Victor: A Chicago Blaze Hockey Romance

by Brenda Rothert

  “Hey, douchebag, let’s go,” Knox says gruffly. “I need some pussy. We’re waiting on you.”

  Unlike Easy, Knox is right at home throwing around every uncouth word he knows in conversation. He’s a dark, hairy giant with a temper. We like to call him the Missing Link. Mostly because it aggravates the shit out of him.

  It takes two Ubers to get all of us to the bar we’re meeting up with some fans at. A bunch of hardcore Chicagoans drove up here for the game. I’m not planning to drink tonight, but I do like hanging out with the faithful.

  The place we meet up at looks like a warehouse, with high ceilings and sheet metal walls. It’s got a rustic vibe, with long tables made from recycled wood from old bowling lanes. There’s a crowd, and I get lots of handshakes and congratulations from the Chicago fans here.

  Easy knows I don’t want to drink, so he sets a glass of ice water in front of me as a server delivers a tray of shots to our table. I’ve been eating and sleeping well and abstaining from alcohol, and I’m not making any changes to the new routine. It’s working well.

  “To Vic,” he says, raising his glass into the air.

  Everyone drinks to me. I sip my water and look for a menu.

  Jonah claps me on the shoulder and says, “So fucking a goat before games is working for you, yeah? Keep that shit up, Lane.”

  There are cackles and comments, and I raise my middle finger to them all. I’m verging on hangry, and this place seems to mostly serve appetizers.

  “Hey, Victor, I’m Angie.”

  I look up from the menu to see a curvy blond woman holding her hand out in introduction.

  “Hey, nice to meet you,” I say.

  “You too.” She smiles and flips her long hair so it’s all down her back, her ample breasts on full display in a low-cut top.

  A waitress comes to get our orders, and I get a burger and some grilled chicken. I’ll stay here as long as it takes to get my food and eat, but then I’m out. I’m tired.

  “So where are you from?” Angie asks me.

  “Originally from Vancouver.”

  “Oh, nice. I think I knew that.” She giggles. “I’m a California girl. My dad’s originally from Chicago, though, and he’s a huge Blaze fan. I work at his company, so trips like this are a work perk.”

  “That’s great.”

  Across the table from me, Knox is grinning at a woman who’s pretty much in his lap. Looks like he found the pussy he was searching for. I used to do the same after a win—fucking is a great outlet for pent-up energy.

  And the way Angie’s brushing her fingertips over my thigh, I think I could easily get her into bed. Would it mess with my mojo? My dick, straining against my pants right now, says it would not. And it has been more than a month since I got laid.

  “So what do you do at your dad’s company?” I ask Angie.

  “I work in accounts receivable, processing invoices. Since us kids will inherit the company one day, Dad makes us all work there to learn about it.” She rolls her eyes, then immediately switches to a coy smile. “You played amazing out there tonight. It was really hot.”

  “Thanks.”

  She puts a hand on my shoulder and edges closer to me, speaking in a low tone. “I don’t know anything about hockey, really. I just know you put the little puck in the net. And that it takes a really big stick.”

  Hell. I suddenly wish I was drinking tonight. The only way I could fuck this woman while sober is if she quit talking for the duration of the night.

  I generally like puck bunnies. They’re so easy to get into bed, and they rarely have expectations of anything after. But tonight…I’m not feeling it.

  There’s nothing authentic about fucking a groupie. And I don’t know when authenticity started mattering to me, but…it does. I could take Angie to a hotel and fuck for a few hours, but I’d rather eat dinner, jerk off and go to bed.

  I must be getting old or something.

  “Hey, it was really nice meeting you, Angie,” I say. “Appreciate you coming all this way to go to the game. I need to go return a call.”

  I take out my phone and hold it up, trying to back up my bluff. Angie’s expression falls with disappointment.

  For the thirty seconds it takes me to walk outside, I feel a little bad. But she’ll find someone else. Puck bunnies aren’t usually picky.

