I will work harder than ever this season. I’ve been working closely with the athletic trainers and am already seeing good progress on my personal health goals.”
“That’s great to hear,” Max says. “We pulled in new staff throughout that area to assure you all access to the best support possible. Nutrition, exercise, therapy…whatever you need, it’s available to you now. We want to double up on the cup, so to speak. So, keep up the good work.”
I shake his hand and wait for Ned to pipe in with some sort of bonus conversation, something about making more money if I have another strong year on the ice. But no. He’s back to the nuts. He basically grabs a handful and shoves them in his suit jacket pocket before waddling out, not even bothering to say goodbye to the guy who has my professional fate in his hands. All I can do it cringe, thankfully receiving a sympathetic look from Max Terry, who shakes my hand as he shakes his head.
“You need a new agent, son,” he says under his breath.
Ain’t that the truth.
As I walk back down the hallway, ready to call Evan’s agent and beg him to take me on as a client, I literally bump into someone. When I look up from my phone, I realize it’s Pam.
“Oh, sorry,” she says. “I was totally texting and walking. Dangerous business.”
I laugh. “Same. Sorry.”
She gives me a little smile and her cheeks darken a bit. Is she blushing? Ugh. She’s so beautiful. Voluptuous with pretty, dark brown eyes. Long blonde hair. Even in that drab uniform they have her in, a stupid polo shirt and sensible shoes, she’s a knockout.
But that ship has sailed, I think. There was chemistry between us, for certain, but she held back. And then it was just awkward at Evan and Holly’s wedding. I couldn’t even get the courage to say hello to her. Like some teenage boy with a crush.
“Are you enjoying your work here?”
She nods. “Very much. It’s exciting to put all that schooling to use finally.”
“The guys are nice to you, yes?” I ask.
“They’ve been great. Really sweet.”
“Probably trying to butter you up,”
“For what? I mean, I’m kind of mean when they’re going through their therapy exercises. They probably curse my name.”
“No,” I say. “No way. They know those exercises will keep them on the ice. They probably fake injuries just to come down and flirt with you.”
Pam pushes her pretty pink lips to one side and bats her eyes at me. “Well, I guess they can fake injuries all they want. It’s job security.”
“Well, it’s good to see you,” I say. “Hopefully I’ll see you around again soon.”
“Yep. See you, Georg.”
She walks off without another thought for me. I even turn, watching her walk away, admiring the sway of her hot-as-fuck hips I’d very much like to hold in my hands. She’s amazing, but I think she’s just not for me.
Or I’m not for her.
Probably more like that, actually.
Chapter 5
Pam
“He’s got a torn rectus abdominus,” the team doctor is saying. “And his ribs are subluxated and misaligned. There’s also a contusion from the tear, which will complicate therapy simply from a pain management perspective.”
“So, this looks like at least six weeks to me,” I say as I review the notes on this injured player. “Maybe eight.”
“In an ideal world, he’d have eight weeks, but we really need to speed him up if we can,” Coach Brown says. “I can put him on IR for pre-season, but I need him on second string once the season starts.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
“I need you to do more than your best,” Coach says. “On any player you treat. I don’t want them out there on fresh injuries, but they also need to fight thro
ugh the last of it sometimes. You know what I mean? The longer they’re off the ice, the longer it takes to get them back up to fighting weight.”
I nod. “I do understand. I’ll start him on electronic stimulation right away. We’ll alternate heat and cold, and work in a strong anti-inflammatory. Once he’s comfortable enough to handle it, we’ll do some manipulation on the ribs. I suspect the malalignment may have played into the severity of the tear, so getting the ribs back in place will probably promote faster healing.”
“Great. Keep me posted on his progress,” Coach says.
I nod as he heads out. The doctor says, “Welcome to pro sports.”
“College sports are just like this,” I say. “Lots of pressure to perform, even when the athlete is not ready. It’s not a great situation.”
“Yes, and they make a lot of money within a limited pro timeframe. They pressure themselves as much as anyone else pressures them. It’s a really thin line to walk. Let me know if I can be helpful as you get started,” he says.
“Thanks,” I say.
From there, I head to find Dale, the personal trainer I saw on the first day of work. His office is down closer to the team gym. And, of course, he’d have to be training with Georg. I think about walking back out but just as I’m about to sneak right back out the way I came in, Dale turns and says, “Hey there, I was hoping I’d see you today.”
I raise a hand in a kind of lame little wave. “I can come back when you’re not busy.”
Georg is craning his neck to get a look at me from his position on one of the machines. Dale tells him to go jump on the treadmill and do a five-minute walk. He does as he’s told, but not before staring at me for a good thirty seconds. The look is intense. I might even call it smoldering. Yes. Okay. I would definitely call it smoldering, since I can feel it right between my legs. Oh boy.
“So, what’s up, pretty lady?” Dale asks jovially. He looks nice in his polo and khaki shorts. His biceps bulge attractively. His calf muscles are well-defined.