by Raine Miller
“It’s okay. He did die.” The next part hurts me to say the words out loud. “He committed suicide. At least, that’s what the police say.”
“You don’t agree?” Georg asks.
“I don’t know, honestly.”
The waitress brings our entrees. Suddenly, my stomach is sour. I doubt I’ll be able to eat this big bowl of pasta I ordered.
“Stephen started using a lot, stuff to keep him awake for these all-night games. And he started losing. He lost sports bets and then he lost poker games. And then he was in debt. Lots of it. We’d gotten engaged the year before. I was barely twenty and I liked the celebrity of it all, being on his arm. And he didn’t seem to worry too much at all the losses. Not at first. He seemed really calm about it, saying things like, ‘everything ebbs and flows, babe.’”
“When did you start to worry?” Pam asks.
“When two huge, scary Russians came to the door and roughed me up. Said he owed a ton of money to their boss. Threatened to come back and do worse if he didn’t materialize soon with their cash.”
“Oh my God, Scarlett. No wonder you’re paranoid about the Russian mob!” Pam reaches out and takes my hand across the table. “How terrifying for you.”
“He came home and found me in a corner, bloody and shaking. We had a huge argument and he told me not to worry. He said he had a big tournament to play and he was going to get everything he owed them and more. Then he would quit, and we’d get married and go live somewhere else. He said he’d get a regular job, go back to school. But he lost the tournament and the goons came back and I ended up in the hospital with two fractured ribs. And while I was in there, the police came and told me Stephen had killed himself. Took a whole bottle of painkillers and chased it with a side of methamphetamine.”
“Oh, fuck.” Georg leans back in his chair with wide eyes.
“Pretty much that, yeah.” I nod my head slowly. I can still see every moment of that night. I was in so much pain and had been feeling so lonely, angry why Stephen hadn’t come to the hospital to see me. The look on the policeman’s face as he’d told me my fiancé was dead…had killed himself. The pity. I remember turning away from their pitiful expressions in a state of shock. Pain. Grief. Anger. Why had he taken the coward’s way out? I was too terrified to ask if it meant the Russians would still be coming after me…what would they do if they did come? Would I ever be safe? I can feel the same tremors of fury and sadness starting.
Pam leans across the table and holds my hand, a very cold hand from such a painful recall.
“I’m so sorry, Scarlett.” Pam’s expression is grim. “You were twenty years old?”
“Yep. It was almost two years ago. That year pretty much sucked.”
“I don’t know what to say, honey,” Pam says gently.
“Dammit.” I wipe away a tear that has managed to roll down my cheek. “I’m just a mess. I’m so sorry. This is such a downer on a night that should be all about celebrating the two of you.”
“It’s okay,” Pam says with a squeeze to my hand.
“Yeah, it’s okay. We are glad we could accompany you tonight. And I will also happily kick Viktor in the balls for standing you up.” Georg’s accent and more formal speech comes out a little louder than usual. I’ve noticed he does that whenever the topic veers to serious. He’s not always the comedian.
I laugh at his threat of violence to Viktor’s cojones. “No need. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go out with him anyway.”
“He is a bit of a stick in the mud,” Georg offers. “For real. His mood is very serious. No fun at all.”
“Now, now,” Pam says, shaking her head. “He can be kind and polite too, Georg. Give him some credit for being a mostly decent guy. We can’t all have your charming personality, now can we?”
Georg shuts her up with a kiss across the table.
We finish dinner on lighter topics, and I find myself emotional as I take a cab home. I wait until I get inside my small apartment, but then lose it as soon as the door is locked behind me. I head straight into the shower and weep as the hot water rains down on my body, cleaning away the pain of the past. Or, at least, I wish it would. I still have so many things hanging over my head. Not just Stephen’s death, but his remaining debt. And my father…
It’s all too much sometimes. So, it’s probably best that I didn’t go out with a possibly shady Russian hockey player tonight anyway. Who needs that drama? Not. Me.
