by Teagan Kade
We’re at, supposedly, the biggest and best nightclub in Seoul. The Games start in Pyeongchang tomorrow, so I’m surprised anyone is out at all, but the place is alive with athletes of all nationalities and colors, everyone mixing with the locals and having a great time.
As the US ice hockey team, and current Gold Medal holders, I’d say we have a bit of clout. Problem is, every guy in here is buff and athletic. There’s a fucking Adonis wherever you turn.
Which just means you have to step up the game.
Paul pushes me forward towards the dance floor. “I don’t know what kind of creepy-ass dance moves they do here North Korea, but you show them what Uncle Sam has to offer. I’ll get the drinks.”
“South Korea,” I correct, watching Paul head off to the bar with the rest of the team. God knows how many times we’ve done this. I sweep the area for potential while Paul gets the ‘liquid lubricant,’ as he calls it.
One thing’s for sure. I need to get laid and let off some steam, balls deep in some hot Scandinavian downhill skier. I skate better coming off sex. I always do.
With the rock-concert lighting and general craziness, it’s hard to tell what’s going on… until I spot her.
She’s in the middle of the dance floor in a tight red bodycon, her dark hair sweeping around her shoulders as she dances, and fuck me can she dance. Her moves are sultry and seductive, making the most of her ample assets. She turns and shimmies, her ass nothing short of a masterpiece with the legs to match. In a word, she is the dictionary definition of perfection.
And wingman or not, I’m not sharing her with anyone.
Before I know it I’ve made my way down onto the dance floor, glancing past a cute Australian redhead and making a beeline for Dream Girl. Another girl goes to step in front of me, start something, but I manage to spin around her and keep on, slowly working my way into the center of the dance floor where Dream Girl is dancing, a wide smile on her face, her eyes closed against the music.
I come in front of her and start to move, but compared to her I may as well be a toy soldier.
She opens her eyes—fiery amber—but doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Are you Google?” I ask her, raising my voice to be heard over the music.
She draws closer to me, cupping her ear, a sweet, vanilla scent following. “Sorry?”
I can’t place the accent, but she’s definitely European. “Are you Google?” I repeat. “Because you’re everything I’ve been searching for.”
It takes a second before she gets it, smiling again. “Your dancing is better than your pickup lines, Mr. Google, but both need work, I’d say.”
Definitely European.
I extend my hand. “It’s Liam, actually.”
She takes it, her fingers hot and sweaty. “Viktoriya.”
Her fire-born eyes are fucking killing me. I’m going to have a hard-on so severe soon I’ll take this entire dance floor out. “You’re…?”
“Russian,” she fills, continuing to smile. “And you’re American.”
I lean forward for more of that intoxicating scent. “You’re a skier?”
“Figure-skating,” she replies, which, of course, makes all the sense in the world. “And you’re a hockey player.”
“My fame proceeds me.”
She points to my jacket, reading the label on the front. “U-S-A Ice Hockey Team.”
Good one, hot shot.
I look down. “Right.”
I point behind myself. “Can I get you a drink?”
She takes me by the hips and pulls me against her. “First, we dance.”
And dance we do. I know she can feel my hardness, but she sways and shifts all the same. My hands move to her lower back, to the upper swell of her ass cheeks. She doesn’t protest—only smiles and watches me with those golden eyes, her features drawing me deeper and deeper into oblivion.
That’s precisely where I’m headed, because nothing good can come from sleeping with a Russian figure-skater. Our countries are basically at war. We received strict instructions not to fraternize with any Russian athlete, yet here I am, my hands glued to the ass of what has to be their best asset.
Viktoriya leans over, her lips brushing the shell of my outer ear, my face caught in her hair. “You shouldn’t touch what you can’t have.”
I pull her closer. “I don’t need my hands to make you c—”
Something slams into my side, driving me to the floor. There’s a scream. I duck to miss a flying fist, scuttling back to right myself.
A literal giant has set himself up between Viktoriya and me. He’s wearing a jacket, too—Russian Ice Hockey Team.
“Bogdan!” shouts Viktoriya.
He raises a hand to silence her, watching me. His accent is thick. “You better back off, Yankee Doodle. This one is off limits.”
I straighten myself up. “Says who?”
He notices my jacket. “Ah,” he nods, “I thought you looked familiar. Why don’t you get back on plane, fuck off back to Daddy Trump.”
I’m about to give him a peace of my American fist when I see his teammates coming in from the corner of the club.
An arm starts to tug me away, and another.
It’s Paul. “The fuck, man? We’ve been here five minutes and you’re already trying to pick a fight?”
Viktoriya is speaking to this Bogdan character in rapid-fire Russian, really going at him.
But Bogdan is set on me. “We’ll settle this on the ice, Yankee.”
I try to break free, but the boys hold me firm until we’re outside the club.
Paul’s shaking his head. “Tomorrow we’re in fucking Pyongyang.”
“Pyeongchang,” I correct. “There’s a big-ass difference.”
“Semantics,” he replies. “We’ll be in the fucking countryside with not a drop of alcohol in sight and here you are destroying my one chance at getting wasted before the Games begin, not to mention getting laid.”
