Page 47 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

buckaroo?

Mikhail

We’re at home and still playing like total shit.

The Crush have had a good season, yes, but it hasn’t been perfect. Certainly hasn’t had the magic of our previous winning seasons. We feel like a good team but not a great one.

Our new GM came last summer and started making changes like it was nobody’s business.

Honestly, it’s not in a player’s best interest to get involved in management decisions.

We make good money to play the game. We have to figure out how to fit into any environment as players, how to match up with any coaching style.

My dad always stressed that when I was growing up.

He’d pull me from teams just to make me learn to adapt because pro players in the league get traded often.

And frankly, this new style is a lot more like how other teams play.

Guys don’t get three full periods of play on other teams. Players sub in and out constantly.

This team has been different from the first day I came here.

The first-string players get most of the playing time.

They know each other like peanut butter knows jelly.

There is trust and kinship between them that doesn’t really extend to other players on the team.

And I can see where that could be a colossal mistake—except for one impressive fact.

It has worked. We’ve won a lot. We’ve won the Cup…twice since I’ve been with this team.

It’s a double-edged sword, right? We need strength in the other lines, throughout the team. But we also want to capitalize on the mojo we’ve built on the front line.

I’ve played maybe ten minutes of the first two periods, and we’ve been sloppy all game.

Sloppy passing, sloppy shooting. I’m royally pissed about the whole thing by the time I get on the ice in the third period.

Our full first-string is back out there together, and we have a single-point lead over New Jersey.

Play is fast and furious, ice showers flying as we duck and move, working to play keep-away from the other team.

The puck is all over the place. One, two, pass.

Fake. Pass. A New Jersey defender scoops and sends it, but it’s a bad pass, and I end up with it just as someone comes flying at me, chucking me right into the glass with a loud bang.

The crowd groans in response, and I shove the guy off with a guttural sound of my own.

Skating free, I see Boris stop another of New Jersey’s passes.

He eyes the goal and makes to shoot, but just before stick-touches-puck to send it, I see his eyes shoot to me.

He fakes the shot, the puck flying my way.

I take it up toward goal; the goalie moves in my direction, but I sneak behind the net and shoot the puck in behind his back.

The horn buzzes. Goal!

Boom. That’s what I’m talking about.

We make it through the remainder of the period with the constant subs that we’ve become accustomed to this season, but no one else manages to connect for another score.

Post-game, I’m getting a ton of pats on the back, but I’m in a funk, and all I can do is nod my thanks. Evan, still in full gear, strides over and says, “Why the long face, buckaroo?”

I give him a raised eyebrow in response. “Buckaroo?”

He shrugs. “Just trying it out. No good?”

“If I were three, it might be good.” I laugh. “It’s clear you’re spending a lot of time with young children, Cap.”

“Thass cuss he hass tho damn many,” Tyler says through brushing his teeth.

“I like making babies, what can I say? Bugger off if you’ve got a problem with it,” our team captain barks, grinning like a schoolboy.

I just shake my head, ignoring them both. Evan tries again. “Seriously, you made a top-notch shot tonight. Like, expect to see it on ESPN’s weekly round-up level good. Why aren’t you smiling?”

“When does he ever smile?” Tyler says, mouth now free of toothpaste. “Serious as a heart attack, our Zelly.”

“Piss off, Locksey,” Evan says to Tyler in his British/Ukraine/USA mashup of an accent. His euphemisms are always straight up British though and usually fucking hilarious. But today, I’m still salty about the new line rotations.

“If you really want to know, I’m annoyed about the constant in and out. I like our lineup. It works. Why mess with what’s good?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Every team out there plays like this. And management’s not wrong that our bench was becoming brittle with no playing time. One of us goes out, who’s there to pick up the slack? Plus, we were getting predictable.”

“Well, now, we’re nowhere near predictable, even for each other. It’s fine to switch out when we’re several goals up, but not when it’s tight.”

“Not getting enough minutes, young Zelenka?” Georg taunts. “Daddy gonna go talk to Coach about getting you more ice time?”

“Like you can speak on controlling fathers,” Evan says, rolling his eyes.

Tyler barks a laugh. He just got engaged to Kolochev’s sister over Christmas, so I’m sure he knows more than enough about how controlling Georg’s dad, a well-known Russian hockey coach, can be.

“It’s whatever.” I grab my shower kit. “I’m being a baby. Everyone else loves this new plan. I’ll go fuck myself.”

Evan pats me on the back. “What we’ve built here is great, but it won’t last forever. We’ve got to build a lasting legacy.”

That statement stays with me as I clean up and dress to head home.

He’s not wrong. I mean, we all want to leave our own individual marks on the sport, right?

But what we’re doing with each year we win is to build a legacy that Vegas can be proud of, and I understand the need to make sure the talent is there to make that happen.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I like having Viktor at my back. I like having Boris breathing ice-dragon fire at center. I know how they play, how to anticipate what they’ll do. I don’t know fuck-all about these other kids, and the unpredictability affects everything.

Aiden elbows me out of my thoughts. “Want to go out? Get lit? Celebrate your kick-ass goal-making trickery?”

