by Raine Miller
“Vlad’s not bad, per se, he’s out for the best interests of the players he represents for the most part. He represents Viktor Demoskev, so there’s another Crush connection if you need it. I suppose he’s worth a call and you gotta start somewhere.”
Harold and I talk about a couple of other clients and then say good night. We’re two peas in a pod, Harold and me. We never stop working and we always win for our clients. I got really lucky having him for a mentor at such a young age. A timely internship in San Francisco while at uni got me in the door with his firm, and we hit it off from there.
As I inhale the rest of my now-cold noodles, I ponder what the hell this Vlad guy has to do with anything. He doesn’t represent Boris, and he’s not Boris’s financial advisor. I mean, why can’t I just call up these guys and talk to them like any normal businessperson would? So weird.
Still, when I get a text from Harold with Nechaev’s cell phone number and a confirmation he’s in the US, I automatically dial and hope for the best. He answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Mr. Nechaev?”
“Yes, this is Vlad Nechaev,” he answers in a deep, heavily accented voice.
“I’m Talia Wentworth. I work for Harold Shaw and Baseline Investments. We’re in the process of working with a new client whose investments have long been managed overseas. I was told to call you in hopes of having you connect me to the current investment manager for Boris Drăghici. He’s got a new contract going here in Las Vegas and wishes to move his investments to a local investment manager.”
“I have not heard this directly from Boris,” he says after a lengthy pause.
“I’m happy to have him give you a call to confirm. I have to confess. I’m unsure of your role in this process. Honestly, I have a lot of questions for the investment manager that would better be discussed directly. I’m concerned, as is the client, why there has been so little growth and return after so many years.” Although, I know exactly why. “If you could give me the contact details, I can make the call myself.” Nice one, Wentworth.
Vlad laughs on the other end of the line. “I suspect maybe that the reason his investments are no good is because he isn’t the brightest bulb in the lamp.” What the fuck?
“That’s not funny,” I say flatly. “Mr. Nechaev, I don’t have any idea why, in seven hells, I would have to go through someone with no direct connection to the client in order to have a simple business discussion. I just need to know who to call. Stop being an obstructionist to what is a totally normal business practice. What the hell do you have to do with any of this anyway?” Here’s hoping Mr. Condescending doesn’t disconnect the call after that moment of unprofessionalism.
I hold my breath for a moment, but then God bless him, this guy laughs into the phone yet again. “You are a real spitfire, Miss Wentworth. Look, I help players to straddle the United States and Russia. Sometimes there are accusations about doping that we manage through independent drug testing. Sometimes we have visa and border issues. I do actual contract and player management as ninety percent of my business, but I am also known to help these players when they have business spanning the two countries. In this case, I am the conduit to the Ice Dragon’s financial managers.”
“Why the hell wouldn’t they just talk to him directly? If I made my clients go through an intermediary, they’d say I was shady as hell and to fuck on off. This is beyond stupid. Just connect me so I can switch the accounts to our management, and I’ll leave everyone alone after that.”
“What a mouth on you,” Vlad says, sounding delighted by my outburst. “Okay, because you are so ballsy, I will make a call for you.”
“Thank you, I guess?” Christ, this is weird. “Please explain I’ll expect to hear from them within the week.”
Vlad offers some pleasantries and then we hang up, with me unsure of whether I should be pleased with myself, or worried. I think I feel a little of both. Yes, I do have a mouth on me, and perhaps I shouldn’t blame it on my environment I worked in. But Vlad sounded far too cocky for me, and I wanted him to know I was serious. Although, I’ve never heard Harold say fuck to a client’s contact. Shit. Oh well, time will tell. Hopefully, I didn’t just shoot Baseline Investments in the proverbial foot.
The last call I make for the night is to Boris. He sounds sleepy when he answers, but I ask him if he can pop in the office for a quick update sometime this week. He says he’ll check the practice schedule and stop in when he can. I mention he may need to call Vlad Nechaev to let him know he does indeed want to move his investments to an American investment manager. I’ll also have paperwork for him to review and sign in order to start the process. When he hesitates, I immediately promise to assist him with the contract review…preferably in the presence of someone he trusts, like Scott Rose, but keeping Scott blind to the reason why he’s needed there.
He thanks me and says good night in that sexy accent of his which should be illegal. I seriously doubt he’s even remotely aware of his hotness.
I can’t stop thinking about Boris Drăghici on my short walk home from my office, so much so that I settle on my chaise and pull open my laptop to do some reconnaissance, rather than my regular habit of opening a book to read. LuLu even complains loudly at being displaced by the evil hard metal thing taking up her spot in my lap. I’m forced to set her up on the gray blanket tucked in beside me before I can even get started.
It’s funny. When I take on a new client, I usually avoid most of the tabloid gossip. And there is always tabloid gossip. Models, drugs, drinking, partying, violent behavior, car accidents…whatever. There’s always something, and sometimes stuff turns out to be true. Usually, it has zero effect on my work with the client, unless the true stuff ends up costing money that needs to be liquidated. Still, I’m not the judge or jury, and my job is always to make the most of a client’s investments. That is all.
