by Raine Miller
No, it’s not worth it.
No matter how much I want it.
Six
A Front Loop Intervention
Georg
I’m trying to figure out if it is possible to like and hate someone at the same time. I like that this new trainer, Dale, is taking the time to help me get in better shape. I hate that he’s a Mr. Universe lookalike and clearly has his eye on Pam. Fucker.
We’re working on core, so he’s demonstrating the ridiculous shit he wants me to do—hanging with my elbows in some kind of strap setup that’ll use my core strength to hold me up. He looks like a professional gymnast as he does it, the bastard, with his eight-pack abs, his perfectly unmarred skin, his bulging pectoral muscles. Puke. I want to puke just looking at this Ken doll.
And, because I only have bad luck, Pam wanders into the gym just in time to see this ridiculous display of testosterone.
Dale jumps down and flashes Pam a grin. “Hey there.”
“What a thing to walk in on, Dale.” The fact she smiles at him grates on me more than I’d like. “Preparing for Olympic trials, are we?”
“Just hanging out,” Dale answers, “waiting for you.”
“Hanging out,” I repeat, along with a fake laugh. “You’re so pun-ny.”
“Attitude will get you nowhere,” Dale snaps cheerfully. “Your turn, Georg. Hop up there.”
I strip my shirt and climb up, positioning my arms in the stirrups. At first, it’s not too hard to hold myself up. Dale watches for a few seconds, then turns his attention to Pam. She shows him some sort of file, but her attention flits to me every so often, slyly. I’m determined to stay here until she leaves. I do not want to fail in front of her.
I count in my head and it’s about sixty seconds in that I start to feel the burn. I’m trying to focus on staying up here, to not notice the way Dale’s posture is, the way he leans casually toward Pam, not so close as to be unprofessional, not so far away as to give an impression of disinterest.
I want to MMA this guy, to drop down off this thing, onto his shoulders, my legs squeezing his head, taking him down. I need to pummel him.
Suddenly, I’m feeling kind of nauseated. Not kind of. A lot nauseated, actually. I give up, having lost track of time, and hop down, running for the locker room. I barely make it in there before my vision blurs and my skin goes cold and clammy. I put my head between my knees, trying to will my body back to normal.
Dale follows me in. “Hey,” he calls out. He finds me bent over like a lightweight, unfortunately. “What’s going on?”
“Just felt dizzy and nauseated for a moment.” I wave him off. “No big deal.”
He reaches out to grab my wrist, checking my heart rate before looking at my pupils. “Stick out your tongue and say ‘ahh.’”
“Ahh.”
“I think maybe you’re a little dehydrated or maybe low blood sugar. What did you eat today?”
“Cereal,” I say reluctantly.
“What kind?”
“Froot Loops.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you fourteen?”
“No.”
“There is zero nutritional value in Froot Loops,” he says. “Especially for a grown-ass man. Especially for an athlete. You need to get something with fiber, whole grains, and so on. And frankly, more protein, more fruits and veggies. I’ll bet you eat like a bachelor, which for an elite athlete confuses me. You need speed and strength, Kolochev. Surely you know this.”
I just shrug in response, refusing to look at him. Smug bastard.
“Go see Devon in nutrition. Have her give you a daily schedule. Get on track with your diet or you’re going to start eating into muscle. You’re doing great with these workouts, but your body can’t sustain them or build muscle if you don’t give it the right fuel, both before and post workouts.”
“Got it.” I am so done with this conversation.
“You made it two minutes, by the way,” he says. “Longer than I anticipated. Good job. Showing off for a certain blonde therapist?”
“Nope.” If he doesn’t shut up soon, I might do something I know I’ll regret later.
He winks. “Liar. I was showing off, too. It’s okay. She’s hot.”
I can’t even speak a response. I just get up and stalk out, and head down the hall to see Devon Pearson.
