by Raine Miller
I’m overwhelmed by all her questions. They are rapid-fire and her posture is just as aggressive as she sits forward, elbows on the table as she catches my gaze and refuses to let go.
Honestly, it’s terrifying. But it’s something else too—intensely sexy.
“I know the numbers are not where they should be, but they always tell me it’s the markets and everything will rebound. I have worked with them a long time.”
“Well, they’ve probably been ripping you off for a long time, then,” she says sharply. Talia pushes up her glasses and then holds out a hand. “Here. Gimme. Let me see those reports.”
I hand over the folder, and she proceeds to scrutinize each page, even pulling a pen out of her purse and making marks and circles. Her expression is intense at first, then changes. To something like shock or panic. Oh shit. She looks up and stabs me with dark eyes.
“Tell me.”
“Boris, does your ass hurt? Because these guys are totally screwing you.”
Eight
Bitcoin and Blockchain?
Talia
Holy shit! This poor guy is getting screwed.
The more I look through these investment reports, the more I realize what a joke his financial “management” has been. Here’s a professional athlete at the top of his career with his biggest contract to date in motion, and these shysters a continent away are nickel and dimeing him for every fee possible, making up reasons to syphon money from his accounts, and investing in the riskiest of risky bets. There is no friggin’ way he could ever make his money grow over time in this situation. And if I had to guess, there’s a river of green flowing right out of his accounts and into theirs. Because they think he’s too stupid to catch any of it.
Damn, this pisses me off. Boris seems like a really good guy, who unfortunately has been royally taken advantage of, and probably for a very long time.
“Fuuuck.” I push my glasses up on top of my head so I can rub my eyes. I guess I’m hoping if I rub hard enough, it will change what’s on the page. No such luck, though.
“What is going on?” Boris looks concerned. Which is good. He should be concerned. I keep scanning as I talk.
“For one, these investments are all wrong. There’s too much invested in big-risk endeavors like Bitcoin and Blockchain. And…holy crap, they put it in your IRA pool. Yikes. I mean, I know the Winklevii were all out strutting about making a shit-ton on cryptocurrency, but it’s too high risk for a portfolio like yours. There could be money to make there, but the mining is intense and I assure you, your guys are not doing the work to make sure the investments are balanced with better bets, just to keep things even.”
“I was told the higher the risk, the more I would make,” Boris says.
“Yes, sure. I mean, higher-risk investments, when managed and balanced appropriately, can certainly net a higher rate of return. But they’re risky for a reason, and they can kill your portfolio if no one is paying close enough attention. You do high risk, take the win, and get out. Reinvest in something middle-range for a while. And if you want to invest in higher risk anything, there are safer bets than cryptocurrency right now. There are some IPOs out there that are looking really strong. I can think of ten alternatives that would instantly give me less heartburn and would assuredly net you better returns than this bullshit.”
Boris’s mouth is hanging open. I think I broke him.
“You getting all this, big guy?” He nods and I nod back. “Good. Look, I need more time to look at this portfolio in depth and do a little research. Beyond Bitcoin, there are some highly irregular investments and I want to understand better why these choices were made. Is there someone I can talk to from your investment team?”
“Maybe Vlad?”
“Vlad is who?”
“He helps hockey players manage business that spans the US and Russia. He will know who you should talk to.”
“So you don’t have a direct line to these guys?” I’m sure the look of incredulity on my face isn’t helping to ease his mind, so I try to soften my approach. I try the old standby of reminding myself that everything regarding money is fixable. In life, it’s the stuff that money can’t buy you really need to worry about.
He shakes his head. “They call me sometimes, but usually I get everything on paper in the mail.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s just shady as hell,” I tell him just as the waitress brings our plates.
All this money talk has worked up an appetite. Seriously, this type of problem-solving is my jam, and I am totally turned on about the prospect of switching things around for Boris. I shove my giant garbage burger in my face, taking a huge bite and closing my eyes at the glorious flavors of condiments and vegetables with charred beef and a carb-tastic bun. I think I let out a moan that’s borderline sexual.
When I open my eyes, Boris looks utterly enthralled. His own burger is perched in his fingertips, not a bite taken as he watches my display of gluttony. “You eat like a man,” he blurts.
I crack up at this, but then look down and realize I’ve got a big glob of mustard right on my boob.
“Goddamn it! Fucking white shirts.”
And Boris, the sweet angel, actually cringes.
“I’m sorry. I work with a lot of men who cuss a lot. It’s an occupational hazard and certainly not very professional.”
“It’s okay,” he says.
“You don’t cuss?”
“Oh, I do, but usually just in my head. And not always in English.”
This makes me laugh. The Ice Dragon is a contradiction. He’s big and burly and plays a semi-violent sport, yet he doesn’t drink, apparently, and he doesn’t swear out loud. I wonder what he does to let off steam.
We finish our meal, talking about the tiny bits of Las Vegas we’ve experienced so far. When the bill comes, Boris offers to pay but I swipe the bill and promise it’s an allowable business expense for me to take a potential client out for dinner.
