Red Rocket Read online

  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 back seat 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.

  I manage one last glance back at the beautiful red rocket, who is now laughing easily with Pamela and the photographer. I want to punch him for standing so close to her. This is stupid, right? I don’t know her. Don’t have any sort of claim over her. Yet I find I am so very attracted. An unexpected conundrum…

  I’m still thinking of her as we make our way to the ice. But as soon as the roar of the crowd fills my ears, my head is back in the game. My only goal now is to help this team win, to be a championship team.

  This is my only focus. To win.

  Three

  He’s Going to Score

  Scarlett

  Sid and I hook his camera to a slim laptop that he carries with him wherever he goes. He has a hard-shell backpack where he keeps his mobile photography and editing equipment. It looks like a little turtle shell.

  We choose a handful of photos and he does some quick edits while I write captions. We send everything to Holly’s phone so she can post to our various accounts. I find myself licking my lips a little at the images of Viktor Demoskev. He’s wide-shouldered, muscular, and big. Just a really big dude. It looked impossible that Pam’s portable therapy table could have held up the mass of him. It wasn’t the first time I’d thought that too, but that man had looked like a giant, especially under Pam’s small hands.

  In the pictures, he’s scowling. Of course, I guess that’s kind of par for the course. He’s clean-cut, no visible tattoos, short hair, and miles of muscles. He’s a good-looking man, attractive, a sharp dresser, but not really a nice-looking man, if you know what I mean. He’s got a brutal reputation, especially before he came to play for the Crush. He was not above hurting people—on the ice and occasionally even off it. They don’t call him the Mad Russian for nothing. He earned that name.

  Sid heads toward the ice as we finish up, and I go back up to the owner’s suite to find Holly furiously working on her iPad. She looks up and smiles.

  “These shots are great. And the captions are pretty funny, too.”

  “Thanks. It was kind of a funny scene down there. Those guys are—”

  “Ugh,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to say another word. They’re a bunch of goofballs.”

  “That’s one word for it.”

  “Have a seat,” she says, eyes back on the screen. “I’ll probably send you back down for the second break to do it all
again, if you don’t mind?”

  “No problem.” I take the seat next to her.

  She works as the baby sleeps against her chest. I’m not the biggest fan of babies. Or kids in general, really. But this is a cute sight. Holly’s not that much older than me, twenty-five, but there’s a maternal quality about her, a serenity that I don’t know if I’ll ever possess. And she’s handling being a mom and a rock star social media manager better than I ever could.

  I suppose I’m a little jealous of her. I felt quite competitive toward her when I was first given the interim role while she was out. I wanted to outdo her. Now, I guess I wish I could be more like her. Not with a baby, of course, but just as good at what I do, settled with a hot guy, looking like nothing fazes me.

  Fat chance.

  We’re about seven minutes into the second period when a missed opportunity by the opposing team leaves Viktor Demoskev with nothing between him and the goal. He’s careful not to take a shot too early, as we don’t need an icing call right now, but he’s only got a brief window in the confusion, so he hauls ass down the line.

  “Watch this,” I say, kind of to Holly but also just to myself. “He’s going to score. The goalie’s not even looking at him.”

  Holly’s head pops up. “Who?” Her focus is on the ice, and she watches the play unfold. “Oh!”

  And sure enough, Viktor takes a shot straight into the back of the net. It’s a clean goal, one that absolutely no one, probably including Viktor himself, was expecting.

  The sound in the owner’s suite is deafening, so I can only imagine how loud it must be in the arena seats. People are going nuts, especially our players, who are jumping on Viktor’s back on the ice.

  Up two-nothing, the energy is high here in Crush command center. Fiona, our boss, takes a seat to my right.

  “Two defensive goals in one game. Who’d have thought it?” she comments.

  Fiona’s hair is in a sharp, chin-length bob. She has straight-cut bangs and wears funky eyeglasses that match her well-tailored, Crush-colored dress. She’s totally corporate and usually uptight. She’s not a bad boss or anything and she sure knows what she’s doing, but she still makes me feel uncomfortable.

  Case in point. “Yeah, crazy,” is my lame response.

  “I’d like to try to draft up some pitches next week—features on the defensive team—Georg and Viktor specifically. Put it on your mental list of things to do?”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Great,” she says. “And thanks for getting those captions for social today. They were really funny.”

  Even Holly looks up at this, her eyes narrowly scrutinizing our boss, who literally never compliments anyone. She’s very particular and often very critical of our work. And silence usually means acceptance. It’s weird to get a compliment.

  “Um, no problem,” I say. “Holly said the same.”

  “Well, she’s done some comedic stuff before also, and it’s worked really well.”

  Fiona sits for only another few minutes, awkwardly, before patting the arm of the chair and muttering something about checking in with Max on the post-game press event.

  Holly waits for her to be out of earshot before saying, “She is really weird sometimes.”

  “You’re not wrong about that,” I agree. “We need to get her to take a weekend here and there so she can get some. I think she only sees her husband once a month.”

  “Yeah, you might be right. They’re both workaholics,” Holly says, focusing back on her work. “I know that sounds funny coming from me, but they’re a whole other level.”

  “Have you met him? Her husband?” I ask.

  “I met him,” she answers, shrugging. “He’s a slick dude. Handsome, well dressed. Gives you those smiles that make you feel naked. And not in a good way.”

  “Yuck,” I say. “No wonder she’s so unhappy.”

