by Raine Miller
“Can I have a beer, my love?” Evan asks.
“Sure thing,” she says as she heads toward the kitchen.
Danya starts to fuss a bit and before I can even try to calm her, Evan has swooped in and taken her from my arms. He puts her on his shoulder and pats her back, planting a kiss on her tiny head.
“Sucker,” I mutter.
“Yep. I am totally whipped,” he admits cheerfully.
Holly comes back in with a container of hummus and a bag of carrots. She puts Evan’s beer on the coffee table and gives him a lopsided grin.
“Back to healthy, are we?” I ask, eyeing her snack. “No more ice cream or fried cheese?”
“Ugh,” she says. “I’m so glad those cravings are gone.”
“Got her an awesome new jogging stroller,” Evan announces proudly. “She’ll be back to doing half-marathons by summer.”
The doorbell rings and I head over to open it. It’s Scarlett, who’s in tears.
“They’re really sucking out there. And people on social media are being really mean,” she says as she plops down in a chair.
“Well, social media feeds don’t control game outcomes, for one,” Holly says. “And second, don’t take it personally. They need a common place to vent their frustration.”
Scarlett turns to Evan and asks, “Why aren’t you out there tonight? You played like three days after the baby was born…”
“Evan is allowed to take time off, Scarlett,” I jump in, my tone sharp. “He deserves to take time off to enjoy his family. It’s not a one-man team, so the team should be able to function without Evan for a couple of games.”
“And Georg. It feels like there’s no team without you two,” Scarlett wails. “Ugh. I can’t wait until everything goes back to normal, and I can just go back to prepping press passes and writing press releases. This is too much stress.”
Evan now has the baby in his lap and is cooing softly. At first, I don’t realize what he’s saying but tune in when I hear him say to Danya, “You’re the baby here but that girl’s acting like a baby, too. Who’s the bigger baby?”
This makes us all laugh, even Scarlett, who apologizes, her cheeks turning as red as her hair.
“What’s the prognosis on Georg?” Holly asks.
“He’ll be fine as long as he avoids his Xbox while his concussion heals. We’ve got a good plan and he’s in better shape than he’s ever been, so I think he’ll be back on the ice in no time.”
“And the prognosis on your relationship with Georg?” Scarlett asks with a smirk.
“There isn’t one. Not really.” Scarlett is sweet, but there are times when she rubs me the wrong way. Like now. She has no clue how hard it was for me when I saw the picture of Devon and Georg, but I’m not exactly an open book. And judging by my knee-jerk reaction and the tears in the hospital, clearly my heart is so much more invested than I believed. So, for once, I’ll offer her more. “We had a great date and I bolted when I saw a picture of him on Devon’s Instagram page. He’s explained when the pic was from, but the heart emojis? I don’t know…”
“Well, he said it was nothing, and he wants to be with you. So, do you believe him?” Holly asks pointedly.
“Do you?” I return sharply.
“I do,” Evan says, still making silly faces at the baby. He looks up at me and says, “I know him. He cares about you, Pam. Devon is not a conversation we’ve ever had.”
“Maybe you should ask Devon,” Holly suggests. “Get it out in the open. If she has feelings for Georg, you’ll be able to tell.”
“It’s just a big messy disaster.” I flop back against the couch cushions. “What good would it do to talk to Devon about this?”
“Well, if they are just friends, you can put it behind you,” Scarlett offers.
“And if they’re not?” I ask. “I’ll feel like a big idiot.”
“But at least you’ll know,” Holly says.
Yeah. At least I’ll know. And then my heart will be ripped to absolute shreds, because I’m not the long-term girl. My mom’s blood runs in my veins, and surely no man will ever want to get that close to me.
What are the odds I run right into Devon on the day I’m supposed to start therapy work with Georg. Nothing like facing your fears whether you’re ready to or not.
“Good morning, Miss Pam,” she says cheerfully, balancing her coffee cup, keys, jacket, and bag as she steps toward her office door.
