by Ally Adams
Team Russian
A Saints team book
By Ally Adams
PUBLISHED BY: Atlas Productions
Copyright © Ally Adams 2017
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with unless you purchased with a one share agreement. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to Becky Strahl of Ink Eaters – tall, smart and beautiful, just like Carla.
Thanks for all your support, Becky
And to my own ‘Russian’ who never knew I was madly in love with him
Chapter 1
For just one moment I thought I was back in school and I had been pushed into the boys’ toilet block – I remember the half a dozen faces that scowled at me, while I grappled with the smell, that huge water trough thing that we don’t have in our toilets, and … well, I didn’t stay around long enough to notice the other thing that we don’t have, before tearing back outside to confront Susan Snowden, the bully that had pushed me in there. Fast forward about twenty years, and I’m almost in the same situation.
I’m due to record a quick interview in the Club Room with a player nicknamed Buzz – a Defender just back from injury and playing for the hottest sports team known to man, well woman – the Saints. Room Three; I check the number, wander in and holy-naked-guys-getting-rub-downs … it appears I’m one of the few with clothes on.
Half a dozen faces turn and smile at me; I see a flash of glowing tight, tanned butts, muscly legs, toned arms, even a groin or two that was just ‘out there’.
“Ah, sorry wrong room,” I say, as I stumble backward, trying not to look anywhere but out the door.
“Are you looking for the coach?” a voice from the corner booms.
I put my hands over my eyes, web my fingers a little which sets them off laughing again and look towards the voice. It was The Russian.
“No, I’m after Buzz, he said to meet at this time in Room Three.” My face was burning red, but I think other parts of my body were enjoying it.
I could see several of the physios shaking their head, smiling, and the youngest answered.
“It’s his party trick. He thinks it’s funny. Don’t worry, you’re not the first journo to fall victim.”
“I’ll give him funny when I see him,” I muttered.
“Room eight, Carla,” the deep baritone voice said again. The Russian. He knew my name.
“Thank you,” I said, spinning on my heels to leave before I was magnetically drawn to that tall, dark, and gorgeous hunk of a man in the corner. Mm, The Russian.
*****
Yep, it was match day. Not my match day: my basketball team—the Suns—would have to go on without me, I was out of action with a knee injury, but I was reporting on the Saints’ match day. Yep, the Saints – a tough gig but someone has got to do it.
After the interview with the very not-amusing Buzz, I settled into the media box, set up my laptop, made sure the WiFi was working and then stopped to look around. Sasha Saxon, the Saints’ media officer, was walking towards me with two diet colas. She always grabbed them before the boys in the press box got them. Not that many of them wanted diet drinks, but we wanted them more ... it was our biological right. She looked super stylish as always with her cute, bobbed blonde hair and her interpretation of the Saints’ match day uniform.
“Hey Carla,” she said, sliding into the seat next to me. I noticed she said hello while keeping her eyes on the boys warming up on the ground – one boy in particular. A few months ago she had hitched up with Niklas Wagner, or the Kaiser as he is known – a truly beautiful specimen of German glory and the Saints’ Midfielder. Mm. I watched her and laughed when she finally decided to give me her one hundred per cent attention.
She flushed. “What? It’s my job?”
“Sure it is,” I agreed. We greeted a couple of other journos who arrived in the box – Dan from radio K-talk and Brian from The Sports Guide. They grabbed desk space and began to set up their gear.
I had to ask Sasha something, and I wasn’t looking forward to doing so. I looked around and lowered my voice ...
“Sash, I wanted to ask you a favor ...”
“Sure,” she said.
I cleared my throat. “Next weekend I’ve got the Suns’ Gala Ball and Auction Night ...”
Sasha frowned. “Really? You’re cutting that fine if you want a dress made.”
Sasha was a really good part-time designer when she wasn’t working with the Saints.
“No, it’s not that, but thanks,” I said.
“Well that should be fun,” she continued, “especially if you’re not organizing it. Or do you have to do something?”
“I’ve been asked to give a speech about the Suns and the importance of the team, given I played my hundredth game this year. Once that’s over, I can relax,” I said, taking a sip of my diet cola.
“Right,” she said, and her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So, what’s the favor?”
“I want to take a date.”
“Oh,” she looked surprised. “I’m not your type, surely? I mean you’re attractive, tall, nice legs, always admired your thick dark hair,” she said fingering a strand of her blonde hair, “but ...”
I rolled my eyes. “Not you, you dill,” I said, and she grinned. Funny girl! “The Russian,” I said, lowering my voice.
She made one of those cringe type faces.
“What? Why that face?” I frowned. “I’m not asking him on a date-date, I need a handbag. He doesn’t have to fall in love with me.”
Sasha shrugged. “What’s not to love ... he might fall head over heels. But rumor has it that his break-up with Leesa was ugly and he has sworn off women, for a while, anyway. But hey, if you’re only after a bit of eye candy ...”