“But I am making you meet after hours,” he argues.
I’m not having it, though, and when I get my business credit card out and hand it to the waitress, he pouts a little, his effort at chivalry thwarted.
Besides, what I don’t tell him is that, pathetic as it is, I work late every night and this was a welcome change having his excellent company for dinner tonight.
Yep.
PATHETIC.
And yes, the shouty caps are warranted.
Nine
Mr. Honest Engine
Boris
The general manager of the Crush is a goofy man. Bud Bellikowski is balding and wears what little remains up top in a comb-over. His striped polo shirt is clashing with the ill-fitting pants he’s wearing, and his posture is terrible. But he does seem excited to have me on the team.
He pulls me aside to stand in front of the players who are now assembled in the locker room prior to our first official team practice of the season.
“This is Boris Drăghici,” he says to the team. “AKA the Ice Dragon and the division’s third-leading scorer last season. He’s played four seasons for the Austin Comets and they were sad, sad, sad to see him go. But their loss is our win, and he’s going to round out what I think is the strongest lineup this team has ever seen. Coach will talk more about this, but I think we’ll run starting lineup with him at center ice and Evan and Mikhail on the wings.”
“I think we need another Cold War so these Russian players will stay on their own side of a lake,” some young guy says. “Let us red-blooded Americans get some playing time.”
Viktor Demoskev smacks the kid on the back of the head and says, “Shut up, asshole.”
“Tyler, do you ever read the paper?” another player asks.
I try to keep my face neutral as I take a seat next to Georg, who says, “Tyler’s a hothead with a big mouth but he’s just joking. Demoskev’s his BFF, so he doesn’t actually hate Russians.”
“It’s okay,” I respond. “I am not Russian.”
“Marginally
less Russian than I am,” Georg argues.
“Very less Russian, cousin.”
Georg just shrugs. We’ve played together most of our lives, in various capacities. It was fun to fill out the Russian team for Sochi together.
The coach stands up and talks about his expectations for this first week of practice, and for the season, before introducing Evan Kazmeirowicz. Evan is team captain and a very strong scorer.
“Hey, ladies,” he says with a winning smile that spans the room before his eyes settle on me. “Welcome, Boris. It’s good to see you. I think aside from when you played for the Comets, the last real interaction we’ve had was in Sochi. Is that right?”
I nod and give a half-smile. “I think so.”
Evan gives a few notes and then sends everyone toward the ice. As I stand, he steps over and shakes my hand. “It’s going to be great having you here with us.”
“I am excited to be here, Evan. Really looking forward to working with the team.”
“Awesome,” he says. “Have you settled in okay? Sin City treating you well?”
“It has been fine. I am just learning my way around, still. How are you? Having a great career, and I hear you are married with children now.”
“I think there’s something in the water,” Evan says with a laugh. “I got hit by Cupid’s arrow and then Georg did, and then even that fool Demoskev. Watch out, or you’ll be strung up soon, too. Though I will be the first to admit these women have made better men of all of us.”
“That would be okay with me. First, I just want to play hockey, though.”
Evan claps me on the back. “Good man. Hockey first, women second. Although I haven’t heard those kinds of rumors about you.”
“I’m boring that’s why.”
“Boring is just fine in life but not on the ice. See you out there.”
He heads toward the door as I grab my stick and helmet. I stop at the water station to fill up my drinking bottle just to make a point to both Georg and Evan. They both laugh and shake their heads.
“Hockey first!” Evan repeats, grinning as we all head out to the ice.
We’ve done our full-team warmups and now are separated into skills training. I’ve taken about fourteen shots on goal when Coach tells me to take a break and head down to PT for a wellness-check on my late-season concussion. I switch out of my pads and boots and into a T-shirt, shorts, and trainers before heading down into the lower-level training and therapy areas. I wander until I find the PT space, a large room with about five individual therapy and massage spaces, some light equipment, a few workspaces, and a cryo-tub.
I’m greeted by a pretty blonde who says, “You must be the Ice Dragon.”
“Boris.” I hold out a hand.
She takes my hand and says, “Pam.”
“Oh, nice to meet you, Pam. You are Georg’s wife, yes?”
“Yes, though it depends on how annoyed I am with him on any given day whether I admit it.”
I laugh lightly at her joke and she smiles, her eyes bright and twinkling with humor. I decide I like this Pam. I can see why Georg would make such life changes for her.
“So, my notes say you suffered a late-season concussion,” she says, pointing me to a therapy table.
I climb on as I answer. “I did. It was nothing too serious but the hit was hard enough that I’ve had some ongoing pain in my neck and shoulders. It can cause headaches from time to time.”
“Look at you, Mr. Honest Engine. Most guys would not dare admit ongoing trauma, because they’d be worried about being benched.”
“I want to play for a good many years, so I know I must take care of my body if I want it to last.”