“Morning,” I say. “Need a hand?”
“Oh, thanks.” She hands me her coffee while she unlocks her door. “Like the rest of my life, my morning ritual is perpetually overcommitted.”
I put her coffee on her desk for her and make to leave but decide to just get the question out into the open. Sometimes you just have to rip off the Band-Aid and bear it. At least it’s over quickly. “Are you and Georg Kolochev an item?”
Devon’s eyes go wide at first, then crinkle at the edges as she lets out a hearty laugh. “No. No we are not.”
“I just saw the picture you posted on Instagram and thought maybe…”
“Oh, I was just really proud of him that day. He had to do a hard thing, asking his agent to go to rehab. He and I have talked a lot this season, mostly about his commitment to his own health. But there’s nothing romantic there. I mean, he’s cute and all, but no.”
Now I feel stupid. I can feel my cheeks going hot and Devon appraises me further, tilting her head. “Are you in love with him?” She gentles her tone quickly, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell the fraternization police.”
No sense in lying, right? “We’ve spent time together and I really do like him. I just didn’t want—“
“To get your heart broken? To find out he wasn’t a one-woman guy?” She’s nodding at her own statement and I can see something in her eyes. Pain, maybe? It’s distant, but it’s there.
“Yes,” I say simply.
“Well, for what it’s worth, he’s a really good man. He’s not always acted with the most maturity but he is loyal to those he cares about. And he’s evolving, every single day. I think he’s worth your time.”
I push my lips together and nod, taking in a big breath, letting it out. “Thanks, Devon.”
The butterflies in my stomach are having a field day as I eye the clock. It’s nothing new. I’ve been feeling this way all day long. Because Georg is coming to see me today. He’s my last appointment. And I’m a freaking wreck waiting for him to show. I don’t know what to expect at all. We haven’t resolved anything between us since he was injured. Although that’s partly because he was barred from using technology while recovering from his concussion, so we couldn’t really text or FaceTime. I’ve spoken to him twice on the phone, but mostly to check in from an official standpoint, so we could coordinate his physical therapy appointments. He’s been doing everything right to get healthy and back on the ice, and my job is to support him in any way I can, helping him to meet that goal. I have to remember that.
Through the big glass windows, I see him in the hall accosted by a teammate who claps him on the back and chats him up for a minute. People are happy to see him up and around. He has been very much missed by a lot of people.
“Welcome back,” I say after he steps into the therapy suite. He looks gorgeous as usual with his hair pulled back in a tie and that happy expression he wears on his handsome face much of the time. Georg is a beautiful man. Whatever else he is to me, whether it becomes something more between us or it doesn’t, he will always be remembered as he is right now in this moment—a funny, sweet, beautiful man, smiling at me mischievously, suggesting he’s up for anything a little naughty. Or probably a lot naughty is more like it.
I’m so screwed.
“Thank you, Pamela. It’s really quiet in here today.”
“That’s just because it’s the end of the day. You’re my last appointment.”
“Ahh. Well, how do you want me?”
I’m at the instrument table when he says this. I can’t see his face bu
t I’m positive I heard innuendo in that statement. I turn slightly, just enough to give him the side-eye, and find him standing with hands on hips and rockin’ a cocky grin on his handsome face. Gah.
“Start on your back on the table, please.” I do my best to sound professionally aloof, but I don’t think it’s working. Because when I turn back towards him, the cocky bastard is standing there with his shirt whipped off. All that glorious arm-porn I love so much is on full display to distract me. Send help. I look to the chair where he tossed his shirt, and then track slowly back to where he’s standing next to the table. Wearing only a pair of flip flops and some black athletic shorts. I resist the urge to swallow and fail miserably. Twice. “Umm, Georg, I am not aware of any upper body injuries, so you can probably put your shirt back on.”
“But I want you to have something nice to look at while you work.”
Smiling widely up at me in typical Georg fashion, he’s far more than a “nice” sight with that sexy body stretched out on my work table, but I don’t tell him that.