  I look at my phone, continuing with the charade in case Angie’s watching. The message on the screen makes my heart pound harder for a few beats.

  You didn’t send the 15k, so now it’s 20k. You have until midnight to Venmo it to me or this hits the Internet tomorrow.

  The photo on the screen after the message makes my stomach churn so bad I think I might throw up. I exhale hard, then quickly swipe to erase the message and photo.

  Fuck. I was stupid for avoiding this. For thinking he’d go away. He’ll never go away.

  The high I was riding over my comeback comes crashing to the ground. No matter how it looks to the outside world, I’m not strong. I don’t have it all. What does it matter if I make millions when I’m a hostage, forced to send money to someone I’d like to kill with my bare hands?

  Clenching my jaw, I open the Venmo app and press the numbers on my phone screen to send the money. Twenty fucking grand. No matter how much I earn playing hockey, that’ll always be a lot of money to me. I grew up with nothing.

  And that’s not even the end of it. I’ll get another text when that money runs out. It might be a request for $10,000, or it might be for $50,000. I won’t know until it comes. But one thing I do know—I have to pay it.

  I have no choice. That son of a bitch on the other end of the Venmo transaction owns me.

  No longer in the mood to even feign interest in conversation, I consider bolting. But I need to eat. I’ll have my order changed to carryout so I can get the hell out of here. I don’t want to bring down the mood inside. For the rest of the night, I just want to be alone.

  Chapter Nine

  Lindy

  Ari passes me a case of chicken tenders and I stack it onto the pile in the freezer.

  “I’m telling you, chica, Mateo’s the only man I need in my life.”

  I give her a skeptical look. “I’ve heard that before.”

  “I’m done with Tinder. All those guys want is tit pics to jerk off to. Fuck them.”

  “So you deleted the app from your phone?”

  She cuts open a case of bagged, frozen French fries, silent for a beat as she pretends she can’t talk and operate a box cutter at the same time.

  “I’m going to,” she finally says.

  “Ha. Lies.”

  Ari turns to me, her brows drawn together seriously. “Lindy, it’s a jungle out there. Lots of guys don’t want to date a single mom.”

  “Those guys are dicks. And why do you have to be dating someone?”

  She shrugs. “It’s no fun being single.”

  “Is it fun dating guys who whip their penises out on the first date? Or say they forgot their wallets when it’s time to pay for dinner?”

  Ari snorts out a laugh. “Ah, Alex. He actually did both of those things.”

  “Eww.” I shake my head, disgusted. “I’d scream and run away if a guy whipped it right out like that.”

  My friend gives me a sympathetic look. “You don’t understand, because you’re a virgin.”

  This time I’m the one who snorts. “It’s gross for a guy to do that, Ari, and that’s that.”

  She shrugs. “It’s kinda nice to know they’re at least turned on by me.”

  “Nope. I’ll stick with never turning anyone on, thanks.”

  We finish stocking the freezer and I close the door. Ari wheels the dolly we used to carry the cases of frozen food behind us as we walk back to the main freezer.

  “You don’t even try, Lindy. When’s the last time you even talked to a guy?”

  My heart races as I remember the last time I talked to a guy, but I don’t say anything.

  “Belinda Noelle Bor
ing.” Ari stops the dolly and turns to face me, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re red as a tomato. What haven’t you told me?”

  “I hate it when you call me that,” I remind her.

  “I only call you that when you’re holding out on me.” She stomps her foot impatiently. “Did you talk to Manny?”

  “Ew. No!”

  Her lips part and her eyes widen. “What? Someone else?” She shoves my shoulder, her expression hurt. “How could you not tell me?”

  “It wasn’t really…I mean, it doesn’t count. It wasn’t like that.”

  “Bitch, you better tell me right now.”

  I waffle back and forth, torn between wanting to share the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me and wanting to keep it to myself.

  “I talked to Victor.”

  Ari’s brown eyes double in size. “Victor Lane?”

  I smile. “Yes.”

