by Raine Miller
I manage one last glance back at the beautiful red rocket, who is now laughing easily with Pamela and the photographer. I want to punch him for standing so close to her. This is stupid, right? I don’t know her. Don’t have any sort of claim over her. Yet I find I am so very attracted. An unexpected conundrum...
I’m still thinking of her as we make our way to the ice. But as soon as the roar of the crowd fills my ears, my head is back in the game. My only goal now is to help this team win, to be a championship team.
This is my only focus. To win.
3: He’s Going to Score
Scarlett
Sid and I hook his camera to a slim laptop that he carries with him wherever he goes. He has a hard-shell backpack where he keeps his mobile photography and editing equipment. It looks like a little turtle shell.
We choose a handful of photos and he does some quick edits while I write captions. We send everything to Holly’s phone so she can post to our various accounts. I find myself licking my lips a little at the images of Viktor Demoskev. He’s wide-shouldered, muscular, and big. Just a really big dude. It looked impossible that Pam’s portable therapy table could have held up the mass of him. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that too, but that man had looked like a giant, especially under Pam’s small hands.
In the pictures, he’s scowling. Of course, I guess that’s kind of par for the course. He’s clean-cut, no visible tattoos, short hair, and miles of muscles. He’s a good-looking man, attractive, a sharp dresser, but not really a nice-looking man, if you know what I mean. He’s got a brutal reputation, especially before he came to play for the Crush. He was not above hurting people—on the ice and occasionally even off it. They don’t call him the Mad Russian for nothing. He earned that name.
Sid heads toward the ice as we finish up, and I go back up to the owner’s suite to find Holly furiously working on her iPad. She looks up and smiles.
“These shots are great. And the captions are pretty funny, too.”
“Thanks. It was kind of a funny scene down there. Those guys are—“
“Ugh,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to say another word. They’re a bunch of goofballs.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“Have a seat,” she says, eyes back on the screen. “I’ll probably send you back down for the second break to do it all again, if you don’t mind?”
“No problem.” I take the seat next to her.
She works as the baby sleeps against her chest. I’m not the biggest fan of babies. Or kids in general, really. But this is a cute sight. Holly’s not that much older than me, twenty-five, but there’s a maternal quality about her, a serenity that I don’t know if I’ll ever possess. And she’s handling being a mom and a rock star social media manager better than I ever could.
I suppose I’m a little jealous of her. I felt quite competitive toward her when I was first given the interim role while she was out. I wanted to outdo her. Now, I guess I wish I could be more like her. Not with a baby, of course, but just as good at what I do, settled with a hot guy, looking like nothing fazes me.
Fat chance.
We’re about seven minutes into the second period when a missed opportunity by the opposing team leaves Viktor Demoskev with nothing between him and the goal. He’s careful not to take a shot too early, as we don’t need an icing call right now, but he’s only got a brief window in the confusion, so he hauls ass down the line.
“Watch this,” I say, kind of to Holly but also just to myself. “He’s going to score. The goalie’s not even looking at him.”
Holly’s head pops up. “Who?” Her focus is on the ice, and she watches the play unfold. “Oh!”
And sure enough, Viktor takes a shot straight into the back of the net. It’s a clean goal, one that absolutely no one, probably including Viktor himself, was expecting.
The sound in the owner’s suite is deafening, so I can only imagine how loud it must be in the arena seats. People are going nuts, especially our players, who are jumping on Viktor’s back on the ice.
Up two-nothing, the energy is high here in Crush command center. Fiona, our boss, takes a seat to my right.
“Two defensive goals in one game. Who’d have thought it?” she comments.
Fiona’s hair is in a sharp, chin-length bob. She has straight-cut bangs and wears funky eyeglasses that match her well-tailored, Crush-colored dress. She’s totally corporate and usually uptight. She’s not a bad boss or anything and she sure knows what she’s doing, but she still makes me feel uncomfortable.
Case in point. “Yeah, crazy,” is my lame response.
“I’d like to try to draft up some pitches next week—features on the defensive team—Georg and Viktor specifically. Put it on your mental list of things to do?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Great,” she says. “And thanks for getting those captions for social today. They were really funny.”
Even Holly looks up at this, her eyes narrowly scrutinizing our boss, who literally never compliments anyone. She’s very particular and often very critical of our work. And silence usually means acceptance. It’s weird to get a compliment.
“Um, no problem,” I say. “Holly said the same.”
“Well, she’s done some comedic stuff before also, and it’s worked really well.”
Fiona sits for only another few minutes, awkwardly, before patting the arm of the chair and muttering something about checking in with Max on the post-game press event.
Holly waits for her to be out of earshot before saying, “She is really weird sometimes.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” I agree. “We need to get her to take a weekend here and there so she can get some. I think she only sees her husband once a month.”
“Yeah, you might be right. They’re both workaholics,” Holly says, focusing back on her work. “I know that sounds funny coming from me, but they’re a whole other level.”
“Have you met him? Her husband?” I ask.
“I met him,” she answers, shrugging. “He’s a slick dude. Handsome, well dressed. Gives you those smiles that make you feel naked. And not in a good way.”