Even though said Russian hockey player is incredibly hot.
Insanely hot.
And pushes every single one of my buttons.
But, thanks to Viktor’s rebuttal tonight, I’ll never know what it would feel like for him to push any buttons. My life doesn’t need another complication. It’s time to close off that one-sided, poorly timed attraction and stay focused on moving forward.
Hot hockey players be damned.
Six
Not Fun For Parties
Viktor
I soak in the ice bath beneath the arena for a long time. Long enough that it burns, thinking and rethinking my stupidity in charging that player.
Sometimes I am too aggressive on the ice. This was one of those times, and it cost us the championship. I have only myself to blame.
Therapy staff mill around, assisting with minor injuries. One of them tells me I’ll do myself damage if I don’t get out of the tub, so I rise, the cold water sluicing over my skin. I grab a robe and head for the sauna, wanting the extreme difference of cold and hot to calm my aching muscles.
Nothing can calm my mind, though.
I did the wrong thing. Tyler did the wrong thing. But I also protected our captain from what was bound to be an injury-causing check against the boards. I should not have earned a major penalty though. A five-minute penalty? Really?
“Fuck!” Punching the wall of the sauna does nothing but bruise my knuckles and put a dent in the wood.
I remember looking up at the owner’s suite from the penalty box. I expected everyone to be staring at me. To be just as angry with me as I was with myself. I saw so many familiar faces up there, watching through the row of glass windows. Evan’s wife, Holly. Georg’s fiancée, Pamela. And yes, the beautiful Scarlett, as well. And they were watching with worry, their faces full of concern and caring. But not anger.
With the game lost, it turned my stomach to shake their hands, to see the other team skate the cup across our ice. And I do think of this as our ice. Crush ice. My home now. My team. And I have sorely let them down.
A call to my cell phone in the locker room reminds me that I have to meet Vlad and his associates tomorrow. There is a big MMA fight and he’s got ringside seats set up for us. I’d hoped it would be a celebratory outing, that I’d be high on the championship. Now, I’m angry enough that I’d very much like to get into that ring myself.
I went up to the press conference like a dutiful dog, but I said as little as possible. Georg and Pamela’s engagement was still big news, and the questions that came my way were about my goal, not my fuckup, so that was a relief. However, I could not focus my own energy on the positive. No, all I felt was loss. Like a loser. And when I saw Scarlett, her hand raised in greeting, I simply could not face her. There was no way she’d want to go out with the defense loser. She never even said yes, so surely she wasn’t expecting me to stop to talk to her.
I head home exhausted. Miserable. I do end up going to the MMA fight, but I can barely muster the energy to care much about it. I get as drunk as I can, my mood souring with each beer I drink. Vlad tells me to cool it, but I don’t. In fact, I drink more just to spite him because he is annoying when he tells me what to do. He is not my father. He works for me. He is paid to do the job of representing me, nothing more.
The next morning, I’ve got a text from Georg and a pounding headache. He calls me an enormous prick for standing up Scarlett. I don’t respond out of guilt. Georg is correct. I was a prick for doing that to her after I twice asked her to have dinner with me. He text
s again a few minutes later.
Georg: I will probably regret this, but we’re having our engagement party tomorrow night.
Georg: You should come.
Viktor: I am not fun for parties.
Georg: You are not fun for anything. But you should still come. Asshole.
Viktor: Where?
Georg: LINQ hotel. 7 p.m.
Viktor: Ok
Georg: See you at closing meeting today.
I don’t answer. I forgot about closing meeting. This is a chance to get final thoughts from Coach Brown, clean out our lockers, and do any last press.
While I would rather stay inside the dark cave of my apartment, I drag myself out of bed, hung over as I may be, and run a hot shower. I drink leftover, cold coffee straight from the pot, and then head out.
