by Raine Miller
“People do this in the janitor’s closet?”
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know. I wasn’t being literal about the location. You’re missing my point.”
“No, I am not,” he insists. “I know that you are saying you are not interested in a one-night stand. This I understand.”
“Then can you understand that I want something real? That I want a real connection? And the fact that you’re a big celebrity athlete won’t change that for me. There are probably twenty women at this party alone who would gladly go screw the famous Mad Russian in your hotel room. I am not one of them.”
“I am sorry…my English is—” He rubs a thumb over his bottom lip in a move that should be illegal before asking, “Were you being literal about the location that time?”
I honestly can’t tell if he’s just messing with me, or if he’s serious. I just raise an eyebrow in response. “Why am I even still talking to you? You’re just another horny player trying to score for the night. And it’s not going to be me!”
I’m about to say more, but I see Fiona and realize I still represent the team, especially in a setting like this. I don’t want to make a scene, and I don’t want her getting on my case for socializing with a player. Though…what a joke that fraternizing policy is. First Evan and Holly got past it, then Pam and Georg. And I hear that Pam and Georg got caught on camera, screwing in the therapy room. So, if she still has a job after that, then…
I let out a little pffft sound just thinking about it. Viktor looks perplexed, surely wondering where my mind went just now. I just shake my head and hop off my stool. Straightening my dress and grabbing my clutch, I head out of the pool and party area.
I can feel the heat of Viktor’s eyes on me every step of the way.
My feet take me to the elevator and down a few levels to a smaller, quieter bar. I take a seat at the counter and order myself another beer. I just need to think, to be away from the work stuff and from hulking, hot Viktor. I think I’ve handled him pretty well, considering. But still, he’s terribly distracting. And we all know how easily I can be distracted by some hard muscles and a good set of lips. I remind myself that I don’t need what he’s offering. I don’t need quick and easy.
Even if the quick and easy he’s suggesting is hot enough to melt me from the inside out.
Nine
Apologies
Viktor
I nurse my drink for a moment, feeling like an asshole. I don’t flirt with women often. In fact, it’s been a long time since. In the past few years, sex has been an indulgence for me, easily attained with minimal effort. Really only maintenance when I was in a mood. The last time was when I first came to the Crush with Tyler Lockhardt and we went out to a bar with Georg and some others after our first win on our new team. At least six months ago.
When I was sixteen, my coach told me that true athletes could not maintain long-term romantic relationships. He reminded me of this at each turn, particularly when he noticed my focus faltering, or my gaze settling on one woman or another. I rebelled, of course, falling desperately in love with a ballet dancer a few years later. She was graceful, lithe, and as busy as I with preparations for a career in a competitive, athletic field.
We stole away when we could, and I promised we would find ways to stay together, even when the Olympics took me to other countries, even when practices took up eight or more hours a day, even when her own career took off, and her company toured the world.
It did not work, of course, but it was not I who ended it. And as I was very young and still very emotional, I swore away the notion of love forever, choosing instead to focus only on what would get me closer and closer to my goals as an elite athlete.
I do not know what it is about this woman. Scarlett. Red Rocket. I know basically nothing about her. She seems young, but there is also a wariness to her, a mask that disguises pain or loss or some other life experience that changed her in some way. She has an old soul inside her youthful and beautiful body. I find her intriguing. But what truly surprised me was how angry she seemed about missing our dinner together. That she’s looking for something long-term when she’s so young. Does that mean she saw me as someone worth considering a longer-term liaison with?
Finishing my drink, I toss a tip on the bar and follow her, seeing her long legs topped by her green skirt retreat around a corner and onto an elevator. I watch the numbers until the car stops, and then I push the button to follow her. When I make my way into the fifth-floor bar and scan the room, she’s sitting at the counter, alone.
Fucking perfect.
It is easy to watch her, to become transfixed by her. She is an incredibly beautiful woman. Her hair, such a sensuous color. Her skin, so fine with just a smattering of pale freckles I noticed earlier when I was being a creep (her words) by smelling her. I wonder if she has freckles like that anywhere else on her body. Her figure is perfection, with a tiny waist accentuated by lush curves above and below. It is a miracle that no one has put a ring on her finger. She does not fit the profile of girl who stays single for very long.
I know the reality. She has my attention now, and while she fears a one-night experiment, I fear the opposite. I want her badly—and unfortunately, I know what this means. I will never be able to limit it to one time. If I have her, I’ll want her again. And again. I’ll linger for one more kiss, one more touch, one more time lost in her.
But for that to ever happen, I will have to gain her trust. I’ll have to offer more of myself than I am sure even exists, because I shut that door so very long ago. I’m not sure I know how to connect anymore.
As I approach, she looks up from her phone and glowers at me.
The bartender looks to me for an order, so I order two shots of Kauffman and a beer. After he pours the shots, I pick one and hold it up. She makes a dissatisfied face but obliges me, taking the other shot and holding it opposite mine.
“I apologize for standing you up, Red Rocket,” I say with a tilt of my head. “I am not good with people, but I would try to be better for an opportunity to get to know you.”
