by Raine Miller
VEGAS CRUSH #3
Please read on to enjoy the first chapters of Book 3 in the VEGAS CRUSH series where Viktor and Scarlett literally crash into each other and the sparks do fly! All books in the VEGAS CRUSH series are standalone contemporary romance with a happily ever after, and of course, plenty of hockey hunk action burning up the pages.
1: Life Trouble
Scarlett
Well, I’ll be damned. Georg Kolochev just scored the first goal in game seven. Pretty impressive for a solid defenseman.
Of course, that dude’s on top of the world. He just got engaged a few days ago and won the Norris Trophy earlier tonight, so who knows what the rest of this game holds for him. He’s having the time of his friggin’ charmed life out there.
I came in through the back entrance today because the hype is real. As in: Las Vegas comes out for its team. On any regular season game day, that’s the standard around here. But throw in the Stanley Cup Finals, game seven, winner takes all?
Yeah, the Crush fans are very “extra” tonight.
There was a stage set up out front, with a performance by some Vegas-based rapper that I’ve never heard of. There’s a drum line of kids from a local high school, with banners and balloons everywhere. The marketing team hired a crew of good-looking college kids to shoot T-shirts out of cannons at the crowd. They even set up a big video screen outside, so people could watch the game if they didn’t have tickets.
In my lowly position as a media coordinator for the Crush, I mostly write press releases, send them out, and then make follow-up calls to reporters. I like it okay. It’s a job that didn’t require a college degree, just writing skills and a bulldog’s determination. I’ve got both of those.
Before this job, I filled in for Holly Laurent—sorry, Holly Kazmeirowicz; Holly Laurent-Kazmeirowicz? Holly-Married-to-the-Hottest-Guy-Ever? —while she was out on maternity leave. Holly is our social media manager and she is a genius.
I thought I could top her performance while she was out, but I learned otherwise. Holly has a vision, and she knows how to execute it. Some people are just talented like that.
Me? I’m just trying to make it from point A to point B, wherever point B is. Hopefully it’s not anywhere near my second job, where I’m a cocktail server at the Tangiers casino. Hopefully it’s also not anywhere near the World Series of Poker…or the mafia. Both of those have caused me life trouble. No, let’s shouty caps that and call it like it is. LIFE TROUBLE.
Right now, the “in-between” is in the owner’s suite for game seven of the Stanley Cup finals with the Crush fighting to retain their championship status for a second year. My boss, Fiona, is up here, as well as my coworkers Holly and Daisy. Daisy is a shy, quiet sort. She embarrasses easily, as was evidenced when her dumbass ex-boyfriend sent like eleventy million flowers to the office and called as many times. He wanted her back even though she was done with him just on principle, and for embarrassing her at work.
My boss, Fiona, is married to some corporate type who works in Los Angeles. I think it’s a loveless marriage and I doubt she sees him very often. She probably has some boy-toy-side-action, but who knows. Actually, I doubt it since she acts so uptight. She probably hasn’t been laid in a long time.
It’s exciting to be in the suite. I feel out of place with all these smart, rich people, but it’s still fun to be up here, seeing the game from a place of privilege.
“Hey there,” Pam says, nudging my shoulder with hers. Pam’s a physical therapist for the Crush as well as the newly minted fiancée of hockey god, Georg Kolochev. She’s got a celebratory glass of champagne in one hand and her phone in the other, as she takes photos of the game below. She’s probably just having her break because she’s dressed in her work attire, on call in the therapy room for players who need attention during the game.
“Hey. Congrats again to the two of you. That proposal the other night, though.”
“Go big or go home,” she says with a shrug and a mischievous grin.
“Well, you went big. And he’s probably big, so…”
Pam snorts. “Way to go for the obvious, Scarlett.”
“So, he is big, then? Asking for a friend, of course. For clinical and research purposes only.”