At close-out, Coach basically threatens me and Tyler. If we do not get it together and stop causing unnecessary fights and penalties, he will send us back to the minors. Not that I ever played in any minor league here in the United States. I played professional hockey for the Russian national team since I was seventeen. I also played in two Olympics before I joined an East Coast NHL team for two years. And now one year here in Vegas.
I know what he is saying, though. He took our trade. He wanted a championship-winning defensive line. And there is potential here. We all know it. But we also blew it. The minors, for me, might mean just sitting on a bench while he gives someone else a shot on first-string. I did not come to the US to sit on a bench.
We clean out our lockers and then the press is allowed in to get individual thoughts on the series and the season. I barely get approached, probably because I am an asshole. But the blonde reporter named Kacey King does come over to talk to me. She gushes over my goal, her hand on my arm while we talk. When the camera goes off, she asks the cameraman to meet her at the van. He just shrugs and stalks off.
I assume we’re done but she follows me as I make my way to the door. She touches my arm again and asks me if I have any plans for the evening. She wears a very revealing dress, too revealing for any self-respecting reporter. But I know this woman’s reputation. And I know what she is asking me. And for a moment, I consider it.
She is very small, very thin. Attractive, but in a way that seems fake. And there is desperation there, too. It is not an uncommon thing, seeing a woman hide her desperation under fake sexual bravado. The puck bunnies who try to get with players are commonly like this, which is why they so turn me off. I want a real woman, a woman who is not masking insecurity by screwing someone famous.
But there is a small part of me that considers Kacey. Perhaps bending her over the back of my couch and plowing into her would calm my heavy sense of disappointment for a little while. Perhaps a moment of pleasure, of release, would be beneficial to me right now.
“I do,” I finally say. “I am expected elsewhere, unfortunately.”
“Oh,” she says, forcing a smile. “Okay. I’ll hope for a rain check, then. It would be fun to get to know you better. It’s been a pleasure watching you play this season.”
She struts off, flicking her long hair back as her high heels click against the floor.
My hand will have to do for tonight.
Once again.
Seven
The Bosses Do Not Have to Know
Viktor
I work up a post-game press release that celebrates the team’s great season. Holly has put out a series of congratulatory social media posts to go along with the many quotes and notable moments I included in my release. I’ve got three story ideas to pitch, as well, so I work those up and send them to Fiona to review before I email them to our contacts.
Fiona is down in the locker rooms making sure the players all stick to a prescribed plan for how we will downplay our loss and focus on our team’s positive efforts. It’s all highly orchestrated, but whatever. She’s a master at all of this. I just do as I’m told.
Once I’m done for the day, I head out to shop for a dress to wear to Georg and Pam’s impromptu engagement party. They plan to get married really quickly, and though they’re still working out the plans, they want to get everyone together to follow up the loss with something positive. I decide that, fraternization policy or not, I am going to flirt up one of the Crush players there and see where it leads. I deserve a little fun for once. It’s a party and it’s a hotel, and I’m pissed that Viktor stood me up. And I’m extra pissed that I allowed myself to dwell on Stephen and his bullshit for so long last night. My eyes are still puffy from crying. Freaking irritating.
I have to work my second job tonight and I don’t have much time, so speed-shopping it is. I search the sale racks until I find what I think is a knockout. It’s green and strapless and short. I’m elated when I find a pair of strappy silver sandals to go with the green and call it a day.
Of course, my uniform of a metallic gold-fringed corset paired with black butt shorts is standard slutty issue for my job as a cocktail waitress at the Tangiers. It’s mindless work, taking drink orders, answering stupid gambling questions, ignoring leering men, shoving the occasional wandering hand away from my ass. My coworkers tease me that I’d get better tips if I smiled and allowed the wandering hands a bit more.
Nah. I am not that dedicated to a job I wish like hell I didn’t have to work. Thank you, Stephen, for fucking up my life even when you’re dead. Would I only ever know assholes?
As usual, I’m an angry, pissed-off cocktail waitress as I make my way home. The only bonus comes with the sleep in until noon the next day. It’s rare that I get to do that, and I relish the feeling of my soft bed and pillows until I get a series of texts from Pam.