She pushes her lips to one side, sighing as she considers what I’ve said. Then she tosses back the shot and orders another round. As we raise our glasses a second time, she says, “I accept your apology, Viktor, thank you.”
Satisfied that this means I am now welcome in her presence; I take the stool next to hers.
“So what part of Russia did you grow up in?” she asks, picking a few bar snacks from a nearby bowl and popping them into her mouth.
“Saint Petersburg.”
“Is your family in Russia?”
“Yes. My mother. I have one sister who lives with her husband and children. Galina’s husband is a doctor for the German army so they have lived in many places. Right now in Berlin.”
“And you played hockey since you were little?”
“Yes. I began instruction when I was three years old.”
“Did you play professionally there, too?” she asks.
“Yes. KHL and Russian national team for the Olympics.”
“Did you play in Sochi?”
“Yes. Also in Korea where Russia took gold.”
“Oh my God, you have a gold medal?”
I nod in the affirmative, content to leave the conversation of my past career behind when she stops her onslaught of questions abruptly. She takes another handful of bar snacks, followed by a long draw from her beer bottle. There is something incongruous about how she looks, drinking from an amber bottle in her fine dress, with her hair tightly managed in a style that confounds me.
I want to unwind all that hair from its prison.
Scarlett notices my staring and her skin flushes down her cheeks to her throat. Another place I want to kiss and caress, her neck. God, I want my lips on her neck so badly. I adjust my position on my seat, as my cock has come to stiff attention. She called me creepy earlier. Surely, having an erection in a public place such as this would only add to her assessment of me.
There is a long silence between us. She looks me over and also at her phone periodically. Finally, she says, “You’re supposed to reciprocate. Ask about me.”
Oh. I suck at this. I do want to know more about her, which is a shock in itself. But since I’ve been in America, not many have asked me about me. Especially the women I’ve encountered. Will she reject me because of my inability to converse properly? But I have to try.
“Where did you grow up?” I sound like an idiot as I ask the question.
“Here.”
“In this hotel?”
She gives me a vague, indulgent smile. “No. Not in this hotel. In Las Vegas.”
“I was not aware that people grew up in a town like this.”
“They do. Babies are born here every day. Evan and Holly’s baby was born here.”
“Yes, of course.” Though I had not given a single thought to the child of Evan Kazmeirowicz prior to this moment. It seems just yesterday we were brawling in a nightclub. Now he is married, a father, a team captain. He is a completely different man.
“You don’t like him very much, do you?”
“I don’t dislike him. I am indifferent to him. He is a teammate. And he did not finish at his best this season. Had he been playing to his best ability; we would have won that final game.”
She purses her lips, eyes narrowing. “So, your bonehead penalty had nothing to do with it?”
“He did not score even once in that game. Both Crush goals came from defensemen. This is unacceptable,” I explain. “He is paid very highly to score many goals.”
She lets out a light laugh and sits back. “That’s the most animated I have ever seen you before, Viktor Demoskev.”
“This is hardly important; I speak only facts.”
“You have a hard time admitting when you’ve messed up, don’t you?” With a smug grin, she takes another long pull on her beer before slamming it on the bar and ordering herself another.
“I have been told that before, yes.”
She starts to comment, but before she can say anything, two young women come up, asking if I am Viktor from the Crush.
I nod and they ask to take selfies with me. I sigh, ready to tell them I don’t sign autographs or take pictures with fans, but they have their phones out before I can stop them. I must look like a deer in the headlights. I know I must have no expression on my face. But they both kiss me on the cheek and thank me, running off to their group once more.
After this nonsense, I regain my focus on the beautiful Scarlett, and find her staring at me with the tiniest, most amused smile on her face.
* * *
Scarlett
* * *
Viktor Demoskev has hazel eyes. I wish I could examine them in natural light, but I think they’re gray and blue and green and even a little yellow. I wonder how someone ends up with such eyes. He also has a deep scar high on his right cheek. I don’t have to wonder how he got the scar, however. This man has fought in endless battles on the ice for most of his life, and scars are just a part of playing professional hockey. It’s surprising really that he doesn’t have more visible scars than just the one.
“Scarlett, what is your family name?” he asks, trying to pretend he didn’t just have two blitzed puck bunnies slobber all over him.
Family name? What the heck is a family name? Oh, last name, maybe? “It’s Woods.”
“Oh.” He frowns slightly. “I thought it might be Irish.”
“Because of the red hair and the green eyes?”
“Yes.”
“Got it from my mom. She was an O’Shea. My dad was a boring old Woods.”
“Was? They have passed on?”
“My mom has passed, yes. She died of cancer when I was in middle school. My dad? Unknown. He disappeared. He had some gambling debt so he may be at the bottom of the ocean. Or he could be drinking frilly beverages under a beach umbrella on a private island in witness protection. Who knows?” I lift a shoulder, trying to keep it light. Viktor doesn’t need to know how much I’ve worried about the whereabouts of my father for the last two-plus years.
“My English is not strong enough to follow all of that. You speak quickly.” His brows furrow in concern, I think? Hard to tell what his minimal facial expressions mean. They’re all kind of similar.
“I’m kinda drunk. The speed of my speaking increases tenfold after my fourth beer.”