So imagine my surprise when I see nothing incriminating about Boris Drăghici. Anywhere. There are profile articles about his training in Russia, about the fact he was chosen to play in the Sochi Games after only two years of full-time training. He warmed the bench, but stayed in training and ended up starting in the Sochi games four years later. The only child of divorced parents, he moved with his mother back to her native Russia when he was twelve. He played Russian league throughout his career and then was picked up by Austin four years ago on one of the best rookie contracts in the league. His deal with the Crush is based on several solid years of scoring domination, and it’s almost better than Crush golden boy, Evan Kazmeirowicz.
I keep hearing rumors Evan may retire soon. He’s got a family now and he’s not as young as he used to be. He’s still an ace on the ice and he’s a strong winger to Boris’s center position. They’ll make a good pair, a strong pair, but there’s a lot of pressure on Boris, who is here for one sole reason: to bring the Crush another championship season.
The articles are all focused on his power, his speed, and his ability to avoid the spotlight. He’s mostly described as shy, introverted, and low drama. There are no photos of him with half-naked women, no pictures of him partying. I even check the WAGs (Wives & Girlfriends) page for the Austin Comets to see if he was ever linked to anyone. Nope. Boris Drăghici is listed as one of the few “single” guys on the team. Which isn’t unheard of, really. There are always players who manage to keep their private life just that. Or they’re gay, and solidly in the closet. Pro sports makes it really hard to be out and proud, sadly. Having social media accounts for the public to stalk is rule number one. And Boris doesn’t have Facebook, Twitter, Snap, or Insta that I can find. Lots of dead searches for information about him are out there though. So, there is a curiosity about him, but with no picture evidence to speculate about, it doesn’t go anywhere.
Everything I could find is focused on him as an athlete or as a member of the Comets. There’s a cute Weird Hockey clip of him being asked which celebrity he’s been told he looks like. He replies innocently, “No one looks like me.” The ador
able smile on his face as he sits perched atop a tall stool in his perfectly tailored suit has me captivated. Boris either has excellent media management or he is legitimately a saint.
I do find a handful of marketing photos from his time with the Comets. There are some “sexy” photos of the team out there, shirtless photos. And Boris is…well, he’s kind of perfect. I stare at the images for a long time, taking in the sparse dark hair on his perfectly sculpted pectorals. His washboard abs lay a trail down into unbuttoned jeans in one shot. His tattoo, a colorful dragon that curves from shoulder to wrist, only accentuates his bulging biceps. And that face. Holy crap. Piercing eyes. Perfect lips. Stubble that makes me want to—
Nope.
Stop it, Talia.
You cannot get naked with another client. Not after what happened in San Francisco.
I click out of my Google search and sit back, eyes closed, trying to will my hot-and-bothered body to calm down. I went down the rabbit hole with those pictures of half-naked Boris, which I shouldn’t have done. Wasn’t it a gross invasion of privacy? Negative. He’s too gorgeous to be ignored completely. How will I even be able to look him in the eye knowing I was like minutes away from needing a vibrator session with him in mind?
I take a deep breath. And then, just to remind myself of how a poorly made decision turned out for me in the past, I go to Facebook and look up Cameron Thompson. Cameron Thompson, with his model looks and perfect, panty-melting smile. Cameron Thompson, with a wife and three adorable children. Cameron Thompson, who was married when I slept with him. Five times.
Cameron keeps his profile public, which is insane for a person as wealthy as he is. He’s thirty and a Silicon Valley tycoon already, married to his high school sweetheart.
The first time I met him at a client meeting, there was a chemical reaction. I felt it and I was uncomfortable about it. But weeks later, when he called me to confirm if I was feeling what he was feeling? It was like two magnets pulling us together. The next time we met for dinner to discuss his investments, we ended up screwing in his car. Then there was the all-night software development crisis where he took me to a hotel. Hmmm.
Those overnights happened five times before his wife came to my office and called me out in front of Harold and one of our baseball superstar clients. She called me a home-wrecker and a gold digger and several other names that don’t bear repeating. I tried to explain I had no idea he was married. We’d only ever talked about his investments, never about family, and he never wore a wedding band. When she stormed out of the office, I was left red-faced with a sick pit in my stomach—I was not that woman who would ever sleep with a married man—and I was also sure Harold would fire me posthaste.
He didn’t, though. Instead, he told me “shit happens” and that I “made a rookie error in judgment.” And he then told me I was to go build Baseline’s Las Vegas client base.
As I take in the smiling photos of Cameron with his pretty wife and cute kids, his lavish life on boats and at charity events, I feel disgusted. With myself. But also very angry at Cameron for not only what he did to me, but what he did to his undeserving family. God, I hope I’m the only one he’s done this with. I slam my laptop shut, angry I let myself be so dazzled by him. I can’t do it again. I won’t do it again. I’m going to stay focused on my work and my business. If I can do that, everything will be just fine. If only I’d done a Google search on Cameron…why didn’t I? Why didn’t I look up these details? He wasn’t shy of media attention, so why did I not know or check? These are the questions I have asked myself ad nauseam. Funnily enough, I never get past the answer of, You loved the unexpected and extremely stimulating attention and your reason went out the window.