“Yuck,” I say. “No wonder she’s so unhappy.”
“Who knows,” Holly says. “I try not to assume what does or doesn’t make other people happy. It usually leads to problems.”
I’m about to dig for gossip, feeling there’s more to Holly’s statement than she’s letting on, but we’re interrupted by a very happy and maybe slightly tipsy Max Terry. He plops down to Holly’s left and pulls her to him in a sloppy side-hug.
“I feel a win coming on,” Max announces. “I’ve got my lucky charms. You and Evan started it. Love makes for a better player. I know it. And now Georg and Pam. And he’s scored two goals in the series. I couldn’t be happier.”
“Yep,” Holly says. “The defensive scoring in this game is giving me a lot of good social media fodder.”
“Always working,” Max says. “You should put that technology down and experience the game.”
“Oh, but then I wouldn’t retain my title as the best in the business, would I?” she asks wryly.
“Well, if you’re not the best in the business, then I don’t have to fight off other employers to keep you,” Max counters, grinning.
Pam wanders in, having been in the stands for part of the period. She’s got a plate of food and sits in the seat that Fiona just vacated. “Just shoving some food in my mouth before periods break,” she says. “I can’t believe this game.”
“Yep, pretty crazy. Kinda like the high-end marriage proposal before the last game.”
“Ha,” she says. “Yes. But I wouldn’t be me, if the proposal wasn’t as big as possible.”
“This is true,” Holly agrees. “I can’t even imagine what your bachelorette party will be like.”
“Well, what’s bigger than Vegas?” Pam asks wickedly.
“Yikes,” Holly says. “I’m scared to fi
nd out.”
“Holly, wouldn’t you be the one to plan it?” I ask.
“No,” she says. “Pam controls her own fate. I just go along for the ride.”
We all laugh at this. I ask, “Will you have a long engagement, do you think?”
“Heck no,” Pam says. “We’re in love and can’t wait to be married, living in the same house. We’d elope tomorrow if we could.”
“Why can’t you?” Holly asks. “He seems like a Vegas chapel, married-by-Elvis kind of dude.”
“He does.” I agree with Holly.
“No…I mean, I don’t know. We obviously haven’t had much discussion about it yet because we’re in the finals at the moment. But I think my Georg is a beach-wedding-in-his-shorts kind of guy.”
“Oh, I could see that, too!” Holly agrees emphatically.
I nod but the conversation ends as the opposing team scores. Everyone in the suite lets out a collective groan.
Pam swears and Holly frowns, pulling up her feeds.
As the clock winds down, Pam stands up and sighs loudly. “Off to the locker rooms,” she says. “Scarlett, you coming back down to stare at the Mad Russian stud some more?”
Holly’s neck looks like it might snap as she turns to look at me, a tiny quirk of her lips giving away her amusement. “Viktor?” she asks. “You were ogling Viktor?”
I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t!”
“She totally was,” Pam interjects. “But he was just as into her. Maybe this will be the next love connection at Crush Matchmaking HQ.”
“No, I was just talking to him. He was upset that we were taking his picture.”
Both women give me sly, knowing looks and I just purse my lips and stand, ready to follow Pam out of the suite.
Holly yells, “Be careful of that one!”
Pam just cackles and I ignore them both as we make our way out to the elevator.
Totally busted.
We come into the hallway on the locker room level only to find a big throng of very loud, very hyped hockey players going in.
One of whom is in the process of removing his jersey. I know that big body. It’s Viktor of course, but he doesn’t make the turn in through the locker room door.
He just keeps coming right on down the tunnel. Jesus, he’s even taller in skates…
And then he crashes straight into me.
4: “Good-Mood Viktor”
Viktor
I must be getting older, because I cannot come off the ice without a chink or a cramp or some sort of pain in some part of my body. Today it’s a muscle in my shoulder, so I pull off my jersey and pads as I walk down the tunnel, ready for the soothing hands of one of our therapy people.
Of course, walking and undressing is as ill-advised as is sounds, because I collide squarely into another human. I hear an “oof” sound, and as I pull the remainder of fabric over my head, I see Scarlett from earlier, on the ground glaring up at me.
“I am very sorry.” Looking up, I see that I have walked several meters past the doorway to the locker room. “I must do better looking at where I am going.”
I hold out a hand, which she takes, before standing and brushing off some imaginary dust or dirt from her jeans.
“Are you back for more photos?” She nods once, briefly, and then bites her bottom lip again. Maybe she is cringing? I hope I didn’t hurt her. “Are you all right?”
“I think so, yes. My booty to the rescue.” She gives her ass a slap. “Plenty of padding to protect me.”
I cannot help it; my eyes go straight to her ass. Yes, she is a curvy girl, but it is insanely attractive. “I would say the padding serves you well in several ways.”
“So…the big guy likes a big butt?” She raises an eyebrow at me.
Totally caught off guard, I laugh out loud. I never laugh. Yet she made me laugh. Surprising. How she isn’t angry or hurt is also a surprise. I’m not exactly small.
“Well, I appreciate yours—very much.” I can feel the smile on my face as I look down at her and wonder whatever the fuck is wrong with me. I do not laugh or smile or flirt with women.