Viktor just looks down at the bar, then takes a swig of his beer, seemingly unable to figure out how to respond to such an assertion. I take the time to study his profile. It’s a good one. He’s so, so sexy sitting on the barstool beside me. He’s got this light blue, button-down shirt on, unbuttoned at the neck. It’s untucked, looking nice but relaxed, like he didn’t care enough to tuck it in and knew he’d look all the sexier for it. I can see why those girls were kissing on him, even so, he didn’t appear to be interested in their attention. Viktor doesn’t have a reputation for sleeping around as opposed to some of the players on the team. His private life is pretty locked down. I wonder if maybe he doesn’t know how to flirt. Or maybe he doesn’t have much experience with women in general. But somehow it seems impossible that an elite athlete Olympian pushing thirty hasn’t spent the last decade bouncing puck sluts on his “hockey stick” at ice rinks all over the world.
I wonder what he’d do if I just lifted my skirt and started to ride him right here. Crowd be damned. Let’s have some drunk, public fornication. That wouldn’t get me fired or anything.
I giggle to myself. I am a little drunk. I need to stop imbibing and maybe eat something. Now there’s a very good idea.
And, oh, there are two creepy-looking dudes in suits at that booth over there. And they’re staring at us both. I wonder if they’re in the mafia with Viktor? I should just ask him if he’s in the Russian mafia, right? Just get it out in the open and know for sure? I can’t sleep with a guy who’s in the mafia. Can I?
I mull this over while we sit in awkward silence. Viktor is not a good conversationalist. Why does the word conversationalist make me think of cunnilingus? Maybe he’s better at that than at the talking? That would be on the plus side of things for us to hook up.
Oh, goodie. Here comes his weird agent.
The slithery guy with the slicked-back hair and gold tooth steps up and claps Viktor on the back that same way he did at the game. “Viktor! This is the second time I have found you with this young lady. I must have an introduction.” He gives us a jovial smile, gold tooth winking like an eye back at me. Yeah, that’s not the least bit creepy…
“This is Scarlett Woods, who works in promotional media for the Crush. Scarlett, this is Vlad Nechaev, my agent.” I sense irritation from Viktor but it’s hard to know for sure.
“Hi,” I say, just as the two goons get up and head our way.
They’re friggin’ huge, and both are carrying briefcases. Who carries a briefcase into a bar? That’s just really shady.
Vlad says something to Viktor in Russian, followed by, “Just join us upstairs for a few moments.”
Viktor grits his teeth but gives a short nod. He turns to me and says, “I am sorry to be interrupted. I have business upstairs.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “See you around.”
He stands and all four men leave. I immediately grab my phone and send a text to Pam.
Scarlett: I’m having the WEIRDEST night.
Scarlett: Very strange interactions with Viktor.
Scarlett: I should run fast, and far, far, far away.
Pam: Where are you? Get your ass back up here.
Scarlett: I need food. Having some sent to the suite.
Scarlett: Be back after the spins go away.
Pam: You better!
I can’t be happy with just my text to Pam, though. No, I need to get Viktor out of my head. I think about cute Sid, the photographer. Why isn’t that guy here? Maybe he should be. I got his number when we were doing those shots at the championship game. You know, in case we needed to t
alk about work. Hee hee.
Scarlett: Siddy. I’m at Pammy’s party. You should be here too.
Sid: Siddy?
Scarlett: New name for u.
Sid: Nope. No like.
Scarlett: Sid-bear? Sexy Sid?
Sid: LOL. No.
Scarlett: Okay. Just Sid. Come to LINQ?
Sid: Wasn’t invited. Not a crasher.
Scarlett: Be my gate.
Scarlett: No. Be my sate.
Sid: LOL
Scarlett: BE MY FUCKING DATE. There!
Sid: So, you’ve had a few tonight, have you?
Sid: Only five beers and two shots. But my phone wasn’t playing nice. Come on, Sod, be my date.
Sid: Sod?
Scarlett: SID!!!
Sid: I think your bed and a cup of water needs to be your date right now.
Scarlett: Burned. I’m sad now.
Sid: Sorry to disappoint.
Sid: Text me undrunk sometime.
Scarlett: Fine.
Fine. Even Sid doesn’t want to be with me tonight. Viktor could have stayed with me, but nope. A meeting with his sinister Mafia friends. Meeting. Schmeeting. There is nothing appealing about this drunken gal, that’s for certain. Hot Russian hockey player sniffing episode aside.
Yep. Looks like I’ve hit my limit. I need food. All will be better if I can get some hot fries in my face.
I manage to not fall off the stool, pleasantly surprised that Viktor somehow cleared my tab for me. That was nice of him. He’s definitely growing on me since he faced the music and apologized, possible mafia connection notwithstanding.
But I am on a mission right now and only one thing will do.
I need French fries.
Stat.
Ten
The Mafia? Really?
Viktor
Vasily releases the tourniquet from my upper arm and slips the needle from my vein, placing a cotton ball over the tiny hole. He hands me a plastic cup and nods his head toward the bathroom where Oleg awaits to watch me piss for the millionth time.