Boris can be my imaginary lover tonight. My muse. I pull my trusty vibrator from the small wooden box I keep under the chaise and remind myself there are plenty of hot, fictional characters to imagine.
It’ll just have to be enough for me right now.
Eleven
Welcome to the Crush
Boris
“You look a little…constipated,” Scarlett says with a giggle. Her cheeks turn pink against her alabaster skin as she grins at the images when they pop up on the computer screen to be edited.
“That doesn’t sound good,” I comment.
“Nope, not the look we’re going for. And I know you can do better because I saw those sexy pictures you took for your last team. Your Crush pics need to be at least as nice.”
“I had hoped those had gone away by now,” I say, cringing.
“We are all immortal on the interweb.”
“So it seems. They were very adamant that sexy photos would help with attendance.”
“Did it work?”
“I believe so. Certainly not just because of me, though.”
“Uh, whatever,” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re hot. You could probably get a woman pregnant just by looking at her.” I laugh. What the hell?
“Scarlett, what have we talked about?” Sid, her photographer scolds jokingly.
“Sorry. Inappropriate. Got it.”
Scarlett Woods manages most of the Crush’s social media and public relations. She’s got the perfect name, since her hair is long and red and her personality is fiery. She’s curvy, with large breasts and ample hips, and the slightest hint of a baby bump protruding under the cloth belt of her dress. She rests her hand there protectively as she stands back to let the photographer take a few more pictures. A glittering diamond adorns her ring finger. This is who Georg mentioned, so she must be Viktor Demoskev’s fiancée.
“You are the woman who tamed the beast,” I comment, changing the subject away from my apparent hotness. “Viktor’s fiancée, correct?”
She grins. “He’s a beast all right. And yes, we are now engaged and expecting a child because why not just do everything all at once?”
I laugh and the photographer tells me that was perfect. He allows me to slip off the chair to take a peek at the images and I now see what Scarlett meant about the previous photos. My smile was all wrong, awkward and weird. These new ones are much more natural.
“Those are perfect,” Scarlett says, clapping the photographer on the back. “Sid, my boy, you are a photography genius. I love ya.”
“Well, headshots are not my forte but I’m glad these are working out okay,” Sid says.
The photographer looks young. He can’t have been doing this for very long, but I have seen some of his game day photos and he’s very talented.
“Thank you for not making me look like a pridurok,” I tell him.
“Um, you’re welcome?” Sid answers.
“It means idiot,” Scarlett says. “In Russian.”
“I thought I read in your stats that you were born in Romania?” Sid asks, as he quick-edits one of the shots. “Scarlett, you want this in your inbox now, I assume?”
“Yup,” she says. “Come on, big man. Let’s go upstairs and get some questions answered for the next social media campaign. First question: Are you Russian or Romanian?”
“I was born in Romania, my father’s country, but lived in the Czech Republic until my early teens. After my mother and father divorced, she chose to return to her native Russia and I went with her to begin my training for Olympic hockey.”
“That was concise,” she says, laughing. She stands on tiptoes to kiss Sid on the cheek, thanking him before motioning for me to follow her out into the hallway. We walk to the elevators and take one to the administrative floor, where her office is located. She leads me to a conference room and asks if I need water or coffee. I turn down both, just ready to get this over with. I am not a fan of self-promotion, though I realize it is required of me.
Scarlett takes a seat opposite me and lets out a sigh, closing her eyes. “I’m only like five months along and already worn out. Imagine when I’m like three times this size.”
She takes off her high-heeled shoes and then turns her attention back to me as s
he opens an iPad and taps her pen against it. “So, you played in the Sochi games for Russia, right?”
“Yes, I was on the official team.” I played exactly one shift in those Olympics, but I don’t need to tell her that.
“But not for OAR in the Korea games?
“No.”
“Were you bothered by the fact that Russia could not be represented as a country?”
“Is this really part of your series?”
“No,” she admits. “I’m just curious.”
“I was not bothered.”
“So you’re, what, twenty-six?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“And you’ve been playing in the US for four years?”
“Yes.”
“You know, these one or two-word answers are not gonna cut it, buddy,” Scarlett teases.
I lift a shoulder. “I’m not an exciting guy.” And you’ve only asked me yes or no questions so far. But I know not to voice that out loud.
“You’re exciting on the ice, as far as I can tell. Fast, calculating. You’re among the top scorers in the league. What makes you love hockey so much?” Ah. Here is a better question.
“Initially, hockey gave me a place to direct my teenage energy and frustration. It grew into something I was good at, so I put all of my focus toward it.”
“There we go,” she says, grinning. Her grin disappears from her face quickly, though, and she shoots to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”
Scarlett Woods literally goes running out of the room, a hand over her mouth, in her bare feet. I crane my neck until she disappears, then sit back, confused.
I’m playing a game on my phone when she returns a few minutes later.
“I’m so sorry about that,” she says, shaking her head. “People tell me I’ll feel better in the second trimester but that has not been the case for me.”
“Oh, you threw up?” I ask, surprised.
“Profusely. I apologize.”