The Crush organization has a habit of hiring very attractive women. Most of the women who work here—from the top brass to the housekeeping staff—are attractive. Some are thin and some are thick. Some are tall and some are short. Some are white and some are brown. But none of them are ugly. I think that’s on purpose, though even our dumb-dumb of a GM isn’t dumb enough to admit it.
All of that has led up to me saying for the record that Devon Pearson is in a whole other sphere of beautiful. She’s the kind of beautiful that belongs in magazines. She’s the kind of beautiful that makes men forget how to form coherent speech. I am not joking. Why she’s a nutritionist and not a model is beyond me. She’s nearly six-feet tall, perfectly proportioned, totally symmetrical, with slightly up-slanted eyes, lush, dark hair that falls in waves down her back, and a gorgeous set of perma-red lips.
I’m not stupid enough to think she would ever, in a million years, be attracted to me, so I’m not intimidated by her like some of the guys are. That said, I don’t mind being sent to her office from time to time. Eye candy and all.
“Georg Kolochev,” she comments as I wander in and flop down in one of her office chairs. “What brings you here today?”
“Dale’s worried I’m not eating right.”
“Are you eating right?” she asks, challenge in her voice.
I shrug. “I had Froot Loops for breakfast.”
Devon looks at her watch. “And lunch?”
“Does water count?”
“No, it does not. Seriously, Georg?”
Another shrug. “I’m not always hungry.”
Her lips form a flat line. “What else is going on in your life right now? Why the big push for fitness? I mean, you’ve always been fit as an athlete, but not totally committed above and beyond the necessary minimum to play the game.”
“I am flatline on increases.”
“And…” Devon asks with her eyebrows raised.
Isn’t that enough information? I shrug. “I need to be better…stronger.” I want the big paychecks like Evan gets. He is a scorer, but I am with him on each assist almost. Yet I don’t get the big bonuses, the big multi-year, seven-figure contracts. I make good money, yes, but I am not where I want to be. But I don’t share all that with Devon because she’s asking the right questions. She’s a nutritionist, not a psychologist.
“And that means what with regard to this spur in fitness training?”
Clearly, I was wrong. I sigh and shove back in my chair. “I need to prove last year was no fluke. I need to attract a new agent who can represent me better. Or at all, really. Ned is not cutting it for me anymore.”
“Ned drinks a lot, yes?” she asks.
“He does. And he eats a lot. And he sweats a lot. It is hard for anyone to take him seriously.”
“Do you think maybe he needs to head to rehabilitation for his drinking?” she asks.
“Who knows.” I lift a shoulder. “His drinking is not my problem. His lack of ability to do his job is my problem, though. In the meantime, I need to train so that I can attract a new agent.”
“Well, I think you could consider asking him to kick his drinking habit. You can ask him to focus on himself like you’re focusing on yourself. I assume you’re cutting the drinking as well?”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Devon.” I put two hands up to halt this conversation.
“Well, you should go that far,” she snaps. “You’ll never get past the plateau you’ve hit if you don’t cut the booze, my friend.”
I don’t answer. Silence is the only answer I give anyone who tells me I need to stop drinking. Devon proceeds to ask me a plethora of questions about carbs, p
roteins, fats, and what combinations do what. After she checks for allergies and what foods I love and hate, she prints off some weekly meal recommendations and hands them to me.
“Please think about what I said, Georg. And stick to these meal plans for the next couple of weeks. See how it feels. It should be enough calories to sustain your increased workouts. And I’m guessing you’ll have more energy and stamina.”
“More stamina is never a bad thing.” I give her a wicked grin.
“Get out now.” She shoos me away with her hands. “That stuff doesn’t work on me.”
With a chuckle, I thank her and head back out into the hallway, reading the meal plans as I walk. Lots of fish and chicken. Lots of vegetables. Lots of fruit and whole grains. Definitely more work than I’m used to…
“Hey, Georg?” Devon calls from her cubicle.
