She starts to walk away, but I’m planted in place, watching that sexy ass of hers sway from side to side. I manage to bring a few of my brain cells back to full power and call out to her. “Hey Scarlett?”
She turns, her pretty face giving me a questioning look.
“Later you will have dinner with me?” In my head, I try to figure out if that came out right in English.
Her eyes go wide at this, and I cannot tell if I asked the wrong question, or the right one. But before she can answer, my agent, Vlad Nechaev, claps me on the back. I shake his hand as he congratulates me on my goal, but when I look back to get an answer from Scarlett, she’s already gone. Perhaps I did ask that wrong, after all. Three years, and I still don’t understand American women well. Oh well.
Vlad and I walk into the locker room and I climb onto an empty table as he tells me I need to set aside time to meet up with his associates in the next few days. I nod as Coach Brown kicks him out of the locker room with a terse, “No agents! Save it for after the game.”
Vlad puts his hands up and gives an apologetic smile before slinking out into the hallway. Coach tells everyone to shut up and while the therapist works on my aching shoulder, we get notes on the second period.
“Congrats to Viktor, who recognized an opening and followed it to the net,” Coach says. The guys cheer and I give a thumbs-up from my perch. The photographer, Sid, snaps another picture of me, and I glare at him. “Evan, they’re all over you, but they can’t be everywhere. Two of our three first-string defensemen have scored in this game. They won’t know where to look, so keep lobbing shots on goal.”
He goes on, telling us that at two-to-one, this game is nowhere near over, that he wants to see us finish strong, and then he promises a round of shots post-game if we win.
Kink worked out, I sit up and pull my pads and jersey hastily over my head, ready to head back out. Scarlett passes by and I reach out without thought to touch her wrist.
Her head nearly snaps turning to look at me.
“I am sorry to startle, but my offer of dinner stands.”
“I’ll think about it.” She doesn’t give me more than those few words, and I cannot read her. I have no idea if she is interested in having dinner with me. Usually, a woman’s attention is easy to acquire. And it is safe to say that players in the NHL (or the KHL for that matter) do not have to work too hard to find females willing to spend time with them…generally, but with Scarlett, I’m truly unsure about her.
“I will be required for press.” I scowl at the thought because there is little I hate more than talking to the fucking press. “But will you find me after?”
Beautiful Red Rocket gives me a lopsided grin and another wink before walking away.
As we line up in the tunnel once more, Georg nudges a padded shoulder into me. “Scarlett, huh?” he asks conspiratorially.
“Red Rocket.” I give a feral grin.
He nods in agreement. “She is that, yes. And a live wire, I hear. She and Pam are friends. She’s got some baggage though.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Tyler says from my other side. “He’s just going to fuck her.”
“Do not speak for me. I asked her to dinner—not to hook up.”
“Don’t be so uptight, big guy,” Tyler says, bouncing from one skate to the other. “We all need to get our rocks off.”
I roll my eyes and set my face to game mode, not giving the rookie the satisfaction of an answer. My interests, sexual or otherwise, are none of his fucking business. He broadcasts his exploits as if they are public information. I prefer my private life details to stay private.
“You’d think he’d be in a better mood after that goal,” Tyler mutters.
“He is in a good mood,” Georg says, snickering. “Can’t you tell the difference between bad-mood Viktor and good-mood Viktor?”
There is positive energy as we take the ice again, the crowd loud as flashes from cameras and cell phones light up the arena. Welcome to the Jungle plays as we get in a quick warm-up skate before taking our positions. Tyler plays air guitar with his stick and Georg dances, as well. I like Guns N’ Roses okay, I suppose. I prefer hardcore, Russian heavy metal. Bands like Arkona and Catharsis are more my style. Not that I will ever hear such bands play for American crowds of this size.