Pam: Come over early. Have a hairstylist on hand.
Pam: We can drink and get ready together.
Pam: You can see the amazing suite Georg got for us for the week.
Pam: Are you even awake?
Pam: Get your ass up and over here, girl.
Scarlett: Okay, okay
Scarlett: I’m up. I’ll be over in a bit.
Pam: There’s mimosas and food and chocolate.
Scarlett: On my way. You said chocolate.
I shower and leave my hair wet as I pull on some shorts and a T-shirt, my things for the day and tonight packed in a bag. The party will be on a private deck with a private pool and bar, but Pam is holed up in a vast suite with bright, white furniture and a view of sprawling Las Vegas.
She’s not wrong. There is a ton of food—croissants, fruit, bacon, eggs—and mimosas. Rich-smelling coffee, and an array of specialty desserts as well.
“Why so much food?” I ask as I wander around the suite, taking in the views internal and external.
“The chocolates were a gift from Max Terry. The brunch stuff was just for fun.”
“Cool.” I load up a plate and doctor a cup of coffee with sugar and milk.
“Holly’s on her way. She’s currently micromanaging her uncle Troy, who is staying with the baby until tomorrow at noon,” Pam says. She snickers at the thought. “Poor Uncle Troy.”
“Why?” I ask with a mouth stuffed with flaky pastry goodness. “Dany seems like a really good baby.”
“No, the baby’s fine. Holly’s a little overprotective.”
“Oh. She probably parents the same way she works. With gusto.”
We both giggle at this. We’ve come a long way, to be able to joke about Pam’s best friend like this. Pam used to get defensive if I said anything at all about Holly. But it was just my insecurity showing with the job at the time, and honestly, Holly is amazing. I’ve grown to really like her as a coworker and as a friend. She’s even a bit of a career mentor, to be honest. But she is also a person who takes her work and her family super seriously. And I doubt she’s been away from her baby for this long since she was born.
Soon, the team nutritionist, Devon, arrives, and Holly comes maybe an hour later. It’s obvious she’s been crying, even though she tries to cover it by giving us all a big smile.
“That bad?” Pam asks.
Holly’s smile turns to a grimace and she flops onto the overstuffed couch. “I’m such a mess,” she admits. “Troy was happy to stay with her but I just couldn’t leave. Dany didn’t even notice I was leaving. Evan was ready to go. It was just me being a blubbering mess. And I know it’s only, like, twenty-four hours, but…”
“It’s your first time away,” Pam says, pulling her into a side-hug. “It’ll get easier, Holls.”
“What are the guys doing today?” I ask, trying to get her thinking about something other than the baby.
“Evan got us a suite for the night, too. They’re drinking and doing whatever dudes do,” Holly says. “Hopefully, it doesn’t look and smell like some bachelor pad by the time we get to enjoy it tonight.”
“Hopefully, you’ll be able to relax long enough to enjoy it tonight,” Pam comments.
“Ten bucks says they’ll be home by midnight,” Devon says, grinning from the food table.
“I’ll take that bet,” I say. “I have faith in you, Holly.”
“Well, thank you, Scarlett,” Holly says. She takes a steadying breath. “Tonight’s going to be fun. I am actually really excited about getting dressed up and having a night in a hotel with my hot husband.”
“I’d be excited, too,” I say.
“Maybe you and Viktor could—” Pam starts.
“No,” I say, putting a hand up to stop her. “No. Viktor and I cannot anything. We are not a thing. We’re not even friends.”
“He seems intense,” Devon comments.
“Exactly,” I say. “And he asked me out then ignored me, so…”
There’s a knock on the door so I use it as an opportunity to escape any more conversation about Viktor Demoskev. It’s Daisy, another of our media department coworkers. She’s a pretty girl, kind of quiet and low-key. She sits in the cubicle across from Holly and manages media credential requests. I didn’t realize she even knew Pam.