  Her shriek of excitement echoes throughout the empty concourse of the Carson Center. I try to shush her, but alas, nothing short of a muzzle will quiet Ari when smells gossip.

  “What!” she cries. “When? How? Tell me everything, Lindy.”

  We start walking again, and I recount meeting Victor a little over a week ago.

  “Have you heard from him since?”

  I give her a chiding look. “Of course not. It wasn’t like that. We just talked about hockey.”

  “But still! This is your opening, Lindy. You have to make a move.”

  Annoyance flares inside me. I knew Ari wouldn’t just listen to me tell her about my once-in-a-lifetime encounter. She has to try to make it into something more.

  “Just talking to him was enough for me,” I say sharply. “I’m not trying to get him into bed, not that it’s even physically possible.”

  “Of course it’s possible.”

  I sigh heavily. “Right. Look at him and then look at me. You don’t need to tell me I could get any guy I wanted just because you’re my best friend, you know.”

  Ari’s eyes are swimming with emotion when she stops walking and turns to face me. “I’m your best friend?”

  My cheeks heat. “Well, yeah. I hope that’s—”

  She throws her arms around me in a hug. “You’re my best friend, too, Lindy.” She steps back, putting her hands on my shoulders. “And you’re so much prettier and awesomer than you give yourself credit for.”

  I look at the ground. “You’re only saying that because—”

  Ari gives my shoulders a gentle shake. “I’m saying it because it’s true, hooker.”

  “I’m not saying there’s no guy out there who’d be interested in me. I’m sure, if I really tried, I could get a date. But let’s be real. Victor Lane will never want to date me. He’s a rich, hot professional athlete. He could get any woman he wanted. And I smell like relish and rotisserie weiners. Plus, I’m—”

  “Boring!” Bruce’s voice booms in the cavernous arena hallway.

  “Oh, shit,” Ari mutters.

  “Gonzales,” Bruce says disdainfully, looking between the two of us as he approaches, clipboard in hand. “I expect you to slack off, but Boring, I thought I could count on you.”

  “You can. We just stopped for a second.”

  He looks at his wristwatch, and then glares at me. “I told you to have every concession freezer stocked by noon. But there are still boxes waiting in the main freezer.”

  “We’re working as fast as we can,” I say.

  “You’re standing around yapping, which is not what I pay you for.”

  Ari rolls her eyes.

  “Problem, Gonzales?”

  She shakes her head and gives him a fake smile. “No, I just feel terrible for letting you down, seeing as you’re personally paying us and all.”

  Bruce just scowls at her for a solid five seconds, and she holds his stare. I start to feel awkward, but finally, he turns back to me.

  “Get the stocking done and make it snappy. You need to wipe down all the stainless before tonight’s crew gets here.”

  “Okay, we’re on it,” I assure him.

  Ari grabs the dolly and we continue down the hallway.

  “Why is he such an asshole?” she whispers.

  “Stop, we’re not far enough away yet.”

  “I don’t care, it’s not like people are beating down the doors for this crap job. He needs us.”

  “I guess so.”

  Ari arches her brows. “We don’t come to work high, our nails are less than three inches long and we aren’t rude to customers. That puts us in the top two percent of the workforce here.”

  “True.”

  “Anyway,” Ari glances behind us to make sure Bruce isn’t following, “back to Victor. You have to find a way to see him again, Lindy.”

  “I think TV is my only option for that.”

  “Girl, you work in the same place he does. Let’s figure this out. Let’s see, you could…casually walk by the locker room when he’s leaving practice.”

  “That’s a restricted access area. My badge can’t open those doors.”

  “Huh. Okay.” She thinks for a second and says, “I bet Manny’s could. You could rub his crotch a little and get him to loan you his badge.”

  “Oh, God. No. Absolutely not. Are you joking!”

  “Over the clothes, Lindy. Just a little.”

  I cringe and groan. “No way! There will be no crotch rubbing, okay?”

