Sin Shot: Vegas Crush #2 Read online

  Nothing like having a conversation like this while everyone's naked. It just sort of removes all the pretense and deceptiveness.

  "Nah," they answer at the same time.

  "I thought I heard my name and the word trade in the same sentence, though," I say as I soap up. I wash my cock and balls as I ask the question, just to make it more awkward.

  "Just heard they might be making some high-level trades to cut budget. Send high earners off, bring younger guys with lower salaries in," the one guy says. He shuts off his shower and wanders off, clearly done with this conversation.

  "I don't think it's true," the other guy adds. "Why cut people who helped lead you to a championship?"

  And then he's gone, too, and I'm left soaping myself alone, with only my own thoughts to keep me company.

  Of course, the first thing I do once I'm clothed is call my agent.

  The next morning, we're in Max Terry's office.

  "Good to see you, Ned." Max holds out a hand, a gold watch on his wrist, his shirt cuffs monogrammed.

  Ned Saunders, overweight and sweaty, holds out a hand and shakes. I can see the distaste on Max's face. Ned has sweaty hands. I don't shake his hand because it's just disgusting.

  "Good to see you, too," Ned says. "What's this rumor we're hearing about trades?"

  "On Georg?" Max asks. He looks genuinely surprised.

  "On high-cost players," I answer.

  "Not sure what you're hearing or where you're hearing it," Max says, "but I've got no intention of messing up a good thing. We took a hit when Chalamet retired and replaced him with a couple of rookies. I didn't go big because I didn't feel like we needed a superstar. We've got you and Evan—the dream team."

  "So I'm not on the chopping block?"

  "Not so long as your play stays good and your off-ice adventures are kept to a minimum. I can't have bar fights and middle-of-the-night calls for bail this year," Max says.

  Ned is picking his way through a bowl of mixed nuts on Max's office coffee table. He's literally touching nuts with his bare, sweaty hands, and then putting them back in the bowl. It really is disgusting. And I really need a new agent.

  He seems to sense me staring at him so he straightens up and takes a handkerchief out of his jacket, then wipes his sweating forehead. "Georg was part of a winning combination out there last year. Having him on the trade list would be bad for the team."

  Both Max and I stare at him like he's grown two heads. Did he hear any of the last five minutes of conversation, or was he so completely engrossed in finding the perfect cashew to actually listen and do his job?

  "Yes, well," Max says. "We've established that Georg is not on the trade list, Ned."

  "Oh, well, that's great," Ned replies unenthusiastically.

  Is this asshole for real?

  "Max, I appreciate your time," I say, cutting off this painful bleed session before I turn the floor red. "I assure you I'll work harder than ever this season. I've been working closely with the athletic trainers and am already seeing good progress on my personal health goals."

  "I'm glad to hear it, Georg," Max says. "We pulled in new staff throughout that area to assure you all access to the best support possible. Nutrition, exercise, therapy…whatever you need, it's available to you now. We want to double up on the cup, so to speak. So keep up the good work."

  I shake his hand and wait for Ned to pipe in with some sort of bonus conversation, something about making more money if I have another strong year on the ice. But, no. He's back to the nuts. He basically grabs a handful and shoves them in his suit jacket pocket before waddling out, not even bothering to say goodbye to the guy who has my professional fate in his hands. All I can do is cringe, thankfully receiving a sympathetic look from Max Terry, who shakes his head along with my hand.

  "You need a new agent, son," he comments under his breath.

  Ain't that the truth.

  As I walk back down the hallway, ready to call Evan's agent and beg him to take me on as a client, I literally bump into someone. When I look up from my phone, I realize it's Pam.

  "Oh, sorry," she says. "I was totally texting and walking. Dangerous business."

  I laugh. "Same. Sorry."

  She gives me a little smile and her cheeks darken a bit. Is she blushing? Ugh. She's so beautiful. Voluptuous with pretty, dark brown eyes. Long blonde hair. Even in that drab uniform they have her in, a stupid polo shirt and sensible shoes, she's a knockout.

