Crushed

by Brit DeMille

  Talking like this has helped me relax, and I feel myself getting more comfortable on the skates. Evan moves back to my side, taking my hand again as we keep making our way around the ice.

  “Well, you must have been damn good, then. Maybe we can go for a run together sometime. I must confess seeing you all sweaty and in some tight running shorts is kind of a fantasy of mine,” he says with a wicked smirk on his too-handsome face.

  I roll my eyes and slip a little, my concentration utterly broken. Evan is there in a heartbeat, pulling me close to his body, his arm snaking around my waist. We’re not moving, and I’m wrapped in his arms. He looks down at me and before I can say a word or make a joke, his lips are on mine.

  At first, I stiffen. Do I want to go there with him?

  The answer is: I do. I want him. I reach up and run my fingers through his hair, finding it as silky as it has been in my dreams. I move my hands to his face, his thick, short beard covering a chiseled face.

  I let out a little moan and he uses it as an opening to deepen the kiss, his tongue finding mine. We kiss and kiss until I’m breathless. When I pull away, I feel my cheeks heat with a blush that I’m sure has spread to other parts of my now-overheated body.

  “I knew it would be good.” He takes my hand and helps me get started skating again.

  “You did, did you?” I ask, grinning, still blushing. “What if I’d had tuna breath or something?”

  “I like tuna okay,” he says, grinning back, “and your cheeks are all pink now. It’s lovely on you.”

  There’s been music playing the whole time, mostly classic rock songs. “You like classic rock?” It’s my feeble attempt at distracting myself from the way he just said “lovely” in his sexy accent.

  “I do,” he says. “Hockey tradition. Like the mullet. It grows on you.”

  “I like it okay, but I like modern music better. Pop-punk, alt rock. Fall Out Boy, The Black Keys, Twenty-One Pilots.”

  He nods. “I know the first two, not the last one.”

  “They’re a little different,” I say. “Really, I like most music. I have different favorites for different paces.”

  The Police’s Every Breath You Take comes on and I smile at him. “I love this song.”

  “Me too,” he says. “I love the Police and I love Sting. Did you know he and his wife are like yoga gurus?”

  “I didn’t,” I say, laughing. “Do you do yoga?”

  “Hell no. I’m bloody well sure I’d pull a muscle or something. Not flexible enough.”

  “I like yoga. It’s very relaxing.”

  He grunts his dissent. “Sorry about your parents,” he says. “You don’t talk to them much?”

  “Every couple of months. I mean, they love me, and they check in, but they were both so unhappy for so long, it just felt like they both needed a total restart. I’m a big girl. It’s no big deal.”

  “My parents are also divorced. My father is from the Ukraine, my mother is from Boston. She was the one who insisted I go to an English school.”

  “Is that where you learned to play hockey?”

  “I’ve been on skates since I could stand upright, I think,” he says. “I certainly started skating before I went to school. But they had a competitive team, and I was a competitive kid.”

  “Sounds like a good fit, but when did you realize you could make it as a professional player?”

  He shrugs. “Always? Is that cocky?”

  I laugh. “A little.”

  He stops us and pulls me close again, his lips brushing mine. This time, the kissing becomes more intense, deeper, and I feel like I’m being pulled into an undertow that I might not be able to escape. I can’t seem to help myself either. I turn to putty when his lips are on mine.

  When he pulls away, I feel a little dazed. He looks so gorgeous. I’ve never seen a man that looks like him, who makes me feel the way he makes me feel. Of course, I’m not going to tell him this. He already has a huge head.

  “So, what do you think?” he asks.

  “About?”

  “Skating, of course.”

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s pretty fun, I guess. It would be hard to do it in thick pads and with a stick and having to track a puck, though.”

  “We’ll get there.”

  “Oh, we? No,” I say. “I don’t think I need to actually play hockey to promote it.”

  “I disagree,” he says. “Tell me about the blue line.”