You’re doing it with her right now, slaboumnyy. If I am honest, I am behaving far worse than an imbecile at the moment.
She tilts her head and twirls a piece of her long, red hair around her finger. “Well, that’s nice to hear. And I appreciate a guy who knows when to take advantage of an opening.”
I must look confused because she adds, “Nice shot out there. You scored.”
I let out a breath and nod my head. “Yes, it was a surprise, but not unwelcome.”
“No, I suppose scoring a goal in a championship game would be classified as welcome. Yep.” She grins and winks. “I’ve got to go find Sid. Nice talking to you.”
She starts to walk away, but I’m planted in place, watching that sexy ass of hers sway from side to side. I manage to bring a few of my brain cells back to full power and call out to her. “Hey Scarlett?”
She turns, her pretty face giving me a questioning look.
“Later you will have dinner with me?” In my head, I try to figure out if that came out right in English.
Her eyes go wide at this, and I cannot tell if I asked the wrong question, or the right one. But before she can answer, my agent, Vlad Nechaev, claps me on the back. I shake his hand as he congratulates me on my goal, but when I look back to get an answer from Scarlett, she’s already gone. Perhaps I did ask that wrong, after all. Three years, and I still don’t understand American women well. Oh well.
Vlad and I walk into the locker room and I climb onto an empty table as he tells meI need to set aside time to meet up with his associates in the next few days. I nod as Coach Brown kicks him out of the locker room with a terse, “No agents! Save it for after the game.”
Vlad puts his hands up and gives an apologetic smile before slinking out into the hallway. Coach tells everyone to shut up and while the therapist works on my aching shoulder, we get notes on the second period.
“Congrats to Viktor, who recognized an opening and followed it to the net,” Coach says. The guys cheer and I give a thumbs-up from my perch. The photographer, Sid, snaps another picture of me, and I glare at him. “Evan, they’re all over you, but they can’t be everywhere. Two of our three first-string defensemen have scored in this game. They won’t know where to look, so keep lobbing shots on goal.”
He goes on, telling us that at two-to-one, this game is nowhere near over, that he wants to see us finish strong, and then he promises a round of shots post-game if we win.
Kink worked out, I sit up and pull my pads and jersey hastily over my head, ready to head back out. Scarlett passes by and I reach out without thought to touch her wrist.
Her head nearly snaps turning to look at me.
“I am sorry to startle, but my offer of dinner stands.”
“I’ll think about it.” She doesn’t give me more than those few words, and I cannot read her. I have no idea if she is interested in having dinner with me. Usually a woman’s attention is easy to acquire. And it is safe to say that players in the NHL (or the KHL for that matter) do not have to work too hard to find females willing to spend time with them…generally, but with Scarlett, I’m truly unsure about her.
“I will be required for press.” I scowl at the thought because there is little I hate more than talking to the fucking press. “But will you find me after?”
Beautiful Red Rocket gives me a lopsided grin and another wink before walking away.
As we line up in the tunnel once more, Georg nudges a padded shoulder into me. “Scarlett, huh?” he asks conspiratorially.
“Red Rocket.” I give a feral grin.
He nods in agreement. “She is that, yes. And a live wire, I hear. She and Pam are friends. She’s got some baggage though.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tyler says from my other side. “He’s just going to fuck her.”
“Do not speak for me. I asked her to dinner—not to hook up.”
�
��Don’t be so uptight, big guy,” Tyler says, bouncing from one skate to the other. “We all need to get our rocks off.”
I roll my eyes and set my face to game mode, not giving the rookie the satisfaction of an answer. My interests, sexual or otherwise, are none of his fucking business. He broadcasts his exploits as if they are public information. I prefer my private life details to stay private.
“You’d think he’d be in a better mood after that goal,” Tyler mutters.
“He is in a good mood,” Georg says, snickering. “Can’t you tell the difference between bad-mood Viktor and good-mood Viktor?”
There is positive energy as we take the ice again, the crowd loud as flashes from cameras and cell phones light up the arena. Welcome to the Jungle plays as we get in a quick warm-up skate before taking our positions. Tyler plays air guitar with his stick and Georg dances, as well. I like Guns N’ Roses okay, I suppose. I prefer hardcore, Russian heavy metal. Bands like Arkona and Catharsis are more my style. Not that I will ever hear such bands play for American crowds of this size.
The period starts and I am in the game. Nothing else matters but winning this championship, and we all feel cocky as the action begins. Evan does as instructed, taking a shot on goal right off the bat, but never making it to the net. Mikhail takes a quick run as well, with me fighting to protect him, but his shot doesn’t make it past the goalie.
A quick turnover and we get hung up trying to catch their best winger, who manages an impossible shot past our goalie, tying the game. Tyler’s temper rages as he gets in the referee’s face, calling for a penalty that did not occur, as far as I could see. Evan makes his way to play peacemaker, and we reset.
“This is it,” Evan says to the defensive line. “Do not let another goal into that fucking net!”
I fucking won’t.
* * *
GET THE BOOK
Crossover Book Connection