by Raine Miller
This fucking sucks.
When the waiter comes to offer dessert, Pam looks at me expectantly.
“I’m not feeling all that well.” My tone is apologetic. I hand my credit card to the waiter and he heads off to settle the check. “Pam, I am so sorry, but I think we’ll have to take a raincheck on dessert. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course, it’s okay. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Do you think it was something you ate?”
“No, I don’t think so.” How can I tell her that I’m worried that this means I’ll be shipped off to some other team soon, that there is no point to us even exploring this thing that’s between us? Everything about this news sucks. And now I have a headache on top of it. I’m not even lying when I tell her again that I don’t feel well suddenly.
Once I sign off on the bill, I walk Pam to the elevator and out to the street to hail a cab. She reaches out and touches my cheek and I can’t help but put my hand over hers. We just stand there like that for what seems like a long time.
“You look troubled. Can I help?” she asks, her pretty eyes searching for answers that I don’t have right now.
“I’ll be all right. And I promise I’ll make this up to you another time.”
“Sure, of course. Feel better, Georg.” She drops her hand, and fuck I want to pull her to me. She’s hot and I want to fuck her, but right now it’s a different need I have. For once, I saw more. I’m living cleaner, playing stronger, and I believed Pam could complete a different want. Something decent. Good. She gives me a little smile and a wave after I put her in the cab. I force a smile, attempting to suppress my anger and disappointment.
Once again, something good in my life is turning to shit. This is so fucked up.
When trade deals are announced there’s usually no more than a day or two before you’re on the ice in a new city wearing a new team jersey. If something indeed goes down with me, I’ll have time to pack a bag and that’s about it.
I watch Pam’s cab drive away, the pit in my stomach twisting painfully. This could be the last time I have with her…and I just sent her home.
Tak trakhkav!
Thirteen
Let’s Try that Again
Georg
Saturday and Sunday were spent feeling like I was having a heart attack. All of my “enlightened motherpucker” bullshit from last week has evaporated in the span of time it took to read the texts from admin. I finally called Evan, who calmed me down somewhat and convinced me I was only anxious about Viktor joining the team. It was a rare weekend without a game or practice, which meant I had far too much damn time on my hands.
Now we’re back on the ice for morning practice. Evan and I are working our drills hard, trying to show Coach Brown and whoever else is watching that I am still in this game, still 110 percent committed to this team.
“Have you seen or talked to Demoskev since LA?” Evan asks.
“Why the fuck would I want to do that?”
“I’m just bloody asking,” he answers sharply. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist.”
“It’s a fucking stupid question,” I snap back. “It’s not like we’re mates. Never have been.”
“Fine,” Evan says, turning my short pass into a hard shot toward the practice goal. “Forget I asked. But you’re going to have to work with him. He’s coming, whether you like it or not.”
“What the fuck was Bud thinking?” I say, irritated with the topic. “He saw the bar fight footage. He saw you get wrecked in that game against New York last year. Why would he want that douchebag on the team?”
“He was probably thinking he needs an enforcer since the rest of our defense seems to have its collective head up its collective ass,” Evan answers.
“I resent that,” I say, only half joking. “You should be telling them to stick Demoskev where the sun doesn’t shine. He knocked the crap out of you last year. Dirty bastard.”
“Well, I’m just calling it like I see it,” he pushes. “And whatever. It is what it is. We’ll have to let bygones be bygones.”
“I hope you two get along great, then,” I say, knowing I sound like an irritable child, but who cares at this point. “He can be your wingman, and I’ll be playing for whatever shitty team they trade me to.”
“Has Ned confirmed this is the plan, G?”
“Negative.” As if the lazy bastard is actually doing any work. Mudak. “The fucker is probably asleep in drool and leftover donuts. He is not working the best deal for his client at the moment.”
Evan sighs. “Why don’t you call Scott?”
“Your agent.” I purposefully phrase it as a statement, because I want to be certain of Evan’s blessing before I consider approaching his agent. We respect each other too much to go behind the other’s back. That’s not what friends do.
“Yeah. I mean, tell him you’re drying out, fully committed, really need someone on your side. Offer him a more generous cut than he usually gets. Ask him to do this one thing for you and see how it feels, if he thinks a longer-term relationship might work. Tell him it’s okay if he wants to walk away after, but you really need big guns on this.” Evan nods. “And tell him I gave you his number.”
“Thanks, man,” I say as the whistle blows on practice.
We head back to the locker room to shower and Evan asks if I want to grab lunch in the pub downstairs in between our two practice sessions.
“I do,” I say, “but I need to run down to therapy real quick, first.”
“Why? You hurt?”
“No. I took Pam out on Friday and it started out great but it went to shit after we got the text about Demoskev.”
“Oh, I forgot she got knocked to the ground during that scuffle,” Evan says. “I wouldn’t blame her for feeling nervous about him coming here.”
“It wasn’t really her. She didn’t seem all that fazed, actually. It was me who was a twat about it.”
“Oh,” he answers. “Tough lady, that Pam.”
“She is. Anyway, I really need to apologize for taking a dump on a nice evening. I’ll meet you in the pub.”