Pam rolls her eyes and sticks out her tongue. She still looks pretty, even when she makes stupid faces. “I will not be sharing information about Georg’s big dick—umm, I mean his endowments with anyone.” She grins wickedly at first but then her expression takes on a wistful quality. I don’t need to guess what she’s thinking about right now. The big stick Georg is packing in his hockey pants.
“I want one of my own,” I whine. “You’ve got Georg. Holly’s got Evan. Where’s my muscular, hot, well-endowed, hockey-playing prince charming?”
“No go with the nerd boys from the bar?” she asks, referencing our bar-fly night a while back.
“Oh, geesh, no. I don’t even know why I gave them my number. They’re from, like Ohio or something, in Vegas for a tech convention. I’d have more luck on Tinder.”
“Wait, you’re not on Tinder?” Pam’s eyes go wide. “Scarlett Woods, you have truly shocked me.”
“Very funny, girlie. I had it, but it’s really just for booty calls. The dick pics got gross real fast.”
“You’re so young, I’d think you’d just want to get out there and play for now. Why the rush to find everlasting love?”
I shrug and look out at the crowd, the ice. Anything to avoid crying. “I don’t know. I just…” She’s right, I am young—in years. I don’t feel young though. I feel old and jaded from certain life experiences I never want to repeat as long as I’m on this earth.
Pam’s voice softens before she lays the big question on me. “I know you were in a relationship not too long ago, right?”
“I was…I-I don’t talk about Stephen much. He was a pro-poker player. His life was in the games. He, um, committed suicide. We think.”
“You think?”
I nod, an errant tear escaping. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “It was really weird and suspicious. But that’s pretty much the story of my life.”
“Weird and suspicious?”
“Yeah.” I take a big breath in and then let it out slowly. “Growing up in Vegas has been a wild ride.”
“You should write a book someday, my friend,” she says with a gentle smile and a quick hug. “And on that note, my break is over. See you after the game? We can talk some more if you want.”
“Maybe, yeah.” I smile and send her on her way.
After Pam is out of the suite, I look over my shoulder and see a cute guy by the buffet table and decide to do something about it. Scarlett, you’re gonna go flirt with that cute guy over there and make yourself feel better.
I am so ready to get away from thoughts of Stephen, or the need to talk about him, or his gambling, or his death. He’s the whole reason I took this job with the Crush, so I guess that’s a good thing. I like hockey a lot, and it’s been a decent, low-drama position. Exactly what I need out of a job that was meant to help me save up to pay off some debts from the past. Sucks to have obscene debts at the ripe old age of twenty-two, but that’s right where I’ve landed in the scheme of things.
As I approach the buffet, the cute guy gives me a smile. A good start. I smile back and ask, “Enjoying the series so far?”
I grab a plate as he affirms that he is enjoying the series. Turns out his name is Leo and he’s Max Terry’s son. Which means he’s rich and educated and sophisticated…and totally out of my league.
“Do you come to many games?” I ask as we nosh at a highboy table near the bar.
“No, I live in New York, so I just come for big games, or I watch when the team plays closer to home.”
“Did you watch the game last season in New York, when Evan Kazmeirowicz got hammered by Viktor Demoskev?”
“I did see that game,” he confirms. “My fiancée now refuses to watch Crush games because she hates that guy so much.�
��
His fiancée. He said that on purpose. Whomp, whomp. At least he’s loyal to her. That’s something at least.
“A lot of people sort of hate him. But honestly, he seems to have it together this season. The guys all get along pretty well now.” I leave out the part about being inappropriately attracted to the big Russian defenseman. One, there’s a strict no-fraternization policy for employees of the Crush and players on the team. Two, I’ve never even met Viktor Demoskev. I strictly admire from afar. I may let my mind whirl with inappropriate thoughts on occasion, but I’ve made sure to follow the rules.
“That’s good,” Leo says. “They make a formidable first line.”
I nod and decide it’s time to not make it awkward. “Well, nice meeting you, Leo. Enjoy the rest of the game.”
He nods. “You too…Rosie?”
“Scarlett.” I think I’m just gonna…go…now.