  She sighs. “Okay, so...we find out when he’ll be at another VIP event and make sure you get assigned to it.”

  “I don’t know. That sounds awkward.”

  “Lindy, you think everything is awkward.”

  She’s not wrong. But the thought of standing there with a tray of drinks, wearing my stained white shirt, is just too much. I’d prefer my single perfect conversation with Victor to be the only one we ever have. That’s better than forcing another encounter with him.

  We get back to the main freezer and put our hooded sweatshirts on, then go in to load up the dolly again. We’re strapping the cases of food in place when the freezer door is pulled open and a woman sticks her head inside.

  “Hi, are either one of you Lindy?”

  “I am.”

  I shift, uncomfortable with being sought out. I hope I’m not in trouble with HR or anything.

  “Finally!”

  The woman stands aside as Ari and I roll the dolly out of the freezer.

  “Yikes, it’s cold in there,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself. “Anyway, hi. I’m Caroline, an intern from the PR division. I was told to deliver this note to Lindy in Concessions. I’ve been looking all over for you since yesterday.”

  “Oh, I was off yesterday,” I say, taking the paper she hands over. “This is from the PR division?”

  Caroline shrugs. “I guess so? All I know is my boss told me to give it to you.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  She turns to go, waving at us. “Have a good one, guys.”

  “You too,” Ari calls back.

  “I have no idea why PR would want to send me anything,” I say to Ari, clutching the note.

  “Open it.”

  I consider giving her an excuse about how we need to finish stocking the fridges in case this note is somehow embarrassing, but curiosity gets the better of me and I open it, scanning the words.

  “No way,” I say softly.

  “What?”

  I look up at my best friend, grin, and then read her the note.

  “Dear Lindy, thanks again for being the Chubbs to my Happy. Any chance you can get a night off work to come watch a game in a box? Text me and I’ll set it up. Victor.”

  “Holy shit.” Ari squeals with excitement.

  “He wrote his number at the bottom,” I say, feeling lightheaded.

  “You look like you’re about to pass out, chica.” Ari offers me her arm to steady myself.

  “I think I might. I can’t even…I don’t even know what to say.”

  “We have l
ots of work to do.”

  I fold the note up and stick it in my pocket. “You’re right. Let’s finish stocking. We can talk about this later.”

  Ari starts to laugh uncontrollably. “That’s so not what I meant, Lindy. I meant your hair, and makeup and your outfit. I want to help you get ready when you go to a game!”

  “Oh.” I grin as wide as my cheeks will allow. “Okay, yeah.”

  “Oh, that was a good one.” Ari laughs again. “You thought I gave a fuck about what Bruce wants.”

  I laugh along with her, but I’m not thinking about Bruce. I’m in shock, I think. Victor invited me to a game. Wow.

  I just skyrocketed up to Cloud Ninety-Nine, and I think I’ll be here for a very long time.

  Chapter Ten

  Victor

  I forgot about the chicken. Shit.

  Grabbing the handle of the pan, I pull it away from the heat and pick up a spatula to flip the two chicken breasts I’m sautéing.

  The one of the left is a little…charred. Won’t stop me from eating it, though. This is what I get for trying to cook instead of ordering in. Anton’s always harping about home-cooked food being more healthy, so I’m trying that out.

  It’s harder than I thought it would be to have a protein, starch and vegetable hot and ready to eat at the exact same time. I lost track of the chicken while chopping vegetables for a salad.

  At least it’s just me I’m cooking for. If I ever had to impress anyone with my cooking skills, I’d be in deep shit. I come by it honestly—I was raised by a single mom who usually told me to find my own dinner.

  My phone dings with a text just as I’m pulling my roasted potatoes out of the oven. I set the sheet pan on the stovetop and grab a piece of potato to see if it’s done.

  “Fuck me,” I growl, dropping the piping-hot vegetable back to the pan.

  That wasn’t my smartest move. While I let the potatoes cool, I walk over to the raised breakfast bar that separates my kitchen and living room, picking up my phone to check the text.