The period starts and I am in the game. Nothing else matters but winning this championship, and we all feel cocky as the action begins. Evan does as instructed, taking a shot on goal right off the bat, but never making it to the net. Mikhail takes a quick run as well, with me fighting to protect him, but his shot doesn’t make it past the goalie.
A quick turnover and we get hung up trying to catch their best winger, who manages an impossible shot past our goalie, tying the game. Tyler’s temper rages as he gets in the referee’s face, calling for a penalty that did not occur, as far as I could see. Evan makes his way to play peacemaker, and we reset.
“This is it,” Evan says to the defensive line. “Do not let another goal into that fucking net!”
I fucking won’t.
Five
Scarlett
REALLY, REALLY RUSSIAN
Third period does not start well. I’m actually thankful to be focused on Sid’s computer for a few minutes, missing the game-tying goal by the opposing team. I hear boos from the arena as we huddle over our photos, choosing images and writing captions that are more focused this time, less humorous. We send everything to Holly before I make my way back up to the suite.
I find Pam biting her nails by the window when I get there. We both watch the action on the ice in silence for a few moments. The brutal side of hockey is on full display as the two teams battle it out.
“It’s getting really physical, and someone’s going to get hurt.” Pam voices exactly what I’m thinking.
I know she’s worried about Georg. He’s already had a bad concussion this season, among other injuries, that landed him in the hospital and on injured reserve for several weeks. “He’ll be careful,” I say quietly.
“Yeah,” she says with a steadying exhale. “You’re probably right. I just…”
“You worry. It’s normal.”
“It was really hard seeing my Georg like that. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone how scared I was. How it made me realize how much I cared for him.”
“I know how that goes.”
Pam puts her arm around my shoulder. “Yes, I’m sure you do. But maybe there’s a bright spot emerging? With Viktor? I haven’t seen his attention diverted by anyone before, so it was interesting watching him relate to you.”
I shrug. To say I was surprised is an understatement. But the dinner invite? Never saw that coming. I thought those burly Russians didn’t do dinner dates. Pick and fuck. That I’d heard many times before though. “He asked me to dinner tonight.”
“Wow.” Pam nudges my shoulder. “Are you going?”
“I don’t know, I don’t really know him…”
“No one really knows him.”
“That’s not helpful. He’s so big and intimidating. And he’s really, really Russian.”
“So?” Pam laughs. “So’s Georg.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “No. Georg is like one-tenth the level of Russian that Viktor is. Seriously. His accent is super thick. He looks like he could be a gangster. I swear he could snap someone’s head off with the flick of a wrist. They call him the Mad Russian, for Christ’s sake.”
“Are you scared of him, Scarlett?”
“No. He’s just…very imposing. He’s intense. He complimented me and I felt like I needed a shower afterward. Not because it was icky, but because it got me all hot and bothered enough to start sweating. I felt like he shined a spotlight on me or something.” Even though I’ve fantasized from afar for a while, I don’t know if I can be around a guy who’s so intense all the time. He’s so…fierce.
“I’ll bet the sex would be on the rough side with him.”
“Right?” I agree. “Like, tie me
up and spank my ass, big boy.” I don’t tell Pam that Viktor’s compliment was about how much he appreciated my ass. Some things don’t need to be shared. Plus, it would give her the wrong impression about him. He didn’t say it in a creepy way. I was the one who brought up my plentiful posterior padding when he asked me if I was okay after falling on it. Viktor was very much a gentleman during our short conversation, so I cannot fault him there.
“Never know until you try,” Pam says, grinning widely.
“Do you think he’s in the mafia?”
“No, Scarlett. You asked the same thing about Georg once, remember?”
“But I’m serious this time. He has this creepy, Russian agent. He’s like a snake, all slicked-back-hair and shiny suit. He even had a gold tooth.”
“In the front?”
“No, on the side, but still…” I try to suppress a shudder as I remember him talking to Viktor in the hallway during the break. I didn’t like the look of that guy. At all.