  But that ship has sailed, I think. There was chemistry between us, for certain, but she held back. And then at Evan and Holly's wedding, I couldn't even get the courage to walk over and talk to her. Like some teenage boy with a crush.

  "Are you enjoying your work here?" Lame start to a conversation I know, but I need to say something that doesn't involve staring and drooling.

  She nods. "Very much. It's exciting to put all that schooling to use finally."

  "The guys are nice to you, yes?"

  "They've been great. Really sweet."

  "Probably trying to butter you up," I tease.

  "For what? I mean, I'm kind of mean when they're going through their therapy exercises. They probably curse my name."

  "No. No way. They know those exercises will keep them on the ice. They probably fake injuries just to come and flirt with you."

  Pam pushes her pretty pink lips to one side and bats her eyes at me. "Well, I guess they can fake injuries all they want. It's job security for me."

  "I might have to intervene, though…in the flirting. Don't want you getting in trouble with these khuligany."

  Pam makes an adorable face while she tries to figure out what I just said.

  "Well, it's good to see you," I say with a wink. "Hopefully I'll see you around again soon."

  "Yep," she says, seemingly unaffected by my pathetic attempt at flirtation. I need to step up my game, I think. "See you, Georg."

  She walks off without a backward glance, which shows me clearly where I stand. As much as I’m enjoying the view from behind very much, her eyes are very much fixed forward.

  And that’s the way it will stay.

  Five

  Pam

  THANK YOU, GEORG

  “He's got a torn rectus abdominus," the team doctor explains. "And his ribs are subluxated and malaligned. There's also a contusion from the tear, which will complicate therapy simply from a pain management perspective."

  "So this looks like at least six weeks to me." I look over the notes on this injured player. "Maybe eight."

  "In an ideal world, he'd have eight weeks, but we really need to speed him up if we can," Coach Brown adds. "I can put him on IR for preseason but I need him on second string once the season starts."

  "I'll do my best, Coach. No promises."

  "I need you to do more than your best," Coach replies. "On any player you treat. I don't want them out there on fresh injuries but they need to fight through the last of it sometimes. You know what I mean? The longer they're off the ice, the longer it takes to get them back up to fighting weight."

  I nod. "I do understand. I'll start him on electronic stimulation right away. We'll alternate heat and cold, and work in a strong anti-inflammatory. Once he's comfortable enough to handle it, we'll do some manipulation on the ribs. I suspect the malalignment may have played into the severity of the tear, so getting the ribs back in place will probably promote faster healing."

  "Great. Keep me posted on his progress," Coach says dismissively.

  My eyes follow him as he heads out, off to put out the next fire for an organization as big as the Crush. It's nothing I haven't heard before.

  "Welcome to pro sports," the doc says.

  "College sports are just like this," I say with a shrug. "Lots of pressure to perform, even when the athlete is not ready. It's not a great situation."

  "Yes, and they make a lot of money within a limited pro timeframe. They pressure themselves as much as anyone else pressures them. It's a really thin line to walk. Let me know i
f I can be helpful as you get started," he says before setting out after Coach Brown.

  "Thanks."

  From there, I head to find Dale, the personal trainer I saw on the first day of work. His office is down closer to the team gym. And, of course, he'd have to be training with Georg. I think about walking back out but just as I'm about to sneak out the way I came in, Dale turns and addresses me. "Hey there, I was hoping I'd see you today."

  I raise a hand in a kind of lame little wave. "I can come back when you're not busy."

  Georg is craning his neck to get a look at me from his position on one of the machines. Dale tells him to go jump on the treadmill and do a five-minute walk. He does as he's told, but not before staring at me for a good fifteen seconds. The look is intense. I might even call it smoldering. Yes. Okay. I would definitely call it smoldering, since I can feel it right between my legs. Woo, boy, I’m in trouble.

  "So, what's up, pretty lady?" Dale asks a little too jovially.

  "I came in to talk about the plan for this player with the torn rectus abdominus," I answer. "I don't want him getting soft in the six to ten weeks he'll be on the IR list."

  "He's not going to make it ten weeks," Dale says, shaking his head. "You know that, right? He'll be lucky to get six before he's back on the ice, and I'm betting more like three."