With my cheeks probably a match for my hair, I turn toward the exit, only to find Holly coming through it holding a crying baby. Her baby, of course.
“Hey Scarlett, thank God you’re here.” She looks like she could use a hand—and possibly a stiff drink.
“What can I do to help?” I’d love to have something useful to do other than feel out of place in the owner’s suite. Hobnobbing is just not in my skill set.
“Pam is working during the break between periods and I’d like to include it in the postings. Unfortunately, Dany is super fussy, so I need to change and feed her. Can you round up a photographer and get down there to do some captions and photos for social media?”
“I would love to.”
“Really?” she asks, looking relieved but still a little unsure. “I know it’s way more fun to be up here. I wouldn’t ask if…”
“No, it’s cool. I’d much rather have something useful to do.”
“You’re a lifesaver and I could kiss you right now. I think we’re at a stage when I’m going to have to get someone to watch her during games.”
“I don’t think anyone minds her being here,” I say, trying to distract the baby with a silly boo-boo face. “Max Terry sure turns into a pile of mush around her. And you, for that matter.”
She blushes. Kind of normal for her. “He’s been really sweet to us all,” she says. “Okay, so I’ll just let Sid Lane know to meet you down in the locker rooms.”
I give a thumbs-up and make my way to the door. The arena is kind of a maze, and I still get a little turned around sometimes, especially when heading to areas where I don’t spend a lot of time. The locker rooms would be included on this list. I think I’ve been in there twice. I need to go down three levels to the main level, and then take a service elevator down another level. I go the wrong way off the elevator, of course, and end up walking all the way around the circle like a big dummy.
Sid Lane, team photographer, waits for me in the hallway. He’s young looking, with rosy cheeks and messy, dark hair. His eyes are bright blue. He’s cute, if a little on the scrawny side.
“Heyyyy Sid,” I greet him, batting my eyes and being purposely silly and flirtatious. “How’s life today?”
“Livin’ the dream, Scarlett.”
He always says that, by the way. He’s either hopelessly optimistic or darkly sarcastic. I can’t tell.
“We’re supposed to get therapy pics and captions for Holly’s social media?”
“That’s the marching order,” he says. “There’s a coaching review going on, but once they finish, we can go in.”
“Perfect,” I say, just as the door opens.
And what do you know…
The first thing to meet my eyes is my “inappropriate attraction” stretched out on a therapy table being worked over by Pam.
I give myself a mental shake and put on my professional mask, reminding my libido I’m here to do a job. A task that absolutely does not include ogling Viktor Demoskev.
I tell myself that. I really do.
But I don’t listen very well, because I find myself wishing those were my hands on his body instead of Pam’s.
2: The Mad Russian
Viktor
“My fucking hamstring is tied in knots,” I growl.
“Cramp or injury?” Pamela, the blonde therapist asks.
“Cramp.”
“All right,” Dale, the trainer says. “Let’s have Pam do a deep-tissue massage and then you and I can do some stretching.”
I lie face down on the table as Pamela starts to work on my leg. “Xуесос,” I snarl. Cocksucker. That hurt. “Sorry, Pamela.”
“I’ve heard worse,” she says with a laugh. “I owe you a little bit of pain anyway, though, don’t I?”
I push my lips out, somewhat annoyed. I accidentally knocked her to the ground in a stupid bar brawl with Georg and Evan a season ago. I feel badly because I was a certifiable asshole that night. She seems satisfied with how things resolved though. I know her little comment is meant in jest. But I find my sense of humor lacking now, so I don’t respond.
“How is that?” She thankfully lets the topic drop.
“It is good. You found the spot.”
She and Dale talk about another player’s injury as I think on Coach Brown’s feedback. He seems pleased with my play. Georg Kolochev and I could not be more different as defensive players. Tyler Lockhardt, as well. Where Georg is loose and cocky with a wide-angle eye for the field of play, Tyler is tight and aggressive. He plays to fight. There is talent there, for sure, but he has probably spent more time in the penalty box than anyone else on the team this year. That’s not a compliment, though he certainly views it as a badge of honor. Me? I’m a brick wall. I am built to stop players from getting too close to the goal. That is all.
