Chapter 1 Enter the Ice Dragon
enter the ice dragon
Boris
Saving a terrified mother and her screaming child from disaster in the Las Vegas Airport baggage claim wasn’t on my to-do list today.
But what else do you do when a woman is fighting to keep her stroller from crashing down the escalator, her child screaming bloody murder as I head down to the baggage claim.
Potentially a straight-out disaster in the making, I feel bad for both of them.
I steady the stroller when it tilts to the next step as she pulls her crying toddler into her arms. Once we’re on solid ground, she gives me an apologetic smile, a soft, “Thanks,” and rushes the whole mess into the nearest restroom.
Disoriented, I look around and find the amiable smile of my agent, Scott Rose, where he stands with a few other guys. Everyone holds a sign with a name on it, apart from Scott. I point to the signs. “No ‘Welcome Ice Dragon’ sign?”
“Sorry, bro.” He grins and gives me a friendly slap on the back. “How was your flight? I see you started do-gooding right off the bat. That’s nice what you did for that lady.”
“Is do-gooding a real word? My English is pretty strong but that is a new one for me.”
“Come on, let’s go grab your bags, do-gooder.”
Bags in tow, my agent leads me out into the hot Las Vegas sun.
We cross four lanes of traffic and head to the short-term parking, where Scott’s Mercedes SUV is parked.
It’s shiny and white and very, very clean.
Kind of like Scott, I suppose. He’s slick as all get-out in his suit, no tie, and I feel a bit underdressed in jeans and a button-down as I climb in.
I will say I’m glad I am not in a suit, though, because I’d be sweating like crazy. Apparently, Scott Rose does not sweat.
“I’ll get the air going,” Scott says as he starts the engine. “It’s hot as dragon’s breath out here today.”
“Hotter than Austin,” I comment. “How is that possible? It must be ten degrees hotter here and Austin is further south.”
“One of life’s great mysteries, the weather. I think hockey players are somewhat more sensitive to the heat, though, since they’re on the ice all the time.”
“Perhaps that is true.”
“You excited about moving to Sin City?”
I nod. “It is more the team that excites me. I like what I have seen from the lineup.”
“A city full of gorgeous women, plentiful liquor, and endless nightlife, and your head is already on the game. I knew there was a reason I took you on. I wish I had ten of you on my client list. Easy peasy.”
“I am a boring guy,” I say with a shrug.
“Not on the ice, though. There’s a reason they call you the Ice Dragon.
You’re one of a very short list of the NHL’s best forwards.
Play you with Evan and Mikhail on wings, Georg and Viktor on defense, damn.
Can’t wait to see what you all can do out there, and I don’t care what the rabble-rousers are saying online.
Evan and Georg are still among the best on the ice. ”
“People are saying otherwise about them online?” I press.
“Bah,” Scott grunts, waving off the question.
“Fall from grace, lucky championship season, aging players. You know, same old garbage, different day. Some even say they’ve gone soft since settling down.
Frankly, I’m glad Georg isn’t dead from liver failure.
I’ll take a sober, serious, and much less reckless Georg any day. ”
“He was a wild man,” I agree. “Hey, thanks for your help with the contract negotiations.”
“That’s my job, buddy. You ready for the big pressure, though? You’re here to make sure those yahoos stay on their top game. To add to the good mojo. Max Terry wants that cup again. Wants to prove it’s not just a fluke out here.”
“Big pressure comes with big paychecks,” I answer, watching the Strip come into view.
There are so many people. It’s still midday, so I’m sure I’m not getting the full view of the famous area with its lights and fountains.
But I get an idea, just from the masses of people, tourists with cameras, taking selfies with their phones, carrying shopping bags.
“Quite the place, huh?” Scott gives me a look. “You’ve never been out on the Strip before?”
“Not really. I didn’t go out exploring the times we came in to play the Crush.”
“Well, this city is a distraction. Be careful not to let it shift your focus. Just ask Georg how easy it is.”
“Georg could be distracted by a paper bag.” I’m not lying.
Georg has always been that way. He and I are distant cousins, so I have many memories from when we were kids.
Well, his father and my mother are cousins, somehow way back in the bloodlines.
It’s complicated in the way that families are complicated with marriages and divorces and babies, and the rest of what comes with that.
We saw each other at family gatherings, and hockey events too, but a lot more after my mother moved us back to her native Saint Petersburg.
“If there was a liquor bottle in it,” Scott says.
“True,” I say, nodding. “He’s clean this past year though, I heard. Right?”
Scott bobs his head in affirmation. “Clean. Married. Focused. I took him on once I saw how good he could be when he wasn’t dicking around.”
“I am excited to play with him again. It’s been a while since we’ve been on the ice together, but what I’m really looking forward to is playing with him on the same team.”
“He had raw talent then. He’s really grown into it now. It’s much more powerful. Very exciting to watch.”
“I remember from the playoffs,” I say with a nod. “He was a surprise on the ice.”
“To us all, buddy,” Scott agrees. “To us all.”
We pull into a garage system that looks attached to a hotel, dropping the vehicle with a valet who asks for a selfie and tells me how awesome it is that I’ve come to play here. We walk out into the hot sun, traveling on foot for a block before heading into the arena where I will play very soon.
Inside the owner’s suite, Max Terry and I shake hands and then he tells me basically everything Scott just said on the way from the airport. He wants another chance at the cup, and he thinks this is the lineup to make it happen. And I can’t deny that he’s right. On paper, at least.
He hands me an envelope, which he describes as a “Welcome letter,” and I find myself frowning at the inoffensive piece of paper for long enough that I realize it probably sends the wrong message, so I fold it, shove it in my back pocket, and force a smile to make sure no one gets the wrong impression.
Too late, though, as Max asks, “Are you unhappy with this trade, Boris?”
I shake my head rapidly. “No, not at all.”
“Your contract was satisfactory, I assume? I mean, you signed it,” he says. “I assumed this acquisition was a good one for us and for you. The numbers we put up were quite generous.”
“No, I apologize,” I say quickly. “Everything is in order on all fronts. I think I’m just a bit jet-lagged from the early morning flight.”
“Ah, good.” The handsome, well-dressed, silver-haired owner claps his hands once. “This is a tremendous acquisition for our team. We want to make sure you come in with good feelings. Get off on the right foot.”
“Both feet are here in Las Vegas and I feel good,” I assure him. “I just want to play hockey, sir.”