Pam smiles widely. “I’m going to put that on a poster for these other knuckleheads to see every time they come down here. I swear to God, these guys would come in here with their guts hanging out and be like, ‘I’m fine. I can play!’”
“I have been cleared to play,” I remind her.
“I get that. I just appreciate your honesty. I can’t help you manage pain if I don’t know you’re having it.”
Pam does a standard concussion protocol and announces that she sees no lingering issues before having me lie down so she can work on the muscles in my neck, head, and back. It’s probably been about six weeks since I last had the hands of a physical therapist work within my muscles. How did I forget how tight they were? How did I forget the sensation that even though it feels like my neck and back will be black and blue at the end, I’ll have more range of movement back? And Pam is very good. She was the perfect PT with strong wrists and the ability to reach deep when mobilizing. And fuck, at times it hurt like hell. Deep breaths, Drăghici.
“So, Georg told me you’re distantly related?” she asks as she works.
“Not too distantly,” I say. “I am his father’s cousin’s son. So, his second cousin, I believe?”
“Did you grow up with him?”
“No, I was born in Romania and then moved to Czech Republic until I was a teenager, before moving again to Russia. We got to spend more time together once we were both training for the Olympics.”
“And you played for Russia in Sochi?”
“Yes.”
“He was a wild man back then, I hear.”
“That is true.”
“Come on, that’s it?” she asks. “You’re not going to give me the dirt?”
“A gentleman never tells such stories. They aren’t mine to tell.”
“Well, there aren’t that many gentlemen out there anymore, I’m afraid. But good for you. I’m going to tell all my single girlfriends to get in line for you.”
“No, no,” I say. “I will find the right woman when the time is right. No set-ups, please. I will keep drinking the water here, though, just for luck.” I give her a wink.
“Something tells me you’re not going to need any luck, Boris, once word gets out about you.” She gives me a wink back.
Ten
Or He’s Really a Saint
Talia
The alluring scent of Chicken Lo Mein fills the tiny office as I try to eat and work. I skipped lunch and it’s nearly eight already. My stomach is very angry with me.
It’s been a busy day of calls and research and I still haven’t gotten my files unpacked and organized. Nor have I had a chance to investigate further into Boris Drăghici’s financials.
I pull out his folder and dig in, my notebook at the ready. I already know we’re going to need to chuck the cryptocurrency from his portfolio, but as I scan the details, I see even more risky investing. There is money tied in options and futures, and even in exploratory drilling contracts throughout Russia. I note seven highly risky investment lines that will immediately need to be moved to standard-risk portfolios.
It gets worse as I go, though. Over the course of a year, I can see ten withdrawals not tied to a reinvestment strategy. They’re not fees, though there are plenty of those and they are steep—a whole other issue that needs addressing—but rather, just amounts which got pulled from the portfolio and never reinvested. After talking with Boris, I don’t think he’s authorizing these large withdrawals. He doesn’t strike me as someone who lives lavishly. Some of our foreign players support family in their home countries, and I guess it’s possible he moves money to family, but the pit growing in my stomach says otherwise. The withdrawals are well-hidden enough so I doubt Boris would ever notice them. Considering his dyslexia and admitting he avoids reading as much as possible, I can’t imagine he’s even looking at all—and his investment agents are probably banking on it. Literally. But I’m so pissed off. From what I know of Boris Drăghici, he’s a gentleman, not an asshole. Wish I could punch the lowlife scuzzballs who have been doing this to him.
I pick up the phone and call Harold.
“What’s up, young pup?” he answers. “Doing any sinning in Sin City?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Doing lots of working for sure.”
“That’s my girl. Always lookin
g out for the company. What’s going on?”
“You know the guy you sent me? Boris Drăghici?”
“The Ice Dragon. Yes, ma’am. He’s got a fat new contract out there. Did you get him on our rolls?”
“Nearly,” I say. “But his prior investments have been managed overseas and there is just red flag after red flag as I’m looking through his numbers. This guy has invested most of what he’s made and yet he’s making nothing. He’s losing big time, and I don’t want to see him get hosed on this new multi-million-dollar contract with the Crush.”
“Walk me through it.”
I give him everything I’m seeing and support my thoughts with corresponding solutions. Harold listens and gives feedback but announces my plan is sound. “However, you’ve got to get the accounts away from his current investment agents first.”
“Yeah, that’s the second thing I wanted to ask about. Have you heard of a Vladimir Nechaev?”
“He’s an agent-slash-fixer. A little gray, if you know what I mean,” he says wryly.
Gray, in our world, means not totally good but not totally bad.
“I do know what you mean,” I say. “My Spidey senses are going crazy on this one. Boris told me this guy Vlad could maybe get me in touch with his fund managers in Russia.”
“Well, Vlad is a man who can make connections, yes.”
“Is he Boris’s agent?”
“No, that’s Scott Rose.”
“Oh,” I say, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank God. Boris is a good guy and he deserves a straight-up agent. Boris doesn’t even read his contracts. He leaves it to Scott, so I’m glad to know someone principled has his back there, at least.”