“Yeah,” I answer, turning to look.
She jogs the few feet and hands me a Post-it Note. “I realize this is a big change. There are services that pre-prep all of this and deliver it for you each week. I’ve written them down here.”
“Bless you for reading my mind.” I rub my eyes, suddenly tired. “Thanks, Devon, I appreciate this.”
“Anytime, Georg.”
I head off to grab what I’ve decided I’ll call my “Last Meal”—a burger and fries—and feel immediately better.
I also drink two beers before calling Ned.
I start in with the demands the second he picks up and I know it’s not voicemail. “Ned, I need you to draft a preseason memo for management. Ask them to reward me based on performance.”
“Oh, I don’t think they’d—“
“I was one half of the top-scoring duo on the ice last year,” I say. “Evan got bonuses like crazy. It can be negotiated. And I’m motivated to hit whatever goals they want to see.”
“Well, I just don’t—“
“You just don’t what, Ned? Do your job? Pridurok! You get paid to represent me. So why don’t you do that for a change,” I snap. “And for fuck’s sake, go get dried out. Stop drinking so much. Stop eating so much. You’re an embarrassment.”
“Well, that’s the pot calling the kettle black, now isn’t it?” he counters, once he’s done stuttering.
“You are worthless,” I snarl. “I am going to start shopping around for new representation.”
“Now, now, Georg, I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Then maybe you should DO WHAT I FUCKING ASKED.” I hang up on him and head to the ice, my mood shittier than it was before our phone call, if that’s possible.
I’m a total prick in practice, checking rookies right and left. At one point, Evan pulls me aside, like any good team captain should. “Hey, man, what’s going on with the aggression? Like, more than usual. Are you okay?”
“Fucking Ned,” is my answer.
“Really? Your agent has you this riled up?”
“He’s worthless,” I spit. “I’m working my ass off and he is pissing away any negotiation space I might have. Fucking sweaty bastard.”
“Oh-kay…” Evan says carefully.
“And I have to start eating better. Whole special diet from Devon. Nearly passed out in the gym today.”
Evan laughs. “Oh no, not a healthy diet. Whatever will you do if you can’t pour vodka over cereal and call it a meal?”
“I do not pour vodka over my cereal, fucker.”
“Fine,” he says with an eye-roll. “Still, it’s good you’re taking your health more seriously. You can’t stay in your twenties forever. Making changes now will help you be healthier when you’re older.”
“You sound like a dad,” I say, annoyed.
“Good, because I’ll be one soon. But you want to play for a long time, and you won’t be able to sustain it if all you put in your body is cereal and alcohol.”
“I thought we were talking about my piss-poor agent,” I say. “Not my eating and drinking habits.”
Evan puts up his gloved hands. “Just looking out for you, man. You’re literally my left hand. I need you out there.”
“Fuck,” I say as I skate off, having had quite enough of this bullshit conversation.
But he’s right. He knows I’ve been working out harder, trying to drink less. I do want to push my career further. I don’t want to be on the trade list.
I don’t want to go backward.
You think you’ll amount to anything? See yourself as the next Igor Larionov?
I have to keep pushing forward for that to happen.
But are you taking things serious like you should be? No.
Wasting your talent? Probably.
Letting good opportunities pass you by when you should be grabbing them with both fists? Yeah.
Being a fucking imbecile—slaboumnyy—most of the time? Guilty.
I just have to be more than all of that.
Seven
Shut Your F#@king Mouth
Pam
Somebody’s not having a good day. Georg.
And since it’s someone I care about, I can’t stop my feet from taking me to the sound of his voice two hallways over. I head out of the PT suite to find him but as I approach, I see that the team nutritionist, Devon, is already at his side. Georg is screaming into his phone, mostly in Russian, but sometimes in English clearly stunted by emotion.
When he hangs up, he throws his phone at the wall with a frustrated grunt. It shatters into several pieces and Devon puts her hand on his shoulder.