I head down and find Pam looking sexy-as-fuck whilst munching on an apple, her feet up on her desk with a magazine in one hand.
“Working hard, are we?” I ask, grinning.
She sits upright and puts the magazine on her desk. “Lunch time. I don’t have anyone scheduled until one.”
“I just came down to apologize, because I bailed on a nice evening the other night. And I also came to cash in that raincheck.”
“Oh you did, did you?” She tilts her head, a wicked little grin curling over her lips. “Who says I even offered you a raincheck?”
I give off a nervous laugh, hoping it sounds more like cocky and confident even if I don’t feel that way. “Well, I know Friday was about as fabulous as it gets, but I can do better. I’m hoping you’ll give me the chance.”
“It wasn’t totally shitty, Georg.”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “So that’s a yes to a do-over?”
She pushes her lips to one side. “I suppose…on one condition.”
“And what’s that?”
“You’ll let me cook for you at my place? We’ll keep it simple.”
“Done.” I want to throw up a fist in triumph. “Tomorrow night?”
“Sounds good. I’ll text you.”
I give her two thumbs up and retreat while I’m ahead. As I step out of the therapy suite, I call back, “I’ll bring some Russian caviar.”
“I said keep it simple.” She wings her magazine at me. It hits the door frame. I chuckle as I see her get up to retrieve it, and I run right into Devon.
“Sorry, Devon. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No worries. You look good today.”
“Feeling good. About to grab lunch with El Capitan.”
“Evan then?” she guesses, smirking.
“Yes. The bromance is real. At least for me it is.”
“Well, make
sure he eats something that isn’t complete shit, will you? I think he’s sympathy eating with his pregnant wife. He’s put on ten pounds since last spring.”
“Whoa,” I shout. “I knew it. I can’t wait to hold that over his head.”
“I mean, it’s probably muscle weight, to be honest,” she says. “He’s been training pretty hard with Dale.”
“Nope, I’m going with baby weight. Much more fun.”
Devon rolls her eyes and puts her hand on my bicep. “I wanted to check in with you anyway. You okay with Demoskev coming here? I know he’s not on your list of favorite people.”
“He certainly is not, nor Evan’s,” I answer, curling my lip at the thought of the big Russian being in such close proximity again. “But I’ve never seen him check one of his own teammates either, so as long as he gives me space, we’ll function just fine. He won’t be the first asshole on a team, and he won’t be the last.”
“Any word from your agent?” she asks more gently. “Do you think it means anything that the team is bringing in two defensive players?”
I shrug. “Hope it doesn’t mean anything. No word out of Ned. I’m calling Evan’s agent shortly.”
Devon starts rubbing her hand up and down my arm. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Pam through the glass windows of the suite. She’s wiping down an already clean therapy table, but I can tell she’s watching this whole scene. And more importantly, now wearing a frown where a sexy smile was a minute ago.
“Well, I’ve got to run, Devon. Evan’s waiting for me.”
“Come down later if you want to talk,” she says as I retreat.
Fourteen
The Pretty Kitty
Pam
First, Barbie needs to get her hands off my Georg.
Second, I am really enjoying the view of his backside from this angle.
Third, holy cow, did I just offer to cook him dinner at my place tomorrow night?
As Georg withdraws from whatever conversation he just had with Devon, I watch him leave and can’t help the thoughts that creep in. He has access to any woman he wants. He could probably walk outside and have a hockey honey waiting to go right home with him. I honestly have no claim on Georg Kolochev. We kissed, we danced, I fell asleep in his hotel room after the bar fight. That’s about it. And is he even the kind of guy I should be seeing anyway? He’s a loose cannon. Maybe on his way to another team.
And why me? Devon is gorgeous. She obviously likes him. He obviously likes her. They hang out at lunch sometimes. Maybe they’ve shared a few dinners together at nice restaurants where they’re away from the workplace and able to do whatever they want. And maybe they already do, and I’m just an extra girl to flirt with. Because I’m not sure I’ll ever be more than that to anyone.
I should just face it. I’m one woman in a big crowd of women who find Georg attractive. And I do find him attractive. His body. His face. His hair. The way he plays when his head is in the game. I like his honesty. And I freaking love his English/Russian accent. When he speaks, his speech comes across as a captivating mix of very formal English with some street-talk thrown in. I could listen to him for hours. It seriously does something to me.
And I hope he likes crappy food, because I cannot cook to save my life.
“Hey there,” I say, welcoming Georg inside my condo. He waves a bottle of red wine at me and plants a kiss on my cheek. His lips feel warm and his beard stubble remarkably soft against my skin. “What’s this?” I ask as I inhale a delicious whiff of him. He smells so good I want to lick him. I wonder how that would go over if I just leaned in and swiped my tongue up his neck. I picture myself doing it and feel my body flush with heat.
Lord Jesus. Get ahold of yourself, girl.
“I forgot the caviar,” he says, handing me the bottle, “so I grabbed a nice red for dinner instead. Couldn’t come here empty-handed.”
“I thought you were off the sauce?” I immediately regret asking when I see the shadow that falls over his handsome face.