He lets go. I pat myself down. “You can’t get laid at the Athlete’s Village?”
He crosses his arms. “You’ve forgotten Sochi, haven’t you? The place was fucking Fort Knox.”
“Yet you still got through most of the women’s slalom field.”
He prods me in the chest. “Your Russian femme fatale in there?”
“What about her?” I sound strangely defensive.
“Don’t do it—for the sake of yourself, the team, and that fire hose you call a dick.”
But all I’m hearing is a challenge.
CHAPTER TWO
VIKTORIYA
Trust my ex to ruin another perfectly good night. But when he reaches out to grab my arm, that’s it.
I snap it away, continuing to speak in Russian. “We’re not together any more, Bogdan, for exactly this reason… and many more.”
“You don’t know what’s good for you, Viktoriya.”
I cross my arms. “Is that so? I suppose it’s you, is it? With your quick temper and demeaning attitude. That I do not need.”
I go to walk away, but he grabs my wrist.
I come around and drive my knee into his chest but somehow manage to land it square into his balls instead. They’re just as small and insignificant as I remember.
He crumples in half on the dancefloor, a delayed ‘Oof’ following from his teammates. They separate as I head towards the doors. I shake a finger at them. “You tell your captain that if he actually wants to keep his balls between his legs and not lodged somewhere in his throat, to leave me the hell alone.”
Silence follows as I exit the club, only the pounding boom, boom, boom of the kick drum following.
Outside, I look for Liam the American. As cheesy as he was, I wanted more, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
I shake my head, telling myself in Russian, “It wouldn’t have worked anyhow, Viktoriya.”
*
Daniel, my skating partner, is nowhere to be found come morning. He’s sleeping, I imagine, seemingly more and more on his cu
rrent medication and far greater than seems healthy.
There’s no such luxury for me, of course, though my performance at Sochi in 2014 did buy me a bit of leeway, especially in terms of what I can and can’t do before a performance. My coach, Helena, is actually quite progressive when it comes to these matters. When I told her I was going out to dance last night, she simply replied, “Horizontal or vertical?”
I’m tired from the journey out to Pyeongchang, a largely rural area in South Korea that’s been transformed for the Games. The athletics village is dominated by a series of towering apartment blocks, utilitarian for the most part. I’m sharing a room with Helena—the same Helena whose mouth turns to a foghorn come sleeping time.
The communal dining area is busy. I thought I’d show up early and get the jump on training, but it seems every athlete in the village had the same idea.
I set my tray down and pick up my spoon. There’s a voice behind me. “Can you believe they have a McDonalds here?”
Liam the American sets his own tray down opposite me. “Fancy seeing you again, out of three-thousand athletes.”
I settle into my chair. “You’ve been stalking me?”
He jumps back in his own, hands up. “Jesus, no. I would never.”
He is cute. I’ll give him that, with dusty brown hair and a sharp jawline, the kind of chiseled features normally reserved for soapy stars, and those arms… I didn’t know you needed arms like that to play ice hockey, which only makes me wonder about the size of his, ahem, ‘stick.’
“I’m, how do you say it, joking?” I offer.
He smiles back, a smile I’m sure gets him damn near anywhere in life… maybe even my pants if he plays his cards right.
I can hear Helena. Training is all that matters, Viktoriya. Training. Training. Training.
She doesn’t know what good workout sex is. I doubt poor Helena’s seen a real-life penis in about thirty years.
“Your English is excellent, by the way,” he says.
I look around for Bogdan and his cronies, but they’re nowhere to be seen—still cradling his balls from last night, no doubt. “Thank you, and your Russian?”
“Dosvidaniya?” he shrugs.
I laugh aloud. “You’re saying goodbye already? But we’ve barely met.”
“I thought it meant ‘good life.’”
I shake my head. “You’re going to have to try a bit harder than that if you want to woo me, flyboy.”
“Flyboy?”
“It’s what we call Americans in Russia… the good-looking ones, at least.”
His features draw up again until he’s close to irresistible. “You think I’m good-looking?”
I select a grape from my tray and pop it into my mouth. “I think you need to take me out on an old-fashioned date before you even think about anything else.”
He looks around. “A date? Here, at the Games? I mean, there are vending machines down the hall, but I hardly see restaurants and a cinema.”
I pick up my tray, notice my teammates filing through the doors. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” I lean down to him. “But don’t wait too long. The Games only last two weeks.”
I walk away to my teammates smiling to myself. A medal, a man, or memories—I’m not leaving Pyeongchang without one of them.
CHAPTER THREE
LIAM
We’re in USA HQ. There are so many garlands and banners it’s basically an election office. Breaking the jovial mood is Coach Smite, stalking his way down the line of players.
He examines us each in turn, pausing before me. “McCallum. Well, well. It’s not even the first day of the Games and you’ve practically started an international incident.”
“It wasn’t m—”
He throws a hand up. “I don’t want to fucking hear it. I thought it was made very clear to you back home that, given recent escalation, the Russians are off limits. I mean, you were basically told not to look at them funny, and yet here comes Captain American himself, Liam ‘Mad Dog’ McCallum, trying to start a fistfight.”
