8. Russ
CHAPTER 8
RUSS
There’s nothing quite like lying to undercut what should be a triumphant weekend of feeling like a king. This fake dating bullshit isn’t for me, and we’re only two hours into it.
It’s not Emery’s fault. She’s amazing. And I know I should be grateful I have someone beside me this weekend who is firmly in my corner, who comes by being Team Russ naturally, but without the weight of actually trying to date.
I’ve never been one to date, even before I met Shannon. Discreet hook-ups? Sure, I like sex as much as the next person, although I can go longer without companionship than most of my teammates.
But relationships?
I don’t do relationships. My parents’ marriage imploded during my childhood, and then my father’s second marriage was a toxic, indulgent mess. Two brilliant examples of what not to do with one’s life.
Emery leads the way up the stairs. When we reach the top landing, Malik opens his bedroom door, and he gives her an appreciative once over that reminds me I’m not the only one who is shielded by her sharing my bed this weekend.
“That was a good workout,” he says to her, as if I’m not standing right behind her.
I clear my throat, and he grins. Caught.
Emery takes my hand. “We’ll see you downstairs after we clean up,” she says sweetly.
I’m relieved to close my bedroom door and take a long, deep breath.
She crosses to her suitcase, open on one of the deep window seats. “I’ll go first, if you don’t mind?”
All business now.
“Be my guest.” I flop onto the oversized armchair in front of the fireplace and close my eyes.
Immediately, I see Shannon climbing out of the pool, water sluicing off her long limbs, rivulets licking between her full breasts.
We met at the arena the day the Hamilton expansion team was announced fourteen months ago. There was a media blackout on who had been acquired, so we discovered who we were going to be playing with as each player arrived at the arena.
Max had already been tapped to be the team’s captain, and he and Shannon were the first ones there.
We’d never met before, at least off the ice, and it wasn’t like our lines were often pitted against each other on the ice, either. He came from New York, an unexpected star made available in the expansion draft by his hometown team. I was pulled off the third line in Los Angeles, where I’d been traded from Minnesota two years earlier.
What’s the opposite of a star in hockey? I’m that guy. A journeyman. Someone who, when they list the relatively small number of players to have played a thousand games in the big show, is a surprise.
That’s me.
My role on the new team was clearly spelled out in my first meeting with Dick Dorrian, the general manager—make every other team think twice about picking a fight with the new captain or either of the young stars-in-the-making, hometown hero Jenson Hale, and American import Hiro Watanabe.
On that afternoon, I strode into the arena focused on that plan.
None of us had come from the same team before, although a few of us had played together in juniors or minor league hockey.
I didn’t expect to see Shannon and fall hard. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, without question, but there was something more than just a skin-deep attraction there. She had a quiet presence I found immediately calming, but beneath that I saw sparks of a wicked personality. She was simply captivating.
I’ve spent the last fourteen months wondering if what I fell into was love or lust or lunacy. Definitely lunacy, given what is riding on me not fucking what might be my last contract in the NHL.
In sixteen years of playing pro hockey, I’ve never made it to the Cup finals.
Because the universe has a funny sense of humour, sixteen is the exact number of wins it takes in the playoffs to go all the way. And for a hockey team to get there, they might need to play up to twenty-eight games in a row. An exhausting, brutal, destructive two-months-long journey that chews ups and rejects fifteen other teams in the process.
I’ve never made it to those final four wins.
I don’t know what it’s like to be that close to euphoria.
The last two teams I played on didn’t have a chance of getting that close.
The Highlanders do.
And I’ve spent the last year so fucking close to losing my chance to be a part of that, all because I can’t fucking contain myself when Shannon smiles at me.
She fucking smiles at everyone.
I am an idiot.
My life has never been this good.
Earlier this summer, I signed my first big endorsement deal. It came out of nowhere because I’m not really a household name anywhere outside of Scotland—and really only in hockey rinks there. Of course, there are only thirty ice rinks in the whole country, so that’s not saying much.
That deal came about in part because of Max, ironically. He’s also sponsored by the same energy drink company. We have the same agent—along with twenty other pro hockey players—and he recommended me for the international markets.
Because that’s what a captain does, and for all his faults, he makes sure everyone knows how to get their bag.
The least I could do is stop thinking about fucking his wife.
Rivulets of water.
Yeah, that’s a work in progress.
From my en suite, I hear the water cut out.
Sighing, I push myself up.
A minute later, Emery comes bouncing out of the bathroom, hair still wet, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt just like the other girls had arrived in. She’s a quick study.
“Hey, weird question,” she asks, her thumb flying over her phone screen. “Have you heard the rumours about a new league forming?”
“A women’s league?”
“No. Men’s.”
“Where? Here?”
She hands over the phone. “Watch for yourself.”
It’s a TikTok by an influencer who says they heard about it from a friend of a friend. A three-on-three league with no salary cap, called the Ice League.
I laugh. “Not a real thing. Don’t believe everything you hear on the internet.”
“This account has been right about some weird things before. I think they do have some insider information. And this isn’t the first time I’ve heard whispers of this. You haven’t heard anything?”
I stay off social media as much as is humanly possible, and I rely on my agent to pass on important news. Until he tells me this is a real possibility, I won’t believe it. “As much as you and I love this game, hockey is fighting for fourth place in North American TV rights. There isn’t enough money for the kind of thing she’s talking about.” I step around her. “I bet that rumour’s going to take off like wildfire, though. A lot of dummies want to believe in fairytales.”
For a hockey player, a league without a hard salary cap is a fantasy. The kind of romantic delusion that’s right up there with running away into the sunset with your captain’s hot wife.
I need to focus on what matters in reality. Getting my team as cohesive and hyped as possible before we head into training camp. I need to turn Hayden Calhoun from a reckless, wild offensive-generating puppy on ice into a smart, mature two-way player. And finding something, anything, anyone to redirect my lustful thoughts towards.
No more rivulets of water. No more black bikini fantasies.