Sin Shot

by Raine Miller

“Yeah, you too,” I answer after a second. I feel so pathetically stupid. Why on earth did I call him?

  “I’ll come see you sometime tomorrow. We don’t practice, so it will probably be after lunch. Will you be there?”

  “Yes, I’ll be working tomorrow,” I answer quickly, my heartbeat speeding up at the thought of seeing him so soon.

  “Good. Good. Then I guess I should take you up on your offer for some therapeutic stretching, Pamela.”

  Oh—my—God. He sees right through me. I realize I need to get off the phone before I say or offer him anything worse. And it will happen…because I turn utterly stupid when I’m around him. “Night-night, Georg.” I hope I sound like my confident self, but I can’t tell anymore with him. Georg affects me differently than all other guys before him.

  There’s a long pause. So long that I almost think he’s hung up. But then he murmurs, “I love hearing my name on your lips.”

  “I…” At a loss, I have no idea what to say to that comment. He has to be drunk, right?

  “Goodnight, Pamela.”

  And then he hangs up.

  At home, it takes a very long time for me to calm down enough to even think about sleep. I shower and make some hot tea. I watch some television. I write in my journal. I clean my bathroom.

  With Georg on my mind the entire time.

  I wonder if he’s going home with someone else tonight. I wonder what he meant when he said he liked hearing me say his name. I wonder if he was shit-faced and won’t remember the comment at all.

  I know one thing: the thought of kissing him makes for a very heavy feeling in my lower abdomen. It makes me wet to think about him, his kisses, the way he smelled when he was close to me on the dance floor. The way his voice got a little hoarse when he said goodnight on the phone. The way he stood up for me in front of his teammates. The way he looked, shirtless, working out. None of that should matter. The kissing was less than nothing as relationships go. It was a flirtation, a distraction from my last months of school.

  And now I work for the Crush and he plays for the Crush, and there is nothing to gain from breaking team policy but a whole lot of trouble.

  But as my fingers find the soft, wet place between my legs, I drive myself into a wickedly wonderful ride on the Kitty Whipping Express with zero regrets. It feels too good.

  I say his name when I come.

  “…Georg.”

  Ten

  Wake the Puck Up

  Georg

  Why did she call me? This is the question I can’t get out of my head as I return to the party I ended up at tonight with some of the guys.

  Pamela Jenson.

  I need to get this woman out of my head.

  But how to get said woman out of my head?

  Alcohol?

  Meaningless fucking?

  Why, yes, that’s probably a very good place to start.

  There are three showgirls who’ve joined our group. One looks a little like Pam, with her curves and long legs and blonde hair. She sits on my lap and has me do shots from between her fake breasts. I shove cash in the front of her bikini bottoms as she grinds her ass on my lap.

  The rest of the night goes by in a blur of alcohol and the smell of coconut oil. The women pay us lots of attention, helping us lick our wounds from the loss we suffered. The Pam look-alike tells me she’d like to escort me home. A song plays in the club, an old AC/DC song called Have a Drink on Me. We all sing along at the top of our lungs as we stagger out of the club and into the balmy, middle-of-the-night air of off-strip Vegas.

  The look-alike and I stumble into my apartment at three in the morning. Where did the night go? I vaguely register the time, but pay no attention to it as we drink vodka and turn on the television. She strips naked and straddles me, still in my jeans and T-shirt. I admire her tits but don’t make a move to touch them. She tells me it’s five hundred for the night.

  I don’t even ask her name.

  It’s well past noon when I wake up to the shitshow of another “morning after.” My head is pounding. My stomach feels like it’s full of acid. My cock hurts. My wallet’s empty. Like I said—a full-blown shitshow.

  Definitely not my finest hour.

  I don’t call Pam.

  I don’t schedule therapeutic stretching.

  I don’t work out with Dale.