“And World War Three,” someone sniggers down the line.
“Shut the fuck up, Williams!” Coach shouts. He takes a step closer until I’m pretty sure I can smell the six strips of bacon he packed away at breakfast. “I don’t care if the Russian hottie you were trying to seduce has a golden vagina. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. The. Russians. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod.
He takes a step back, eye-balling me. “Now, grab your shit and get down to the rink. I’m going to sweat those hangovers right out of you boys.”
*
Coach wasn’t kidding. Over the next two hours we’re mercilessly drilled and tested. I’m conscious of the press, no doubt keen to get a shot of the ‘bad boy of American ice hockey,’ as I’ve been dubbed. So I broke a guy’s arm against the glass at the last Games. So what? So I’ve got more goals under my belt than most NHL players see in their entire career, and a slapshot so hard and fast it’s basically a bullet. So the fuck what?
The Russians, also our primary competition, are going to get it. All bets are off on the ice, and that Bogdan bitch? I’m going to put him through the fucking glass.
I spot Viktoriya again in the dining area for lunch. She’s got on her team jacket, tight leggings that are more or less sprayed on, her hair drawn up into a tight ponytail I want to grab while I take her from behind, riding her to completion.
You’re living in a fucking fairy tale, my friend.
The problem? She’s with her teammates on the other side of the room, and that includes the KGB boys themselves.
Fuck them. I go stand, but Paul drags me back down to my chair. “Not a good idea, buddy. You heard Smite.”
“I heard him,” I reply. “Doesn’t mean I have to heed his words.”
Paul’s grip firms on my shoulder. “It’s not worth it, bro, super-pussy or not.” He directs my attention to the left. “How about the Finns? That blonde over there looks like she could do with a good dicking.”
But nothing’s going to satisfy this craving but Viktoriya.
Naturally, I Googled her when I got back to my room last night. She was pulled from an orphanage in Sarov when she was six and basically trained by the state. She’s something of a national treasure, it seems. I was concerned about her partner, but, while it’s not officially noted, it’s clear the guy’s not the into-girls type. He won’t be a problem. The apartment block she’s got for a coach? Maybe, but I’ve dealt with worse.
I eat while keeping a steady eye on the Russian contingent. When I see Viktoriya standing and breaking away from the others, I make my move.
I come up behind her in a small hallway joining the dining room to the outer buildings. She squeals when I guide her into a tight alcove. I double-check the hallway to make sure we’re alone.
We’re so close. The heat her body’s giving off is a physical, palpable thing, the vanilla scent from last night gone only to be replaced with something far more sensual, primal.
“If this is your idea of a date,” she smirks, “I think we have a problem.”
I want to touch her so badly, but this isn’t the time. I need to draw out the anticipation, even if it means I’ve got to hobble around these halls with the Empire State of erections. “We can’t see each other… in public,” I clarify.
Her tongue skims over her lower lip, her golden eyes glassy in the low light. “What did you have in mind then?”
I take a piece of paper out of my pocket, handing it over. I hadn’t even considered she might not read English, but she seems to grasp it well enough, laughing.
“You’re serious?” she says.
“I am.”
“This is very risky, Mr. Mad Dog.”
So she did her research, too. I brush the side of her cheek with my thumb. “I’d say you’re worth it.”
“If we get caught…”
“I’ll die a happy man.”
She says something in Russian, eyes glinti
ng.
“My Russian’s a little rusty, sorry.”
“It’s an old proverb.” She smiles. “It means, ‘He who does not risk, does not drink champagne.’”
I move my thumb to her lips, let it sit there. “And is that what you want, to drink champagne?” I drop my eyes. “Because I was thinking about partaking in something else… something equally sweet.”
She brushes my hand away, slowly shaking her head. “You Americans, always so forward.” She reaches between us and takes hold of my crotch, coming forward until our lips are less than an inch apart, a world of wonder waiting in her gaze. “But we can be forward too.”
She releases my cock and pushes me away, stepping out into the hall and holding the slip of paper up. “I’ll give you one last chance to pull out.”
I lean against the side of the alcove. “I never pull out, baby.”
She gives a light laugh, a trill. “Then I’ll see you at midnight,” her eyes dropping. “You and your friend.”
I watch her walk down the hallway, those perfect ass cheeks shifting up and down, begging for my hands… maybe more.
Viktoriya Kuznetsov is going to be the end of me. It’s as sure as the sun rising.
But damn, what a way to go.
CHAPTER FOUR
VIKTORIYA
I pull up to the barrier in a huff. Dimitri joins me. We’ve been skating together since we were six and seven, a natural fit even then.
Dimitri has barely broken a sweat. “Everything alright? You seem distracted out there today?”
I look back across the ice. I should be completely focused on skating, but instead my head keeps wandering back to one Liam McCallum and his insanely gorgeous face. I wonder how many broken hearts it has collected over the years, how many tears it has brought.
And you’re not going to be one of them, I tell myself.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “A bit tired.”
Dimitri circles his finger around my face. “You’re flushed, and it’s not from the ice. Spit it out. Who is he? Is it the American, the big bad hockey player?”