“Agents come in all shapes and sizes,” Pam says dismissively. “Maybe looking slick is his normal style.”
My scoff is interrupted by a conflict on the ice. Tyler, the middle defenseman, has gotten himself into yet another fight. It must not be too significant, though, because he only gets a two-minute penalty. There are three minutes left in the game.
Short-handed, the team works on killing the power play. They need to score, but on a five-four disadvantage, the best they can really hope for is to hold for a tie and then score in overtime.
The minutes seem to take forever, and at sixty seconds left on the clock, Tyler charges out of the box and back into position. Evan looks like he’s got good control of the puck as he heads for the net. I think he might shoot the puck over to Mikhail or even back to Georg, but he doesn’t, his focus laser-sharp on the goal.
He’s so focused, in fact, that he doesn’t seem to notice the defenseman coming from his left. Viktor does, though, and he charges. Way out of position, way fast, a freight train speeding off the track. He banishes the opposing defenseman to the glass in a blistering check that we can hear even here in the suite.
Of course, the penalty for charging is a major one, but a minor is called on the opposing team as well since the defenseman managed to high-stick Evan before Viktor checked him. Tyler is there again, trying to punch the guy Viktor just checked, and the referees are trying desperately to break up the melee. The buzzer goes off, ending third period with a tie, and forcing an overtime that will mean a four-three power play.
“This is just crazy,” Pam says.
Holly has joined us at the windows. She links arms with Pam, a worried look on her face. Her husband, Evan, shakes off the fall, but with the cameras focused on his face, he looks pissed.
Viktor stomps into the box and sits heavily, staring blankly forward. The other player climbs into the opposing team’s penalty box next to ours, with just a wall of glass separating the two spaces. Tyler follows, thumping down beside Viktor. The guy in the other box chirps something, but Viktor just shakes his head, giving away nothing. Tyler takes off his glove and gives the guy the middle finger before both teams must head off to the locker rooms for the next break.
The crowd is crazy rowdy—screaming, booing, hissing. This is not a good end to a big game. We’re not invited into the locker room for photos during the break. The players need to get their heads on straight before overtime begins and that means zero distractions from outside.
When the puck drops, Evan and Mikhail line up and poor Georg is left alone to play defense. The penalty clock starts a five-minute timer and the three best Crush players manage to hold off an onslaught of shots, doing their best for three full minutes before a specialty play creates confusion, allowing a shot that will, inevitably, give Washington, DC the Stanley Cup.
It’s a huge let down and ending to such an intense game along with a very hard-fought season.
The teams line up for the handshake, but I can see on their faces how upset they all are. I can feel it in the suite here, too. Holly goes straight into work mode, her dedication to her work belying her emotion on behalf of her husband and the team she loves so much.
Fiona pulls me over and we talk about how we’ll communicate the loss, what language we’ll use, and what imagery we’ll promote post-game. Holly has the immediate work to do, but I’ll have to craft a press packet and pitch a series of positive story ideas tomorrow. We come up with our plan and then head down to the press room to set up for the post-game conference.
There are screens set up in the room, post-game on as our crew makes sure the microphones are ready and chairs are in the right spots. The cup is awarded to the other team on our ice. Fiona scowls at the imagery it creates on television. Holly just types away on her iPad.
Members of the press start to arrive shortly after, including Kacey King, the blonde, too-skinny reporter who, I’ve heard, likes to screw the players. I think she’s done it with both Evan and Georg, so Pam and Holly have equal distaste for her. Today she’s in an emerald-green miniskirt, black blouse, and tall, black heels. I’ll give it to her; she knows how to look sexy for the camera.
My news alerts start going off. Social media feeds are obviously the first to ping, since Holly is putting out congratulatory messages on all our feeds, as well as retrospective images that remind our fans how good our season was.