  I laugh but see he really is trying to quiz me. So I answer that, plus a few more questions about the game and the basic rules. He corrects me a couple of times, but the best part are the kisses I get between each question.

  We make our way off the ice, to the benches where we pull off our skates. Evan goes to take the skates back to wherever he got them from. His phone buzzes on the bench. I glance at it and see it’s from Kacey King.

  Kacey: Thanks for the other night…you were awesome.

  Evan returns, all smiles until he sees my face. It must be drained of color, because I suddenly feel totally cold and empty. And a little bit sick. I point to his phone where it sits face up on the bench, right where he left it. “Kacey says you were awesome the other night.” I know my tone is bitchy, but I don’t care.

  He gives me a grin, but it falters a bit. “Yeah, I did an interview with her before the home game. No biggie.”

  “It’s a biggie to me.” All of my good feelings have been sucked away, like a balloon deflating as it circles its way to the ground. “Evan, I—”

  “You what? You expect I’d just sleep around with anyone and everyone?”

  “I had a fiancé who cheated on me. I haven’t been with anyone since, because obviously”—I point a thumb at myself— “trust issues. And I keep telling myself that I should walk away from a guy like you.”

  “What kind of guy am I?”

  “One who, you know, sleeps with lots of women. Who can’t be tied down.”

  His lips press together. I can see him trying to figure out how to respond. “Holly, I’m not going to pretend I don’t have a history. But I’m not interested in Kacey. And I haven’t slept with anyone in months. I’m interested in you, and not just for sex.”

  “I just…she confronted me the other day at work.” I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “She threatened to make me lose my job if I didn’t stay away from you. And I can see she’s really trying to get your attention.”

  “She can’t make you lose your job, Holly.”

  “She can. She knows Fiona,” I insist. “She wants you, and she won’t stop until she gets you.”

  “Don’t I get a say? I told you I don’t want Kacey.” I can hear the irritation in his tone. I’ve made him mad. Everything good that happened between us today is now ruined.

  Suddenly I feel trapped, in almost a claustrophobic way. I need get away from him and away from the helpless intoxication I feel whenever I’m with him. “I’m gonna go, Evan, I’m sorry.” I say, grabbing my shoes and sprinting towards the exit. Running is my talent after all.

  I slip into the ladies’ lounge at the front of the building and plop down onto a soft bench, so I can put my shoes back on. I request an Uber and wait it out inside the lounge until the driver alerts me he is arriving. Only then do I hit the front exit. I manage to hold onto my pathetic tears until my butt is safely planted in the back seat of my ride.

  Just barely, and not for long, though.

  Because as we drive away, Evan comes striding outside, his face a mask of concern. Still handsome as hell, but I can tell he is thoroughly offended by my behavior. Facing him at work now is really going to suck.

  I go straight to Pam’s apartment, desperately in need of my friend’s shoulder to cry on.

  And one huge-ass reality check.

  Sixteen

  Evan

  Anaheim. Game five of our as-yet-undefeated season. I should be pumped. I should be listening to some classic rock, thinking only about how I’m going to skate today, and how many goals I
’m going to score.

  Instead, I’m sitting on the bench in the locker room, half-dressed, looking at pictures and videos I took of Holly while we were skating. I took one in slow motion, a short one as she took her first, gliding movements on her own. It’s from the back, her gorgeous hair hanging long, her arms out wide. As she turns, laughing, the video goes blurry.

  I do have my own social media. I have a Facebook page meant to allow fans to connect with me, though I never check it. I have Instagram, too, but I only login every few months, and usually only to repost stuff from the team. And I have Twitter. Twitter, where all boob-grab pictures go to cause me distress and fuck up my relationsh—

  Whoa. Did I just ship myself with Holly?

  I think I did. Scratch that, I totally fucking did.

  Georg flops down next to me and says, “What are you over here moping about?”

  “Not moping.”