  I show up late for practice the following day. And then we travel for our second preseason game, and I drink my way through Los Angeles, particularly because it reminds me of Pam. I find a woman with dark skin and dark hair who looks absolutely nothing like her. We negotiate her price for the night, and I spend it with her, barely able to get it up because I’m so pissing-drunk.

  The game is a slaughter. I can’t seem to control the puck to save my life. Evan tells me to wake up and it only serves to rattle me. I get in a fight with someone from my own team. Coach pulls me, telling me to “get my shit together,” and replaces me with the second-string. Evan manages to score, but we fail at defense and the LA team rips three shots in less than five minutes. They score two more in the third period. A five-to-one blowout and I played maybe six minutes of the game.

  Evan is so pissed he won’t even speak to me after. Anger rolls off him in waves as he changes and heads out to the press. Later, I watch a clip of the press conference and when a reporter asks Evan why I got benched so early in the game, I see his jaw clench tightly while he tries to control himself. He ends up saying I wasn’t playing my best game, but the implication was there: I was a fuck-up. He didn’t want me anywhere near the ice while I was so hungover.

  I call Devon, the nutritionist, after we return and we decide to take a walk together. We just walk around the arena block, talking.

  “So you were super hungover and he pulled you from the game,” Devon confirms.

  “Yes,” I admit. “I’ve been drinking a ton lately. I’m not proud of it.”

  “Look,” she says, “I’m not a counselor, but I’d say you’re obviously working through something. You’re not your usual, jovial self. You seem agitated, more prone to violence. This drinking…it seems like more than just partying, you know?”

  “Yeah, it’s…” I don’t know what to say. It is different. It is darker. And I know it’s not healthy. But what causes it? What’s to blame? These confusing feelings for Pam? My anger about Ned? My frustration about where I am on the team? All of the above? Who the fuck knows? I know I don’t.

  “You know, we talked about Ned needing to consider alcohol rehabilitation, but you might want to do the same. I thought you were headed down a really solid path on your own, but maybe you need, you know, more. More help, more support,” she suggests.

  “Probably.” Just that one word. Hard to admit. I run my hands through my hair and squint into the sun.

  We head back in and she gives me a long hug, says she’s here if I want to talk. Gives me her cell number in case I need support outside of work. I go straight home and douse myself in vodka before passing out on the couch with my cock in my hand.

  We have three more losses, all preseason games. I’ve never played so badly in my life. Evan pulls me aside and asks what’s going on.

  “I’m not the only person on the team,” I answer sharply.

  “No, but you’re also playing like complete shit. It’s throwing off the lines, the plays. The other players don’t trust you to make good decisions out there. Everyone’s working around you, and that’s not helpful,” he says. He’s being very calm. It pisses me off.

  “Whatever, then.” I snap. I’m bleary. Tired. Ready to go home.

  “Who are you? You’re not you lately. What the hell is going on?”

  “I’m just fine.”

  “You’re not fine,” he snarls. “Don’t fucking lie. You’re not training anymore. You’re not going to therapy. You’re drinking more, eating less. You look like a fucking ghost. You were all hyped up earlier about not wanting to get traded, not wanting to be a fuck-up. You were looking good, strong. Even aft
er our first loss, I could see a path for us to win, to get back to where we were last year. But now…fuck, man. I think you need to consider what it is you want in life. Because this can’t be it.”

  I don’t have a comeback for his tirade. He’s right, about all of it.

  “I’m not myself lately, I know,” I finally say.

  “Well, talk to me, then,” he offers. “We’re friends. I’m your friend. Not just your teammate. Not just the captain.”

  “I’m not into sharing feelings. No offense.”

  Evan rolls his eyes. “No dude is into sharing feelings, but I need to know what’s going on with you.”

  “I’m just pissed,” I answer, throwing my head back in frustration. “Ned’s a fucking joke, for one. No matter how hard I work, he won’t work on my behalf. I’m losing out on bonus discussions. There’s trade talk that hasn’t even made it to me yet. Ned acts like nothing is going on.”

  “Okay, that’s all fair. But drinking yourself into oblivion and playing like garbage won’t help that.”