I nodded. “That’s all. Really tall eye candy.”
“I hear you. At least he’s in town next weekend since we’ve got two home games in a row,” she mused. “Why the Russian?”
I didn’t want to let on that I had been lusting after him for a while now, so I played it cool and casual.
“I heard he was single, and he’s taller than me which is pretty unique,” I answered.
She smiled at me. “Ah, you saw him at the press conference last season, I remember now. You asked me then was he single and I think he had just broken up with Leesa.”
I shrugged. The casual act wasn’t working when my tongue was hanging out. “So what’s the story with his ex?” I didn’t want to know but had to ask, couldn’t help myself.
Sasha took a mouthful of her cola before answering. “I only met her twice, sort of met her ... she came into the office once, and then I saw her at a home game here. She gave me a hard time because she wanted me to get The Russian out of the dressing room to speak to him before a match. As if!”
I laughed at the idea of pulling any professional athlete away from the team before a match unless it was super important. You are really in the zone before a match and the coach and captain would kill you if you went missing in action, especially if it was a LOVE call!
Sasha continued. “She didn’t like it here, too boring for her, not enough party
ing and stars around. You know, she’s Leesa Hart,” she emphasized the surname. “As in Harry Hart, the movie director’s daughter?”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember some social media and pics going around at the time, although I was too focussed on getting through the season without an injury to really notice. Plus, no point noticing a guy who’s hitched until they’re unhitched,” I said, with a shrug.
We stopped for a moment to look out the media box window and watch the guys as they jogged past. Sasha sighed with contentment.
“Sorry where were we?” she asked. “Oh yeah, The Russian and Leesa. I don’t know how they ever got together, though. From what I saw and heard, you couldn’t get two more complete opposites as those two. And she was always in the papers on the arm of some other guy, or at a party with a huge group of hanger-ons. It’s lucky The Russian’s mild-mannered, or he’d probably be in jail for murder.”
We both looked out at the Saints’ stadium, contemplating relationships – well I was, can’t really vouch for what was going on in Sasha’s head.
“So ...” she said, “what do you want me to do? What’s the favor?”
“Oh yeah, can you put me in his path?”
“That I can do. Can you drop into the office during the week? Come in to do a story, interview him or any of the team, take me for coffee, whatever excuse you’d like and I’ll make sure you get one-on-one time,” she said, emphasizing the last few words in a sexy voice.
“What are you two nattering about?” Dan asked, butting in.
“First of all,” I said, rising and looking down on him—often the case with my height—we’re not nattering, and secondly it’s official girl talk.”
“I love girls’ talk,” he said, with a smirk.
“Oh good,” Sasha said. “I was just telling Carla that I was going to get a wax tomorrow. The Brazilian gets rid of those nasty little hairs ...”
Dan put his hand over his ears. “Too much information,” he said, moving away.
Sasha grinned at me. “Come in Monday if you can, he usually doesn’t do much but drink coffee and mope around the office recovering from Saturday’s game.”
“Thanks,” I said, relieved. The plan was falling into place and right on cue, The Russian ran right past our media box.
Hell yeah, he was definitely a man I could look up to – big, bigger than me ... I think he had a few inches on me; I might be able to get my high heels out ... yes! He needed a haircut, but he could get away with it ... his hair was full and wavy, dark and messy – cute. He had trendy stubble on his face as if he’d just gotten out of bed to come to the game. I couldn’t see from afar, but I knew his eyes were dark brown with ridiculously long dark lashes for a guy – almost pretty, but I dare anyone to call him that. I might be tall, but I was thin and athletic whereas The Russian was strong - there was no better word for it. He liked to bench press; I liked him bench pressing too ... The Russian would make me feel like a woman. I wish I had got more of a glimpse of him earlier in all his semi-nakedness – really, where did that thought come from? Disgraceful.
It was Sasha’s turn to catch me out.
“Uh, don’t forget to report on the game,” she whispered and gave me a wave as she departed the box.
I grinned and dismissed her, getting back to the job of setting up and reporting on the Saints versus the Salt Lake Spears.
Chapter 2
“Well if it isn’t Carla Brooker, again,” The Russian said as Sasha and I slowly walked past the open door of his office on Monday, just before midday. I ran my hands down my skirt again for the hundredth time ... it had taken me hours to decide what to wear this morning – yes, I’m pathetic. We stopped and looked in; The Russian looked divine in jeans, a T-shirt, and runners. Behind him hung a business shirt, tie and pants, some black boots below them.
The Russian continued. “Average per game: 19.5 points, 5.3 rebounds, 3.1 assists, and 2.3 steals ... give or take a few points.”
“And if it isn’t The Russian,” I returned as we stood in his doorway.
“That’s it?” he frowned. “You don’t know all my impressive stats?” he asked with the twitch of a smile.
“Oh, I do,” I assured him, “but we’d be here all day.”
“Oh please,” Sasha rolled her eyes, “don’t tell him that, his big head will burst out of the room.”