Evan, Georg, and Viktor come in, hair wet from the showers, and sit at the table. Reporters call out questions, and while they focus mostly on the loss, there are bright spots as they get to talk about the way the defense scored both of this game’s goals. Evan, always the leader, remains focused on the positive. Georg makes a few jokes to cool things down. Viktor only answers those questions he has to. That isn’t a surprise, of course. The man is…reticent.
I find myself staring at him. He is a very handsome man. I guess that goes without saying. He’s got tan skin and dark brown hair in an undercut, the sides and back shaved short but the top longer. His gaze is super intense—although, what color eyes does he have? I should have taken more note earlier when he spoke to me. His lips are on the full side. Not too full, but definitely sensual. I could look at him for a loooong time. Yep, definitely easy on my eyes.
Lost in my inspection of the sexy Russian enforcer, I don’t realize the press conference has ended until he rises from his chair, that intense stare leveled on me. He steps from behind the table and takes a few long strides in my direction.
I raise a hand in an awkward wave, ready to accept his offer of dinner, but he breezes right past me. He doesn’t even acknowledge me. No, he just walks right on by like I don’t exist, heads out through the door and down the hall.
Well shine me on why don’t you.
Pam wanders up next to me and says, “Weren’t you supposed to…”
“I thought so…but I guess I was wrong.”
“Oh. Well, that’s lame.”
“Yup.” Lame is exactly whatever that just was.
“Do you want to go to dinner with me and Georg?”
“Ah, I don’t want to be a third wheel. You two just got engaged. I’m sure you should be off having hot sex in a bathtub full of chocolate or something.”
She barks a laugh at this. “I wasn’t aware that chocolate-covered bathtub sex was part of engagement celebrations.”
“Chocolate-covered bathtub sex?” Georg asks as he comes over, pulling Pam in for a hot kiss. When he pulls away, he’s grinning. “That sounds really sticky…and fun.”
“Anything edible sounds tasty right now,” Pam says. “And Viktor seems to have stood up Scarlett at the last minute, so we should go fill our bellies and eat our emotions together. I’m famished.”
“Me too,” Georg says. “Come on, Scarlett.”
I agree, albeit somewhat reluctantly. I really do feel like a third wheel, but it beats going home to wonder what I did to turn Viktor away so quickly.
We walk a few blocks to a small restaurant that’s kind of off the beaten pa
th. It’s definitely not a tourist destination because the locals welcome Georg as we walk in. We’re seated at a semi-private table and champagne is brought out to celebrate Pam and Georg’s engagement.
We make small talk for a while, then get more serious as we talk about the game. Georg tries to brush it off, but I can tell he’s upset about the loss. He and Pam hold hands across the table most of the time leading up to our food being served. It’s really cute and, once again, makes me long to have someone who loves me that much.
Pam must sense my emotions because she tilts her head and asks me to tell her about my ex-boyfriend.
“Stephen.” I take in a big breath. Let it out. Take in another one. Just saying his name gives me anxiety. “I met him in high school. He left to go to college but moved back a year later. He’d been playing cards on the East Coast. Started out innocent enough. He was into role-playing games and stuff as a teenager, but I guess he started playing the real card games in college. Also betting on sports and fantasy leagues. And he was good at it, too. He banked a bunch of money and decided to quit college and come back to Vegas. He got into some lower-level poker tournaments but quickly rose to the higher-stakes games. He had backers, funders, and played in the world series games with celebrities.”
“Stephen Hackworth?” Georg asks.
“You knew him?”
He shakes his head, his face serious. “No. I heard of him, though. People talked about how young he was to be so good. He died, right?”
“Georg!” Pam scolds.
“It’s okay. He did die.” The next part hurts me to say the words out loud. “He committed suicide. At least, that’s what the police say.”
“You don’t agree?” Georg asks.
“I don’t know, honestly.”
The waitress brings our entrees. Suddenly, my stomach is sour. I doubt I’ll be able to eat this big bowl of pasta I ordered.
Red Rocket: A Hockey Love Story Page 3