  "Three?" I ask, incredulous. "He would in no way be ready."

  "I'm not saying he'll be ready. I'm saying he'll want to get back on the ice."

  "Well, my goal is to hold him off as long as possible," I answer. "But in the time we do have, can you work up a plan that will allow him to work arms and legs with minimal core engagement?"

  "I sure can." He gives me a leering grin. "Anything else I can do for you? Take you to lunch? Drinks? Dinner?"

  "Well, it's nine in the morning, so don't get ahead of yourself there, Dale."

  "Pfft. Fine then. I'll ask again later."

  Georg nearly falls off the treadmill, he's trying so hard to listen to our conversation. The scene grabs both Dale's and my attention, and Dale jogs over and asks, "Are you okay, buddy?"

  "Kusok der'ma," Georg spits in Russian.

  "No speakie Russkie," Dale says. "English please, big guy."

  "Trakhat' tebya."

  I let out a little giggle and both turn to look at me. "What did he say?" Dale asks.

  I shrug. "I don't know, but he usually saves his Russian for swears and insults, so…"

  Georg laughs but doesn't offer a translation. It reminds me of our date night last season when he tried to teach me a few Russian cuss words. I don't remember any of the words, but I do remember how funny he was that night. Georg has a great sense of humor.

  "All right, well, I guess I'd better get back to kicking this guy's ass, then," Dale says. "Burpees for you, funny guy."

  "Okay, well, don't kick it too hard. I don't need to see him on my PT table later." I turn to leave knowing both sets of eyes are on me as I walk out. I hear Georg say something in Russian, followed by "fucking burpees," and it makes me laugh again.

  * * *

  Later that evening and most importantly, after the blazing Vegas sun slips below the horizon, I decide a walk around my neighborhood will have to do for my daily exercise. It's incredibly hot outside, so a tank top and shorts with flip-flops is the best I can manage. I’m not an exercise fiend…not like Holly anyway. I mean, I do Zumba and yoga semi-regularly, and I'll hit the gym periodically, usually just to scout guys.

  Now I'm a curvy girl. Always have been. Big on top, small at the waist, some definite ass on the bottom. This is a figure that can be hard to dress. Fitted clothes make me look like a porn star and attract the wrong kind of attention. Baggier clothes make me look overweight. But I wore mostly baggy clothes through high school. Especially after my mom's husband-number-three decided to come into my room every time my mom was out. The first time, I woke up to his hand rooting around in my pants. He made all kinds of bribes to keep me quiet about it, and I thought it was done. A couple months later, he was back in my bed, naked and hard. He grabbed at my breasts and told me how gorgeous my body was before humping my leg, spraying his gross orgasm all over my bare leg.

  I was fifteen. Very developed compared to other girls my age. I thought it was my fault, so I started wearing sweat pants and baggy T-shirts to school nearly every day. It didn't stop him. He still came in to sweat on me, grab at me, and come on me about once a month for nearly two years.

  My ex-stepfather is due for parole pretty soon, but I try not to dwell on that too much.

  I need a distraction. I've been through all kinds of therapy and usually I'm pretty good about managing my feelings about what happened, but sometimes it rears its head and I end up feeling the dread of anxiety in the pit of my stomach.

  Flirting helps. Feeling in control of my sexuality helps.

  There's a hot guy washing his car about two streets away from my condo. He looks up as I pass, his eyes moving along my curves as I give him a subtle smile. He gives a lopsided grin back before our flirtation is interrupted by not one but two small children, who run out yelling, "Daddy." He turns a smile on his kids, running a hand through his hair. And yep, there's the glint of sun on metal against the wedding ring on his finger.

  I keep walking, ashamed of myself. Annoyed with him.

  When I get back home, I'm sweaty and anxiety-stricken. Thinking about the past always gets me worked up. It makes me want to control my sexual situation to the nth degree. And what really gets me worked up is thinking about how poorly I've managed my sexual life these past years. I am twenty-four years old with a master's degree and a great job. I usually feel pretty good about myself.

  And I'm still a virgin.