The Russian gave her a look that said he was unimpressed.
“Sorry about the trick Buzz played on you,” he said with a snarl at the mention of Buzz’s name; I had heard there was no love-loss between The Russian and Buzz.
“It’s all good,” I said, closing the subject down before Sasha asked questions. “I’ve had worse than that thrown at me.”
The Russian nodded. “So, how’s the knee, think you’ll get another game?” he asked. “Actually, don’t answer that. I hate that question.”
“Thanks,” I said, it takes a sportsperson to know a sportsperson.
“I can hear my phone,” Sasha said, “pick me up for coffee on your way out,” she said to me, ditching me there. We both listened ... there were no sounds of a phone ringing. Awkward.
“So, good game on Saturday, gotta be pleased with that?” I asked, feeling like a shag on a rock – or in a doorway, as was the case.
“Have a seat,” he said, “Ed, my business partner, is out getting lunch.”
This was looking up. I slid into Ed’s chair and swiveled it to face The Russian, making sure I crossed my legs so he couldn’t miss them. Hell, you’ve got to use your assets, it’s one of the things the coach was always drumming into us, but she probably meant on the court, I suspect. Sitting at the same level I had the chance to study him; he really was quite exceptional – I itched to run my fingers through his dark, wavy hair. He was shaven today and those high cheekbones gave his masculine face its beauty. He was all arms and shoulders, with a very defined torso—from what I could see covered in clothes, damn those clothes—and very sexy hips. Yep, what an inventory.
“Come to interview me?” he asked, and this time he smiled.
“Uh no, came to take Sasha out for a coffee. Girl talk, you know ... about how tough it is to be a female sports journalist in a man’s world,” I said, making it up as I went.
“Yeah, I can just imagine,” The Russian replied, frowning. “Actually, I can’t really, why is it tough? You get to sit in the best seats in the house, don’t you?”
“Been up there ... in the Saints’ media box?” I asked, grabbing that lead.
“Hell no, you lot would ask me questions if I went there,” he said, a look of mistrust crossing his very handsome, close-by face.
“Mm, that’s the idea. You should drop in before or after the game. Nik drops in usually to catch up with Sasha.” I said it before realizing I might be getting Nik in trouble.
“Does he now?” The Russian said, crossing his arms across his chest.
I was just about to backtrack when the door to The Russian’s office opened and Captain Fantastic stood there – also known as Lucas Ainswright.
“Ah sorry, didn’t know The Russian had company,” he said. “No one usually visits him.”
The Russian smirked. I rose and offered my hand to Lucas. I’m six-foot-two and I’m guessing, since I had to look up at him, that Lucas was about six-three. Yes, I love a ‘tall’ office.
“Carla Brooker,” I said, shaking his hand.
“I know,” Lucas said and introduced himself, as if he needed an introduction.
“I know,” I responded, “great season for you and the Saints, congrats.”
“Yeah, let’s hope it continues,” he said. “Sorry to hear your season got cut short, but you’ve had an impressive run.”
“Thanks, I would have liked to have seen the season out,” I said, bearing my soul just a little. I was missing the sport and my teammates.
It was definitely warm in the Saints’ office and then I realized why – Lucas was still holding my hand. I reluctantly pulled it away.
> The Russian cleared his throat. I had forgotten he was there for a moment.
“Oh, well, got to go,” I said, reaching back for my handbag. I know most girls would stick around, but I didn’t want to make a pest of myself.
“No need to rush off,” Lucas assured me, “I can come back.”
“Yeah, I can see the captain anytime,” The Russian agreed. The office felt very small with the two super hunks breathing in all the air.
“Thanks, but Sasha will be waiting for me,” I said, lamely pointing up the hallway to her office area, as if they didn’t know the way.
The Russian rose. “Well, see you at the game maybe,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, giving them both a winning smile; I did my best to sashay up the hallway with a walk that said ‘so confident’ in case they were watching. Who was I kidding? I could barely walk, with my tongue dragging on the ground. I think I was having hot flushes. Then I remembered I still didn’t have a date for the Ball, but… Houston… we had contact.
*****
“You can’t wear that,” Josh, my housemate, rolled his eyes as he sat back on our sofa with a red wine in one hand and the television remote in the other.
“Why not?” I said, defensively. “I love red, and this dress lifts and tucks.”
“It whiffs and sucks, more like it. Next!”
It was my turn to roll my eyes and I stormed off melodramatically back to the bedroom to change. Secretly I was relieved that Josh wanted to vet my Suns’ Gala Ball outfit ... not only because I was still holding hope that The Russian would come with me, but given I was speaking in front of about four hundred people, I wanted to look my best when those eight hundred eyes were on me ... aagh, I was just giving myself heart palpitations. I didn’t want to buy something new if I could avoid it – my playing fees had stopped, my sponsor fees were on standby and my casual sports writing job didn’t pay a lot, but I was applying for full-time roles.