“A glass or two with dinner won’t be a problem. It’s the overindulgence that gets me into trouble.” He shrugs with a half-smile. “Though I don’t have to drink, if it makes you uncomfortable.”
My heart melts a little at this, for some reason. I shake my head. “No, you’re a grown-up. You can make that choice for yourself.”
His half-smile turns into a full-blown grin as I take his hand and lead him into the kitchen. Holly gave me a chicken recipe that’s supposed to be super easy, but that remains to be seen because I’ve never made it before.
Georg sees everything all over the counter and says, “I’m thinking I better help you.”
He’s wearing a crisply pressed, white dress shirt and dark jeans. I very much admire his look tonight, from the slim fit of the tailored shirt to the five o’clock shadow on his chin and cheeks. He looks good enough to eat.
And don’t forget…lick.
“I’m thinking I may have forgotten to mention that cooking is not one of my special skills,” I tell him sheepishly.
“So you invited me over to your place for dinner but don’t really cook?”
“Yeah, pretty much, but Holly assured me the chicken recipe she gave me is foolproof…and it sounded like a good idea at the time.” I shrug and smile at him, waiting for his reaction.
He doesn’t hesitate even a second. “Not a problem for me. I have a whole phone full of places to order from.” He holds up his phone and toggles it. “But you should know I am somewhat capable in the kitchen as well...thanks to my grandmother who lived with us when I was a boy.”
“Hmmm…ordering in or braving the perils of preparing Holly’s chicken recipe with Georg,” I tease out loud with my palms up.
He stands before me and folds his arms over his chest like he’s posing for a lineup on The Dating Game. Hot. Very, very hot with his muscles flexing under the white dress shirt. Straight up arm-porn going on there.
Before I can change my mind, I grab an apron from one of the kitchen drawers and push it over his head. “Looks like we are cooking our dinner tonight,” I say as I tie up the back for him.
He glances down and busts out laughing. I’ve given him an apron bearing the outline of a female torso in a pink flowered string bikini. A joke gift that I received at a bachelorette party in college.
“I look good in this bikini.”
“It’s a nice look on you, I agree.” We both laugh and it feels easy…right this time. Even if our dinner sucks, I’ll enjoy the hell out of Georg’s arm-porn while he chops and dices.
I pour two glasses of wine and we get to work following Holly’s directions. It’s a one-pot meal, so once all the prep is done, we just need to wait for it to cook. I’ve got the bread and salad already on the table.
The music is playing from my phone—just a light, jazzy Spotify playlist that I put on for background noise sometimes. Georg seems to like it, though, as he pulls me into his arms. We dance and it’s kind of silly, each of us taking breaks to sip wine, or refill our glasses, or to check on the food.
It’s not like I haven’t danced with Georg before. I have. But here in my kitchen, with no one watching, there’s something more intimate about it. In spite of the silliness. In spite of the breaks to drink and stir the pot. And he must feel the same because there’s an electric minute where we simply stop. Everything stops, and we look in each other’s eyes. And then his lips are on mine. And they’re even softer, sweeter, more delicious than I remember.
I feel his heat everywhere. He’s so tall, and he envelops me, even though our lips are the only part that touch.
A chaste kiss that nevertheless has me swooning against him as he holds my face in his hands.
I don’t want the kiss to end but gather my strength and turn from him anyway. My cheeks feel hot where his hands were touching. I know my skin must be flushed bright red. I make a show of checking on dinner and pull myself together in the kitchen before calling out to him, “I declare this dinner ready to eat.�
��
“I can’t wait to taste it,” he calls back cheerfully.
Georg is grinning wickedly at me as I deliver the plated chicken scaloppini to the table. My stomach does its own little flutter-dance at the sight of him sitting at my table waiting for me.
I don’t want chicken. I don’t want salad. I don’t want bread. I only want the taste of Georg on my lips again.
But we do eat, and it’s actually really good.
“Pamela, this is excellent. I give you five stars.”
“I agree, and thanks for the five-star rating, but we really have to thank Holly for giving me the recipe. Not that she had much of a choice because I was desperate.”
Georg laughs and shakes his head at me. “I’m still charmed by the fact you invited me for dinner but don’t cook.”
I grin sheepishly and shrug. “I almost ordered a pizza.”
He laughs again. “I like pizza. It would have been okay.”
“Devon probably wouldn’t like you eating pizza, though.” I can’t keep the bitter, jealous tone from my voice. I try to cover by saying, “I mean, I know you’re on a stricter food plan these days.”
Georg studies me for a second. “There is nothing between me and Devon.”
“I didn’t…” I shut my mouth, take a big breath. “I didn’t say there was.”
“Of course you didn’t,” Georg says innocently. “I just wanted to make it clear. In case you were wondering.” He smirks and looks down at his lap.
I stab at my food while I try to think of what to say, but Georg changes the direction of the conversation, and asks if I have any brothers or sisters.
“No, it’s just me. My mom doesn’t stay married long enough to start a family with anyone.”
“Do you have a good relationship otherwise?”
“It’s okay,” I say. “She’s my mom, so…”
“It’s complicated?” he suggests.