I push my tongue into my cheek to keep from returning his smile. “Well, I won’t be paying attention to anything other than your injury, so I guess it’s just the ghosts who will enjoy the view of your pasty white chest.”
He sits straight up. “Pasty?” he objects, mock-hurt in his tone. “I am not pasty!”
I let loose a smile, and we meet each other’s eyes. There it is—that spark of chemistry, immediately rendering me hot and wanting him again. That’s all it takes.
He lies back down and I begin my work. The whole time, we tease each other, our verbal jabs sharp and ruthless, but also very funny. It makes the hour go quickly, so when I look at the clock and realize his session is over, I’m shocked.
“Well, Georg, that’s the end of our session today. I’ll see you again on Thursday?”
“Back for more torture? I can’t wait,” he says, sitting up. “You’re mean, by the way. The way you opened up those tools, like a serial killer trying to decide which tool to use to cut off my appendages.”
I’m suddenly very focused on just one of said appendages. In his thin athletic shorts, I can clearly see the outline of his cock, and he’s semi-hard. He notices my gaze and gives a lopsided grin. “Your hands were all over me. How could I not be turned on?”
I look around. There’s nobody left here. Everyone has gone home for the day.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Pamela?”
I bite my lip.
“You are,” he exclaims. “You sinful little fox.”
“This is my work space, Kolochev. And I was thinking no such thing—if whatever you’re thinking is dirty—which I know it was,” I lie. How can I not? I get hot just looking at him, let alone having my hands on him for the past hour.
“I was thinking a very dirty thing and you should just fess up, because I know how you look when you’re turned on. There is no one here. Go close the blinds, and I’ll make you come until you scream my name.”
I gasp. A big, audible gasp that’s filled with surprise and delight…and so much want.
I turn away and head to the windows to the suite. We have blinds because sometimes our guys want privacy while we work on them. As I reach out to close them, my hands are shaking. I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s so risky. What if someone walks in? I could lose my job. But damn, I’m so aroused right now, it’s painful. I don’t know what it is about Georg, and how he makes me feel like this, so turned on that I feel I might explode.
My steps back to him are slow. As I near him, he reaches out from his perch on the therapy table and pulls me to him, his lips on mine before I can even process what’s happening. Thank God.
The kiss is fast and rough and hot. And then he hops down from the table and says two words, “Get naked.”
I don’t have to be told twice.
I watch his eyes grow hooded as I perform a strip show for him. He’s in a mood to watch apparently, because he doesn’t help. Off go my shoes and socks. His dick grows bigger with each item of clothing I toss aside:
Crush polo.
Khaki shorts.
Front-clip red bra. He licks his lips and swallows hard when that gets tossed.
Matching panties. A sexy groan erupts out of him before he tells me to get on the therapy table, face down.
I don’t know what to expect, but it’s not the massage he gives me. He uses my therapy oil and gives me a nice back massage first, then works his way from my feet up my legs. When his hands caress my inner thighs, I relax and let him spread my legs. I know he’s staring at my pussy.
He massages my ass, casually spreading my cheeks, running his fingertips down, down, down, just grazing my aching sex.
He’s got me so worked up, that I’m so wet it’s probably getting on the table. When he flips me to my back, he pushes my knees apart and leans in to place one kiss on my clit before turning his attention to my breasts.
He massages, getting a few licks and nips in when he can, a devilish grin on his face the whole time he works on me. His eyes shine with mischief as his hands work themselves lower, to my belly and my hips.
Georg’s thumb finds my clit, working a slow but steady rhythm. My hips buck involuntarily, the telltale start of an orgasm already building in my lower abdomen. He picks up the pace, his face lazily entertained as I push my hips up wildly, my motions growing more crazed with each increase of speed and intensity from his thumb.
I’m letting out crazy, nonsensical noises as the orgasm starts. “Yes” is the only thing that sounds even remotely like a real word. He keeps working while my pussy clenches, my body overcome by pleasure. He continues his efforts as the aftershocks roll through me, and it’s only when I lay boneless does he let up.