  “I know.” Fuck, do I know. I don’t want to be here. Not like this. Not as the fuck-up. Slaboumnyy. Talentless waste of breath. “I started working out with Dale, paying more attention to nutrition. I’ve been working hard on that, you know it.”

  “And the drinking?”

  I groan and rub my hands over my face. My fucking head hurts. “Fuck,” I say. “I mean, it was good for a few weeks. Lately, though…”

  “Bad,” Evan finishes for me. “I can tell it’s tipped beyond having a good time. And that means it’s time to stop. It can’t be just about your agent that’s pushing you to this extreme, though. What else?”

  “I mean, no…yeah…Ned’s always been a fuck-up. He’s never been a good agent. I kept thinking I could ride your coattails, that we’d be seen as a team. I thought Scott might pick me up.”

  Evan makes a noise of agreement. “He talked about it over the summer,” he says. “Liked how consistent you were. He wanted to see if last season was a fluke or a trend.”

  “That makes me feel even worse, because now he’s only seeing me take a shit out there, every game.” I probably sound like I’m whining.

  “Yeah, but it’s only preseason. We’ve got a whole, long season ahead of us. Get it together; you can turn things around.”

  He leans in and gives me one of those sideways bro-hugs. It’s awkward but whatever. He’s just being a friend and a team captain.

  “Get back in the gym, go back and see Devon, cut the booze,” he orders. “I’ll keep Scott from looking the other way, okay?”

  I nod. “Yup. Got it.”

  “Anything else we need to talk about?” Evan asks.

  “Nah.”

  “We don’t need to talk about Pam?”

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “You guys had a thing, or whatever. Now she works here,” he prompts.

  “We hung out. It was never a thing.” I rub at the aching spot thumping away inside my chest, totally failing at checking myself in front of my best friend; instead delivering a big fat tell that suggests a whole lotta otherwise. He knows I’m a shitty liar so there’s no point in denying.

  Evan sighs. “Sure, well, one step at a time, I guess. First up, let’s get you refocused on the ice.”

  Once home, I sit on the couch playing Xbox through much of the day. I’m up several times to pour myself a drink, and after the sixth or seventh time, I grab every bottle of liquor in the apartment and pour it all down the sink.

  Alcohol gone.

  Next, I hire a cleaning service that will come and clean the place from top to bottom on a weekly basis. I had a service before, but it became necessary to let them go…as well as calling a locksmith in to change out my locks. Wasn’t my fault two of the cleaners decided to join me naked in my shower with an offer to do a lot more than just scrub my marble. The fact I took them up on their offer was totally my bad. I have since learned that humping the help is never a good plan. Self-growth and all.

  I also make an appointment with the tailor several of my teammates use and set up some fittings. The NHL dress code requires suits and ties on game days—it’s even written into our collective bargaining agreement—and I can always use some styling new threads. It’s been a little hard to get used to the fact that I can afford to spend thousands of dollars on a new suit, but it has to be done. I’m tame compared to some of my teammates, though. The hardcore fashionistas won’t even wear the same outfit twice during regular season.

  I strip my bed and start doing laundry. While it’s in the wash, I go online and order a shit-ton of pre-prepped meals and other nutritional supplements from the food delivery services on Devon’s list so I can test out what I like the best. I toss the crap food from my pantry and clean out the refrigerator. Basically, I pull a Marie Kondo for the rest of the weekend. Once I get going though, I discover it’s not nearly as bad as I dreaded it would be.