“Calm down,” she says quietly. “What’s going on?”
“He is shitfaced,” Georg snarls. “I can’t even have a conversation with him. Slaboumnyy! He was blathering on about needing to up his game but in the same sentence says he can’t do anything for me. He actually had the nerve to call me a fuck-up. Can you believe that? I helped win a fucking championship!”
“So the rehab conversation didn’t go well, I take it?”
“Fuck. No, he was oblivious. Threw my own drinking back in my face.”
“Well, there is that…” Devon says. At a sharp look from Georg, she pulls him to her in a hug and whispers something in his ear.
This makes me see red, for some reason. What the heck is she hugging him for? Are they really that close? I decide it’s time to stop that nonsense in its tracks.
“Hey, uhm, Georg?” I say sweetly. “We’ve got the group PT stretching set up in the gym in a few minutes. Come join us?”
“Yes, okay,” he says, pulling away from Devon. “Give me a minute. I need to change. Breathe a little. You know.”
“This will help. This kind of stretching. Good stress reduction tactic…” I press gently, really hoping he’ll take me up on the offer.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, picking up the pieces of his broken phone and cursing in Russian as he wanders toward the locker room.
Devon looks at me. “Poor guy. He’s trying to make positive changes, but his agent is not doing a thing for him.”
“Oh? Sounds like he needs a new agent.”
“That’s why the extra workouts and a better diet,” Devon says. “He’s trying to attract someone else. Right now, though, he just wants Ned to represent him well in this preseason. Now is the time to negotiate performance-based stuff.”
“What happens if his agent doesn’t step up?” I ask.
“Any number of things. Best-case, his contract is what it is. He plays his season. Done. Worst-case, he gets traded and no one is there to advocate for him in the trade.”
“Do you think he’ll get traded?”
She shrugs. “Well, who am I to say? He played really well last year. He’s a wild card, though, as you have surely figured out. People have mixed feelings about him.”
“Ah,” I say, not sure what the right comment is. “Well, I’d better get to the gym for my session.”
I wander off, brooding over the fact that this woman knows so much about what’s going on in Georg’s life. She’s the team nutritionist, not psychologist. I mean, of course he
would want to hug someone who looks like Devon. She’s beautiful and clearly respected. And why do I care? I’ve already written off the possibility of any kind of relationship with Georg, mainly because it’s prohibited here, but also because he hasn’t given any indication of interest since last spring. Annnd now I probably know why he’s shown no interest.
I try to put my stupid jealousy to the side as I go in to help Dale run the stretching clinic we’ve designed. There are six players, all on mats.
Dale talks about stretching as an integral part of any workout. He says he knows none of the Crush players stretch enough and they all laugh. He recommends yoga as a stress reducer, and a way to unfurl tight muscles that get kinked during games and gym workouts. One of the guys does downward dog and complains that he feels stupid. Another guy tells him he looks stupid too. Someone farts, and they all giggle like a bunch of middle-schoolers. Preseason. I shake my head, because I know this will be a completely different atmosphere once the season starts and the boys—aka elite hockey players—will actually act their profession. I hope.
Dale gets them back on track and the two of us lead stretches while we explain how they help protect muscles, tendons, and joints from damage.
“You don’t want to have to come and see me, because being on my table means you’ve been injured. And being injured means you’re off the ice.” Hopefully they can see the logic in what I’m saying.
“Yeah, but it also means we get to have your hands on us,” one of the players pipes up. “I don’t think any of us would mind that, Pam.”
“It’s about the only way she’d put her hands on any of you meatheads,” Dale says with an epic eye-roll. The guys all laugh.
This kind of light flirtation goes on through the half-hour session. I’m not bothered by it, for the most part. But as we finish up, one of the guys says, “I hope we have more of these sessions. I’ve just been enjoying the nice view down Pam’s shirt the whole time. What a gorgeous rack.”