Then, he crawls up on the table, on his knees, and pulls me to him so I straddle him, the only barrier between us his thin shorts. His hard, long cock rubs at that swollen nub, and I feel the want building again as I ride against him, pushing my clit against his hardness.
Georg’s fingers slide down my ass and find my pussy, wet and gaping. He pushes his fingers deep inside of me as I rub myself against him. His lips find my neck. I kiss his forehead.
“Yes, Pamela. Yes, just like that. Yes. Come for me, baby.”
“Georg,” I manage to breathe. “Yes. Yes, Georg.”
And then the world is gone. I come and come, the longest and best orgasm I’ve ever had.
Georg asks for nothing in return. He just pushes me to the edge, over the cliff, his body strong as he holds me, his breath hot as he kisses me. He whispers, “I want you so, so badly, Pamela. So very badly.”
“I want you too, Georg. I want to be with you. I want—you—to be my first.”
“Ty chti mne moyu lyubov’.”
I have no idea what the Russian words mean but it sounds beautiful when he repeats it several times, holding me possessively as the orgasm rocks me into another universe.
He kisses me for a long time, still holding me against him like he won’t ever let go.
I realize I don’t want him to.
I’m too scared to do such a thing ever again. I’ve had major anxiety about it, worried somehow we’d be caught on camera. And while what we did was literally the hottest thing ever, I’ve forced myself to return to professionalism when he’s around. We still tease and flirt, but he understands when I tell him I think we need to be more careful. He knows I loved it, but I also love my job.
Georg does well in his therapy and training sessions with Dale and me. So well, in fact, that he’s back on skates in just four weeks. He’s not yet cleared for competitive play, but he is allowed to practice and suit up and be on the bench.
Evan is back, too, and while the team is winning, it’s not without struggle. Not having Georg on the ice has definitely exposed a weakness in the team’s defense, a weakness that has attracted the attention of Evan’s agent, Scott Rose, who offered to take on Georg as a client. This is really big news, because Scott is a kingmake
r. He’s well known for making huge financial deals for his clients, and Georg has sent me about a hundred texts to tell me how awesome this new development is.
Dale and I meet with Coach Brown, Max Terry, Georg, the team doctor, and Scott in a big conference room near the owner’s suite. I’ve actually never been up on this level of the arena. It’s almost intimidating, but also kind of funny, as there is eighties rock music playing softly. I think it’s a Def Leppard song called Pour Some Sugar on Me. Totally cheesy but catchy as hell.
Georg is really into it, though, singing along softly, drumming his fingers on the table. I have to force myself to keep from smiling.
“He’s working super hard,” Dale is saying. “All season he’s been focused in the gym. He’s very fit, so it’s been no problem getting him back up to speed on my end.”
“And in physical therapy?” Coach Brown turns his attention to me.
“Same,” I say. “Georg is working very hard. He was diligent in following concussion protocol and the injuries to the ligament and ankle are healing really well. His range of motion on the ankle is about ninety-eight percent right now.”
“He can play next week,” the doctor announces.
“Great,” Coach says. “Thanks, team.”
It seems we’re dismissed, but Georg and Scott are asked to stay behind. He catches my eye as I stand up to leave, a wicked gleam flashing in his greens. It goes straight to my belly. We’ve been texting back and forth like high schoolers, but we haven’t had any more personal encounters since the wild one in the therapy room a couple of weeks ago. My body misses him.
Dale puts his hand on my back as we walk out into the hallway. I hear Georg clear his throat. It’s a definite sound of warning.
I can’t hold back the grin as Dale quickly drops his hand.
Twenty-Two
My First Time at a Dude Ranch
Pam
I don’t usually watch the Crush games from the stands. Some of the home games, I’m on call to assist with light injuries, cramps, etc., so I watch on a monitor in the therapy suite. Otherwise, I just get too nervous to watch live, so I watch from home or with Holly at her house.