Suddenly, I am pulled from my thoughts, distracted by a guy with a camera. He takes a photo, and I scowl.
“For social media,” the red-headed beauty beside him explains. “Holly sent us down.”
“No one wants a picture taken when injured,” I snap.
“Well, it’s a hard-fought battle. People want to see what happens behind closed doors. What our players go through,” she responds unapologetically.
I turn my head away from them.
“Don’t worry about him,” Pamela says. “He’s cranky right now, but I think he’s a big softie on the inside.”
“That can be my caption.”
I turn back toward her again. “It cannot be your caption,” I protest.
She winks back at me in response and I take notice. It’s strange because it doesn’t happen very often. But this…this is a very attractive young woman. Long, silky red hair, shiny, with the ends curling at her tailbone. Bright green eyes and pale skin. A curvy body with a tiny waist and an ass my hands would enjoy meeting. What I would guess are a lush set of tits from the look of things. I wouldn’t turn down the chance to verify that fact, either.
Suddenly, the pain at my hamstring takes a backseat to my consideration of this lovely rocket. A “rocket” being hockey slang for a very attractive female. And with all that long, pretty, red hair? I won’t be able to think of her as anything other than the Red Rocket from here on out.
“Hey, Mad Russian,” Evan, the team captain, interrupts my thoughts. “Move your mind off young Scarlett, there, and get up off the bench. Dale needs to stretch you out. We’ve got to head back out in a few.”
I snarl at him in response, followed with a string of cursing in my native tongue. This makes Pamela laugh as I push myself up, swinging my legs over the side of the table. “Mad Russian” has been my nickname since I entered the NHL three years ago. I don’t care for it, but I suppose it does fit my image well enough. I use it to my advantage on the ice to intimidate opposing players whenever an opportunity presents.
“I’m more than a little familiar with those words,” she says, clapping me on the back. “That better?”
“It is, thank you, Pamela. You are very skilled.”
“My pleasure, and this is Scarlett, by the way.”
/> Scarlett is biting the corner of her bottom lip. Trying to hide a grin, I suppose. I hold out my hand. “Viktor.” I find her handshake surprisingly firm for such small hands.
“Nice to meet you, Viktor. I work on Fiona’s media team.”
“That was my assumption.”
“Be nice, asshole,” Georg says as he passes by.
Pamela giggles and blows him a kiss. He skitters over and quickly pulls her in for a hot kiss. So hot that the coach yells for him to simmer down or sit on the bench.
He leaves as quickly as he arrived, off to consult with Evan on the second period plan.
“I apologize, Scarlett, I don’t mean to be rude.”
She shakes her head. “No worries. It was good meeting you, Viktor.”
And then she’s gone, going with the photographer to take pictures of other players. I stand, my eyes still on her as Dale leads me through stretches meant to loosen my hamstring further.
Finally feeling less cramped, I pull my skates back on as the team lines up to go back out. Tyler elbows me. “Got a little redhead on your mind, big guy?”
“No,” I say, my face set into a frown.
“Liar.” He grins at me like an idiot. “Fucking liar, liar, with your fucking pants on fire. I know a horny, lustful gaze when I see one.”
“Yes, because you have it on your face every time you see Georg Kolochev,” I answer drily.
“Har har.” He rolls his eyes. “More like you see it every time I walk out and see the bunnies lined up to be plucked and fucked.”
We head out so, thankfully, the conversation ends there. Though Tyler isn’t kidding. Women, usually scantily clad, do line up outside to get our autographs and photos after every game. Some do get picked from the crowd by players who like random hookups. I very rarely partake lately. I’ve not been interested, so I mostly avoid the line. It adds to my reputation for being the “Mad Russian” asshole, I suppose, as I also do not sign autographs. But I don’t care. I came here to play hockey, not be a celebrity.