  I even write a letter home and send it to my mother’s email address. It’s important for me that my family knows I haven’t forgotten about them back in Russia. We stay in touch the best we can for now with emails, calls, and the occasional FaceTime, but it’s been three years since I’ve been home or seen any of them. Mama really wouldn’t approve of my life right now. I’d love it if my mother and father and sisters came here to visit me. That offer is always an open invitation, but they have yet to take me up on it since I’ve been playing for the Crush. My parents are traditional, so I don’t push over hard, but I do insist that they’re always welcome in my home here in America. My two younger sisters, Irina and Zoya, are dying to come to Las Vegas. They want to have a good time like all young college students do. I don’t blame them a bit. Although, it would be both awesome and terrifying at the same time if they ever do make it to Vegas for a visit. My sisters are young and beautiful and innocent. I’d have to fuck up the asshole who even tried to mess with either of them. And these horny motherpuckers I’m around 24/7 would fucking try. They’d be all over Irina and Zoya just like the slathering dogs they are. I’d get life in prison for serial murder and that would very much suck for me.

  I don’t know why I chose today to start getting my shit in gear. Time to clear up my home, make it a place I like to be. My home. Is that it? When I’m on my own, my world is in Russian. My thoughts, my emails to my family, my ramblings. Outside of these walls, I’m Georg who plays hockey for the Crush. No one in my daily life speaks my language. No one really knows me. Not like Evan and Holly. Maybe it was Evan’s talk, or maybe it was Devon’s encouragement, or possibly something—or someone—else that’s motivating me to shake my ass into line. Either way, it’s needed to happen for far too long. I guess today was just the day for me to finally wake the puck up and get enlightened. Yep, I’m starting to feel like one big enlightened motherpucker now.

  Much later, when I’m in the shower whacking off to the lovely image of a certain sports therapist I cannot get out of my head to save my life, I come to an understanding with myself.

  Making all these changes?

  Yeah, it’s giving me mixed feelings and was fucked up at first. Change is uncomfortable sure, but I can’t take any more of feeling vulnerable like I have been lately. Or like I’m teetering on the edge and one quick push in either direction will send me over; because whatever side I’m leaning toward is where I’ll land.

  I cannot land on the wrong fucking side. I can’t piss away everything I’ve earned getting to this level in my career. There are guys who’d give up a testicle to be where I’m at right now in the NHL.

  Still fisting up and down the length of my cock to memories of Pam, I feel my balls tighten up and the delicious hot ache that grips me as I start to come. Relief pours out of me along with the jizz, the hot water washing it down the drain along with the soap suds.

  Too bad my obsession with Pam doesn’t wash away as easily as the schlong juice. Nope, still there. I tried. Tried drinking and fucking her out of my mind, but it didn�
��t work. I’ve haven’t spoken to her in weeks. I’ve been a dick. Again. But as I’ve cleaned up today, I know she deserves more than that. More than me being a dick and throwing her olive branches of friendship away with little thought. In cleaning out the shit, maybe that affords a fresh slate too. Maybe.

  Eleven

  We’re all Works in Progress

  Pam

  It’s about quittin’ time on a Friday evening, and Holly’s temporary replacement, Scarlett, comes into the therapy room. It’s rare to see office folks in our suite of work spaces, but Scarlett’s been an exception, as she and I have been taking lunchtime walks periodically. My first impression of her is so different from the girl I’ve gotten to know. Sometimes Holly joins us, because she can’t sit for very long without having back pain.

  We’re into the official season, and the Crush have seemingly turned things around, with two solid wins at home, and Georg back on the ice and playing much better than he did in preseason. I haven’t seen him in person in over a week, though. It’s almost as if he’s avoiding me. I was hurt when he didn’t come down for therapy after we talked on the phone all those weeks ago now, but I knew I’d been stupid calling him that night anyway. You live and learn. I thought it was to do with the office fraternization policy initially, but I overheard one of the other therapists comment on how he’s seen Georg and Devon having lunch together a lot recently. Guess it’s just me he’s not wanting to see.

  He’s free to date whoever he wants, I guess. And Devon is a knockout, and smart. I don’t dislike her at all, even though I want to claw her eyeballs out for getting near my Georg.

  My Georg. Ugh. Why do I even let myself think like that? He’s obviously not my Georg.

  “You look like you’re doing some hard thinking there, friend,” Scarlett comments, pulling me from my thoughts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”