  “Sure looks like it,” he says in a judgey voice. “Do you know I was just balls-deep in a puck bunny ten minutes ago? In a supply closet full of mops and buckets and shit.”

  “Sounds romantic.” My sarcasm can’t be helped.

  “Since when do you care about romance?”

  “Fair enough,” I say with a shrug, because he’s right. Romance has never been my forte.

  On a whim, I decide to post the video of Holly on my Instagram page. I caption it ‘Skate Training. New Recruit.’ before closing out my account and tossing my phone into the locker so I can finish getting dressed.

  Someone’s got the Rolling Stones playing from a Bluetooth speaker. Normally, this would be just up my alley and I’d be asking them to blast it. But the song Beast of Burden comes on, and it just depresses me.

  Holly totally ghosted after seeing the text from Kacey. I suppose I understand. The text was totally meant to suggest we’d done something more than just an interview. I’m not even sure it was just Kacey’s text that bothered Holly. I think it was more…me. I think she’s seen all the junk pointing to the “douchebag womanizer” sign above my head, and she panicked.

  Whatever. I’ve got a game to play. I’ll figure out how to get Holly back in my orbit after we win this game.

  We head out through the tunnel, the media team back in place, having us make funny faces at the camera for Snapchat. Holly nods as I pass, and I blow her a kiss. She blushes and moves to the guy behind me.

  Anaheim has this long-ass intro video with a light show and a recap of the previous game. I swear it’s like ten minutes long and only when it ends do they let us out on the ice. Of course, we get booed because it’s what’s expected for visitors on road games. Then the lights go down again, and they introduce their starters and play Enter Sandman by Metallica.

  They’ve actually got a player called The Sandman. He played for Nashville for a couple of years before getting traded to Anaheim. He’s known for crosschecks that actually knocked dudes out. Lights out. Talk about a hard hit. I have been instructed to stay as far away from him as possible. Interesting how the team is playing into this guy’s reputation by using this as their intro song.

  I’m not starting tonight, which is annoying, so I sit on the bench spinning my stick around, legs bouncing with nervous energy, while the game gets started. Chalamet is out on the ice in my place, Georg at his left.

  I look around and find Holly staring at me. She looks at her phone, then back at me with wide eyes. She must have seen the video I posted. She points to her screen and I give a quick nod and then look away. If I focus on her, I’ll just end up taking a dump like I did in the last game.

  Coach puts me in on a line change, when The Sandman heads back to the bench. A Justin Bieber song plays while we skate out, which is a weird choice. It’s also weird I know it’s Justin Bieber, I guess.

  Anaheim is out for blood tonight. The crowd here is rowdy, loud, and ready to see some fighting. Check after check pushes my teammates to the limit, particularly young Mikhail, who ends up taking a wild swing at an Anaheim player after he gets pushed into the glass for the fourth time.

  I feel good, though. The energy just pushes me to work harder. Play harder. I score one in the first period, one in the second period. In the third, they tie it up with two goals right in a row. It makes the crowd go even crazier. Coach has his best line on forward, with me and Chalamet on the wings, Georg at center.

  We strike forward, fast and furious, moving the puck down the ice, only for Chalamet to get checked. The resulting call puts us on a Power Play with only two minutes left on the clock. The noise in the arena is deafening, Anaheim pushing back against us, fighting for control of the puck.

  Chalamet takes a shot on goal that pings off the top of the net. We hang back and wait for Anaheim to bring it back to us, and Georg, game face fierce, goes right after it. He makes a run with it, shooting it straight at the goalie, who falls on top of it.

  We just keep pressing and as the clock dwindles, Georg finds an opening to get to me, just as The Sandman swings my way. I fake right, toward the glass, and he falls for it, giving me just the opening I need to get a shot off.