  “Who knows,” Holly says. “I try not to assume what does or doesn’t make other people happy. It usually leads to problems.”

  I’m about to dig for gossip, feeling there’s more to Holly’s statement than she’s letting on, but we’re interrupted by a very happy and maybe slightly tipsy Max Terry. He plops down to Holly’s left and pulls her to him in a sloppy side-hug.

  “I feel a win coming on,” Max announces. “I’ve got my lucky charms. You and Evan started it. Love makes for a better player. I know it. And now Georg and Pam. And he’s scored two goals in the series. I couldn’t be happier.”

  “Yep,” Holly says. “The defensive scoring in this game is giving me a lot of good social media fodder.”

  “Always working,” Max says. “You should put that technology down and experience the game.”

  “Oh, but then I wouldn’t retain my title as the best in the business, would I?” she asks wryly.

  “Well, if you’re not the best in the business, then I don’t have to fight off other employers to keep you,” Max counters, grinning.

  Pam wanders in, having been in the stands for part of the period. She’s got a plate of food and sits in the seat that Fiona just vacated. “Just shoving some food in my mouth before periods break,” she says. “I can’t believe this game.”

  “Yep, pretty crazy. Kinda like the high-end marriage proposal before the last game.”

  “Ha,” she says. “Yes. But I wouldn’t be me, if the proposal wasn’t as big as possible.”

  “This is true,” Holly agrees. “I can’t even imagine what your bachelorette party will be like.”

  “Well, what’s bigger than Vegas?” Pam asks wickedly.

  “Yikes,” Holly says. “I’m scared to find out.”

  “Holly, wouldn’t you be the one to plan it?” I ask.

  “No,” she says. “Pam controls her own fate. I just go along for the ride.”

  We all laugh at this. I ask, “Will you have a long engagement, do you think?”

  “Heck no,” Pam says. “We’re in love and can’t wait to be married, living in the same house. We’d elope tomorrow if we could.”

  “Why can’t you?” Holly asks. “He seems like a Vegas chapel, married-by-Elvis kind of dude.”

  “He does.” I agree with Holly.

  “No…I mean, I don’t know. We obviously haven’t had much discussion about it yet because we’re in the finals at the moment. But I think my Georg is a beach-wedding-in-his-shorts kind of guy.”

  “Oh, I could see that, too!” Holly agrees emphatically.

  I nod but the conversation ends as the opposing team scores. Everyone in the suite lets out a collective groan.

  Pam swears and Holly frowns, pulling up her feeds.

  As the clock winds down, Pam stands up and sighs loudly. “Off to the locker rooms,” she says. “Scarlett, you coming back down to stare at the Mad Russian stud some more?”

  Holly’s neck looks like it might snap as she turns to look at me, a tiny quirk of her lips giving away her amusement. “Viktor?” she asks. “You were ogling Viktor?”

  I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t!”

  “She totally was,” Pam interjects. “But he was just as into her. Maybe this will be the next love connection at Crush Matchmaking HQ.”

  “No, I was just talking to him. He was upset that we were taking his picture.”

  Both women give me sly, knowing looks and I just purse my lips and stand, ready to follow Pam out of the suite.

  Holly yells, “Be careful of that one!”

  Pam just cackles and I ignore them both as we make our way out to the elevator.

  Totally busted.

  We come into the hallway on the locker room level only to find a big throng of very loud, very hyped hockey players going in.

  One of whom is in the process of removing his jersey. I know that big body. It’s Viktor of course, but he doesn’t make the turn in through the locker room door.

  He just keeps coming right on down the tunnel. Jesus, he’s even taller in skates…

  And then he crashes straight into me.

/>   Four

  “Good-Mood Viktor”

  Viktor

  I must be getting older, because I cannot come off the ice without a chink or a cramp or some sort of pain in some part of my body. Today it’s a muscle in my shoulder, so I pull off my jersey and pads as I walk down the tunnel, ready for the soothing hands of one of our therapy people.

  Of course, walking and undressing is as ill-advised as it sounds, because I collide squarely into another human. I hear an oof sound, and as I pull the remainder of fabric over my head, I see Scarlett from earlier, on the ground glaring up at me.

  “I am very sorry.” Looking up, I see that I have walked several meters past the doorway to the locker room. “I must do better looking at where I am going.”

  I hold out a hand, which she takes, before standing and brushing off some imaginary dust or dirt from her jeans.

  “Are you back for more photos?” She nods once, briefly, and then bites her bottom lip again. Maybe she is cringing? I hope I didn’t hurt her. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so, yes. My booty to the rescue.” She gives her ass a slap. “Plenty of padding to protect me.”

  I cannot help it; my eyes go straight to her ass. Yes, she is a curvy girl, but it is insanely attractive. “I would say the padding serves you well in several ways.”

  “So…the big guy likes a big butt?” She raises an eyebrow at me.

  Totally caught off guard, I laugh out loud. I never laugh. Yet she made me laugh. Surprising. How she isn’t angry or hurt is also a surprise. I’m not exactly small.

  “Well, I appreciate yours—very much.” I can feel the smile on my face as I look down at her and wonder whatever the fuck is wrong with me. I do not laugh or smile or flirt with women.

  You’re doing it with her right now, slaboumnyy. If I am honest, I am behaving far worse than an imbecile at the moment.

  She tilts her head and twirls a piece of her long, red hair around her finger. “Well, that’s nice to hear. And I appreciate a guy who knows when to take advantage of an opening.”