Page 4 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

really rusty

Grant

I loosen my tie while making my way down the hall to my room, finally allowing myself a full breath.

I am now the new general manager of the Las Vegas Crush.

I’m the new GM of the fucking Vegas Crush.

Two weeks ago, I’d have laughed at you in the face if you said I’d be moving to the States to run an NHL team. But here I am, having just accepted a rather lucrative deal to take over a team that is full of superstars and within the immediate sphere of the Cup for the third time in four years.

Holy shit. How did this happen?

I pull off my tie and flip open my laptop, sending a video call through to my parents, who are waiting anxiously for an update. My dad’s face appears first, then my mom’s.

“So?” my dad asks without preamble.

“I won two hundred bucks at blackjack?”

My dad rolls his eyes as my mom scolds, “Stop that. What happened in your interview?”

“You are looking at the new GM for the two-time NHL champion, Las Vegas Crush.”

Mom cheers, and Dad gives me the half-smile that tells me he’s proud of me. “Did you talk to Nic about it first? Get the best deal?”

“I spent two hours with the owner, an hour with the head coach, and then we spent two hours on the phone with Nic while we hammered out a deal.”

“Good man. Go get a drink to celebrate.”

“Las Vegas has a bit of a reputation,” my mom warns. “Just be careful not to call attention to yourself before you even get started there.”

“Have you met me?” I’m grinning. “I’m not exactly the run-the-city type. I’ll just have some dinner in my room and hit the hay, I think. It was a long day.”

“No, no,” Dad says, shaking his head. “Grant. It’s a dream job in an amazing city. Go out and enjoy it. See what it feels like. Maybe take in a show or something.”

I definitely won’t be taking in a show, but I don’t tell him that.

Instead, we talk about the deal a little more before saying good night, but by the end of our call, I decide I’ll at least go down to the hotel bar.

I’ll get a steak and a couple fingers of whisky and that’ll be celebration enough for me.

Unbuttoning the top button of my shirt, I decide not to change out of my suit pants and jacket to save time since I’ll be celebrating alone.

Heading back out to the elevator and down to the concierge level, there are a ton of people at the bar, so I change course for the restaurant and ask for a table.

“Why so many people in the bar?” I ask, eyeing the crowd.

The hostess seats me with a view of the bar, saying, “There’s a conference here all week. They’re having a mixer.”

I take my seat, ordering my celebratory Macallan as I peruse the menu. Once my server returns with my drink, I order their signature porterhouse and scroll through my phone, checking emails and finding the initial paperwork for my new role already awaiting my review.

Scanning quickly, I realize I’ll need to pull this contract up on my laptop later, so I close down my phone and look up at the mingling crowd in the bar.

It’s one of those awkward, professional networking things.

People holding their wine glasses, smiling and nodding, trying to connect on a level that is professionally distant.

My eye catches on a petite woman near the end of the bar.

Some kind of light club music is playing, and she’s dancing along, clearly uninterested in the crowd around her.

It’s silly, really, but then I figure out she’s purposely trying to annoy the person she’s with.

The person she’s with.

The stunning creature proceeds to turn away from her dancing friend, holding out her hand to stop the ridiculous bump and grind from continuing.

Her smile is infectious, and—I—I feel like I’ve hit a ten-foot fuckin’ brick wall. The beating of my heart just definitely stuttered, went offline for a second before sputtering back into its normal rhythm.

I felt that shit happen in real time.

She might be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in person. Ever. In my life. Tall and willowy, her dark hair piled on top of her head, exposing an elegant neck I indecently imagine the fantasy of kissing. I have to forcibly keep myself from staring.

I don’t think anyone has ever stopped me in my tracks like she just did. In fact, I know nobody has.

Try as I might to push my thoughts elsewhere; I do not. Instead, I steal glances in between sips of my Macallan, drinking in her creamy skin, the perfect profile, and the length of her legs in slim jeans.

The flash of a thought to get up and go talk to her and introduce myself comes to mind, but when the server returns with my meal, I settle back into my chair.

What’s the point? I’m moving here soon. She’s probably just here for this conference.

Our orbits are crossing but likely only for this one space in time.

And frankly, I’m just out of a marriage that went down in flames, so I don’t think I’m up for any kind of thing, even in the short-term.

Even for one night. Man, am I jaded. I can only hope Margot’s betrayal doesn’t shape me forever.

I am a man who loves sex. But it’s been part of a committed, faithful marriage for the last fourteen years. Seems that’s hard to shake.

As I eat my steak and drink my whisky, I watch Crush highlights on my phone.

They’re good. Organized. They have good chemistry, and they have a natural pass that speaks to team unity and trust. It’s a good vibe, at least among their first-string players.

From my interview conversations, I gather they’re worried about what happens if one of those superstars retires or gets hurt.

They play second- and third-string players but not often and not for more than a few minutes at a time.

This team relies on those heroes, and the rest are pretty much untested.

That needs to change.

Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t had an uprising from the bench. Guys don’t join pro teams just to sit on the bench. But I also get the coaching team’s nerves around upsetting the apple cart. They have a good thing going. Why fix what isn’t broken?

I sneak a few more peeks at the bar area, at one point catching the eye of the beauty standing there, a soft, cream sweater hanging off her bare shoulder. She holds my gaze for a heartbeat before looking away, a small act that makes my heart speed up its thumping inside my chest.

Once I’m finished, the server comes to take my plate, asking if I want dessert.

I decline and she sets the bill down. As I sign for the meal, I catch the woman’s eye again.

This time, she holds my gaze. She doesn’t blush or demure, but instead gives me a soft smile before turning back to her friend.

I’m officially intrigued as I drain the last of my whisky.

She looks like the kind of woman who attracts attention, and the soft smile wasn’t indifferent, but it wasn’t flirtatious or salacious at all, either.

She may be ambivalent to male attention if she gets hit on a lot.

Maybe she’s perfected a polite smile to combat any unwanted attention.

Frankly, it’s been so long since I’ve had to think about my game with the ladies I feel like a bit of an oaf.

I’m really rusty.

Do I chance it and go say hello? Do I chalk it up as a loss and head back to my room? I’m a thirty-nine-year-old man in a fourteen-year-old’s head all of a sudden.

As I stand, I think I’ve decided to just go back to my room and call it an early night, but every step I take brings me closer to this incredible beauty.

And when she turns and meets my gaze once more?

I decide one more drink might not hurt at all.