  Yep. Inquiring minds want to know: How is a sexy, flirty lady like Pamela Jenson a virgin? Well, she panics every single time she tries to have sex, that's how. She has a literal panic attack whenever it comes time to "do the deed," and so she sucks the guys off and sends them packing, her embarrassment too intense to ever see them again.

  Yes, I just spoke about myself in the third person. Sue me.

  The fact is that even after multiple years of therapy, I'm still a hot mess when it comes to sex. And while I've certainly gotten close, I've never actually had intercourse. When they lean in close and I feel their breath or hear them panting…

  Stop. Don’t go there. You’re safe. You’re an adult and are in control.

  I place my dinner order online—thank you, Papa John’s—and jump in the shower, so ready for an evening of Jack Ryan in my pajamas and a pizza. I'm too hyped up. I need to relax.

  The water is hot, not scalding but close, and it feels good to wash the day away, wash the thoughts away. I force myself to breathe, force myself to think about good things, fun things. How I love my new job. What a great steppingstone it is. How happy I am for Holly and Evan, who will be parents soon.

  And Georg. Silly, messed-up, wildling Georg. Beautiful Russian bad boy, Georg.

  Under the water, I find my hands traveling to the sensitive places between my legs. I wash, but my fingers linger there. Georg's face comes to mind. A nose slightly crooked from a break or two. Green eyes, vibrant like spring grass. Long hair, usually messy. Wide shoulders. Sharp cheekbones. The small scar above his right eyebrow. Very much my flavor.

  Memories of dancing with him, kissing him, come at me like a flood and I'm swept away. I switch the shower control to the massage setting, letting the hard spray of water hit my clit. It feels too good to stop. I need the sweet burn of an orgasm to clear my head. I push my hips forward as I work the water sprayer over my clit, flexing my muscles, pushing myself toward the peak as I think about Georg Kolochev.

  His hands on my waist. The way his lips felt, hot on my neck. His tongue when he sucked on my lobe, something I’d never enjoyed before. The strength of his leg muscles as they virtually held me up as I melted from his touch. And then his words…whispers of erotic want murmured in Russian that felt like honey as I absor
bed them…

  An orgasm pounds through me, leaving me sagging against the shower wall. I have to catch my breath before I turn that stream of water on my hard nipples, the pressure of the water causing pain, feeling like little bites. I imagine it’s Georg's teeth there and I come again, less intense but no less delicious.

  I breathe a quiet "thank you" to Georg for helping me get off, for helping me get past the icky memories of the past. For helping me conquer the anxiety that had filled my belly with dread, replacing it with the endorphin rush that comes from a good orgasm.

  Did I mention I'm the only person who's ever made me come?

  I get back to my plan, the one where I’m wearing my soft, blue silk PJ’s and snuggled on the couch with my cheese pizza and a beer. I didn’t even have to answer the door to the delivery guy. I tipped online and told them to leave it on the mat and just ring the doorbell. Modern technology is too easy sometimes.

  I wish navigating my love life was as simple as ordering a pizza delivery from behind a screen.

  I know that Georg Kolochev is off limits. Our work policies alone prevent me from dating him. I know Evan and Holly got around the fraternization policies, but I don't think I could. I think, just by virtue of having my hands on these guys during PT, I need to stay professional. And I know how it would end. We'd have a good time. I'd think I was ready. I'd freak out and end it. And then what? I'd have put my career in jeopardy for nothing. For a fling.

  No, it's not worth it.

  No matter how much I want it.

  Six

  Georg

  A FROOT LOOP INTERVENTION

  I'm trying to figure out if it is possible to like and hate someone at the same time. I like that this new trainer, Dale, is taking the time to help me get in better shape. I hate that he's a Mr. Universe lookalike and clearly has his eye on Pam. Fucker.

  We're working on core, so he's demonstrating the ridiculous shit he wants me to do—hanging with my elbows in some kind of strap setup that'll use my core strength to hold me up. He looks like a professional gymnast as he does it, the bastard, with his eight-pack abs, his perfectly unmarred skin, his bulging pectoral muscles. Puke. I want to puke just looking at this Ken doll.