Page 45 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

blu-rays forever

Mikhail

Sports Center highlights roll out from the TV as Aiden snores on my couch, completely oblivious to the utter insanity taking place while he was passed out on the sidewalk with his half-eaten hot dog.

Holy hell, I just beat a man. I pulled him away from a woman half his size, and I beat him to a pulp. It felt a bit dreamlike. As if I came upon the scene and just turned into an animal.

My hand is swollen and cut in a few places, and I’ve got an ice pack on it as I stare blankly at the television screen.

Aiden mumbles incoherently in his alcohol-addled slumber, and I glance over at him just to make sure he’s okay.

He’s gonna be feeling that in the morning and probably a good half of tomorrow.

I don’t miss that. And I especially don’t miss the morning after the rager from the night before.

I’m only four years older than him, but it might as well be a decade.

I’m just not interested in that lifestyle anymore.

Aiden’s still a college kid in a lot of ways; less than a year out from campus bar crawls and frat parties.

Of course, I never had those experiences since I didn’t go to college.

The first few years I played in the league, though, I partied a bit.

I did the clubs and the women, but in the back of my mind, always niggling, was my dad’s voice.

The voice telling me I needed to be better, work harder, get stronger than everyone else.

Aiden’s relationship with his parents is much different, I think.

They’re proud of him. He’s just happy to be playing in the NHL.

The pressure doesn’t seem quite so great for him as it felt when I started out professionally at nineteen.

Christ, I feel so much older now. How will I feel when I’m thirty if I feel like this now? But I made it. Did I hate every moment of my dad’s harsh words and criticism? Fuck, yes. Do I feel I could have made it to this level without him? The jury is out on that one.

I rub my eyes with my free hand, wondering how I’ll explain the busted-up hand to my coaching staff. Flexing it open and closed, I steel myself for playing through it. I don’t think it’s broken or anything. Nothing a little Ibuprofen can’t fix.

And what about Reagan? She said she wasn’t hurt, but that guy had his hand around her neck, choking her. Her outburst earlier in the day makes sense now. No wonder she was paranoid and thought I was dangerous. Fuck, she’s really in danger. What trouble has she gotten herself into?

My mind is a jumble, wondering who the fuck this tiny woman has gotten herself mixed up with.

The guy choking her was underworld, if I had to guess.

Could it be related to her casino job? Maybe, but he didn’t look like he was on any kind of legit payroll.

Also, I keep going back and forth between thinking I should’ve offered to let her stay here with me.

But isn’t that just weird? Because I don’t know her.

When I was a kid, I was really into superhero comics.

Name the superhero, and I can, to this day, tell you their powers, their backstories, and where they fall in the multiverse.

Yep, total nerd like that. I have my bookshelves lined with all the comics I’ve collected over the years, all organized by number and series.

I also have all the movies, in their Blu-ray cases—which I started collecting long before everything went digital, so there’s no way I can stop now.

My sister Daniella tells me I have a “superhero complex,” which she thinks stems from living in the comic-book universe every minute that I wasn’t in school or on the ice as a kid.

I was quiet growing up. Popular, mainly because I played hockey and my dad was a god on the ice, but quiet.

I wasn’t the best at school, and I had a bit of a temper, especially when I thought people were getting bullied or harassed.

Daniella and Iliana were both really pretty girls—are still really pretty—and I felt very protective of them both as we were growing up.

But my sisters never had the same level of pressure on them that I did.

Our dad treated them like princesses, while I was the one stuck on the ice until late at night, practicing and practicing until I got it “right,” whatever that meant to my dad at a given moment.

I was never jealous of them for escaping our father’s scrutiny though, and I could’ve been.

Over the years, I imagined myself standing up to him, being bigger and stronger than him. Like a superhero, I guess. So, it’s no big surprise that I’ve found myself in more than one situation where I’ve jumped into danger.

When I first got to Vegas, I was walking along the Strip, slightly tipsy after scoring one of my first game winning goals in an NHL game, and I came across this guy harassing a woman on the street.

He had his car door open, one foot on the street.

He was balding and overweight and sweaty, and I imagined he was propositioning a sex worker.

She wasn’t having whatever he was offering, and when she tried to turn away, he grabbed her arm and attempted to forcibly pull her into his car.

I saw red. There’s no other way to put it. Before I could even consider my actions, I was there, pulling the guy off her, fists swinging. I’m pretty sure I punched his tooth out of his mouth before he jumped in the car and sped away.

Guy deserved it. I don’t feel bad about it, just like I don’t feel bad about what I did tonight. I saw the terror on Reagan’s face. I know I did the right thing.

But did I do the right thing by leaving her alone in her apartment?

I blow out a loud breath as my knee bounces up and down with some strange mix of energy and anxiety.

Maybe I should run up and check on her. Of course, it’s like three in the morning now.

Maybe even later than that. Should I just try to get some shut-eye now and check in with her tomorrow?

When I stand, it’s more like getting shot from a cannon. I’m almost out the door, decision made, when there’s a soft knock on the other side. Without checking the peephole, I swing it open, knowing it’ll be her.

And it is her.

Reagan’s hair is wet, and she’s changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt. A sizable bruise is blooming on her forearm, and a red stain rings her neck from where that fucker held her to the wall.

I point to her neck, then her arm. “I thought you said you were okay.”

“It’s just a bruise. I’m fine.” She bites her lip. “I just wanted to thank you again. I don’t—I’m not sure what would’ve happened if you hadn’t come along.”

I’m ready to shrug it off. No big deal. But then she adds, “I’m sorry I thought you were one of them earlier.”

Her chin quivers, and tears well in her eyes, overflowing, big tears streaming down her sad face. She’s so small, just a tiny thing. She doesn’t even come up to my chin, and everything inside of me wants nothing more than to shield her, to protect her.

“Do you want to talk about it? Come inside?” I hold out an arm to welcome her in.

She steps into my apartment.

And then she steps into my arms.