  It’s like slow motion, watching the puck sail up and over the goalie’s helmet, into the back of the net. The buzzer goes off just seconds later. Georg is there, jumping on my back, crazy yelling about “fucking ducks,” as we skate back, high on adrenaline, to line up.

  We head back to shower and change, the locker room electric. Five wins in a row is not a bad way to start a season. I sit on the bench as Coach and one of the trainers looks me over for any sign that the game may have aggravated my concussion.

  With the all clear, Coach rubs the top of my head and says, “If I wasn’t so damn old, I’d name my firstborn after you, young man. You are on fire this season. Keep it up.”

  Mikhail, on the other hand, hasn’t fared as well. He sulks across from me, rubbing his wrist.

  “You okay, kid?” I ask, lifting my chin and eyeballing his rapidly-swelling joint.

  “Fucking Sandman,” he growls. “I want to punch his teeth in.”

  “Seems to be the sentiment about the guy. He wants you in a coma, though, so that fight doesn’t seem fair.” I nod at his wrist. “You get that checked out yet?”

  “It’s fine,” he says, but he’s still rubbing at it.

  “Swollen,” I say. “At least have them take a look, give you some ice.”

  He stares blades at me for a minute before getting up and stalking away.

  “Nice talking to you, too,” I say lightly as I grab my phone.

  There are texts from Holly.

  Holly: Evan. Video of me? Really?

  Holly: 400,000 likes before end of game.

  Holly: Ever heard of keeping a low profile?

  Holly: People want to kill me now. It literally says, “I want to kill that bitch, whoever she is.”

  Holly: Good game. Hat trick. Woohoo!

  I grin and check my post. It does, indeed, have more than 400,000 likes and about a hundred comments, including the one she mentioned, though most are like, “Aw, cute.” I block the one jerky person and delete her comment, then text Holly back.

  Evan: I blocked the one weirdo. Most thought it was cute. Can’t see your face.

  Holly: Still. Anyone who works with me will know it’s me.

  Holly: I’ll probably lose my job now.

  Evan: You won’t. There’s nothing inappropriate about it. Just teaching you to skate.

  Holly: Ugh.

  Evan: I’m sorry. I just thought it was sweet.

  Holly: I don’t want people thinking I’m one of your...what do you call them?

  Evan: Puck bunnies.

  Holly: Barf. Yes. That.

  Evan: They won’t.

  Holly: They will. And you know it.

  Evan: I’ll take it down if it’s that big a deal.

  Holly: No. Too late now.

  I’m not sure what else to say, so I just put my phone down and head to the showers. Most of the guys are out now, so I take my time then head
back to get dressed. Georg asks if I want to go out for a beer and I agree. Why sit around feeling crappy anyway? We just won. I just killed it on the ice. I should not be sitting around worried about whether or not some woman I’m not even dating is worried about a social media post which didn’t even identify her.

  In the cab on the way to the bar, Georg elbows me in the ribs. “When did you become such a brooding bastard?”

  “I’m not,” I say. “I’m going out. All good here.”

  “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore,” he says, mock crying.

  I roll my eyes at him and laugh. “I’m the same me.”

  “Liar,” he says, pulling a flask out of his jacket pocket. He takes a swig and offers it to me. I hold up my hands and shake my head. “At least, please, please, pick up a chick tonight. I’m concerned for your libido.”

  I laugh again. “You’re stupid. And single-minded. Seriously.”

  “That Kacey is still gunning for you, bro. I saw the piece before our home game. She looooves you,” he singsongs in my ear making me want to punch him.

  “I told you, not going back for seconds. She tried. Offered. I said no.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “Because I don’t like her very much. She’s not a very nice person.”

  “Since when do you give a fuck?”

  “Since now,” I say. “I’m ready to find someone nice, maybe make a thing of it.”

  Georg looks like I really did punch him in the mouth rather than just think about it. “Huh? Does this have to do with the girl you took skating? Oh yeah, I saw your video, lover boy. Are you hiding this girl from me?”