“Nah. I’m good. I’m pissy. Not good company.”

“How’s that different from any other day?” Aiden laughs.

“Fuck off.” I say it half-heartedly so he doesn’t take it personally.

“All right, fucking off now…so, I’ll catch you on the flipside. Enjoy your brooding. Text me if you change your mind.”

The cooking class Aiden and I did last summer was surprisingly useful.

I learned how relatively easy it is to cook my own healthy food, which is primarily all in the prep, but I learned that too.

The team’s nutritionist, Devon, ran the classes before she had to take a pause to finish “cooking” the twin babies our new GM, Grant Gerard, also her husband, are anxiously awaiting in a couple months.

Tonight, I used my new culinary skills to grill some chicken teriyaki kebabs on the new indoor grill.

It was the first time I’d used it, and it worked beautifully.

I tossed a salad together to complete the meal.

I gather up my plate and head to the couch, ready to throw on a movie and enjoy my dinner.

Just as I get the Blu-ray loaded, a frantic knocking at the door has me on my feet.

Opening up without checking the peephole again, because again, I have a strong feeling who it might be.

My “feeling” is confirmed when Reagan tumbles inside, out of breath, her dark brown eyes wide with fear.

I shut the door behind her as she slides down the wall, head between her legs. “I’m sorry.” She takes a few big gulps of air. “I didn’t know where else to go and I didn’t want to go home.”

“It’s okay.” I crouch down in front of her. “Are you hurt?”

“No. No. I worked from noon to eight and then someone was running late, so I said I’d stay.

But when they showed up to relieve me and I walked outside, there were two of Sodorov’s lackeys posted in the alleyway.

I booked it back through the casino and out the front door.

Ran all the way here. I don’t think they saw me, but I don’t know for sure.

And if I didn’t exit through the back where they expected me, I’m scared they might come here looking for me. ”

“But you don’t think you were followed?”

She cries. “I don’t know! I don’t know. I feel like I’m going crazy. And I’m sure they know where I live by now, so I didn’t want to go there. I’m totally paranoid every moment of every day and it’s just too much for me to deal…” She trails off, sobbing.

I hold out my hand and haul her to her feet, walking her to the couch.

We sit without talking while I wait for her to catch her breath.

I can’t imagine how terrifying it must be to feel so endangered.

And I’m honestly glad she came to me. Trusted me enough as a safe place to land.

Minutes go by, but eventually, my curiosity gets the best of me.

“So, you never did tell me what that situation the other night was about. Who is Sodorov? And why are his guys after you, Reagan?”

She sighs heavily. “Sodorov’s a regular at the casino. A high roller. Mostly plays at the blackjack table, and only maybe once or twice at my table. We never interacted at all, really, but everyone knows who the high rollers are. You’re expected to know, to take care of them.”

“And I take it he’s Russian?”

A few small nods with just the saddest look on her face really gets to me.

I want to help her, but how can I if she won’t tell me what the fuck is going on with the Russians chasing after her?

“I know plenty of Russians who aren’t creeps.

” When she looks up at me with a confused expression, I add, “You said you thought I was one of them and that my name sounded Russian. I’m not, but I know Russians and they’re not creeps or thugs. ”

She just looks confused again, and I don’t know why I’m babbling stupid nonsensical shit like this.

Well, I kinda do know why. It seems to happen whenever Reagan Marlowe is around. She fills me with this weird, nervous energy. “Sorry,” I mumble, running a hand through my hair. “Please continue.”

“So one night, there was this big commotion on the floor. Sodorov was screaming and yelling at the casino managers, at the cashier, at the blackjack operators. And then every single employee got brought in and questioned. Apparently, someone swindled him out of millions via his house account. Just wiped him clean. And, you know, a guy like that has all kinds of money all over the place, right, so a couple million probably barely makes a dent.”

“I don’t know about that, Reagan. People who have money tend to know where every cent of it is. They keep track. So, someone at the casino stole it or what?”

“We still don’t know,” she says, looking me straight in the eye with absolutely no visible tell she could be lying. I’m inclined to take her at her word, but then again, I don’t know her, and she could be feeding me a line of crap.

“But they think it was you?”

Another nod. “A week or two went by and everything seemed to have settled down. Sodorov hadn’t been in. There was all this hush-hush talk about how they wanted to call in the FBI to investigate but he refused and said he’d hire his own investigators.”

“Didn’t want the Feds involved.” If Sodorov is indeed underworld, then that’s a given.

“Definitely not. I don’t think gambling is, like, his worst hobby.

So one night after my shift, I head out the employee door to go home.

The second I stepped outside, I got snatched.

Hood over my head, shoved in the back of a van or something.

I ended up in some high-rise penthouse, tied up and sitting on this massive leather couch.

They asked me more questions and then it got really weird.

At first, it was like a good cop, bad cop thing?

They’d threaten me, then try being nice.

And I really had no idea what they were talking about. ”

“So, the place is near here, then? Or on the Strip?”

“Not the Strip. And I didn’t get the impression it was Sodorov’s main place of business, either.

It was fancy—big windows looking out on the city?

Like a party place, maybe? They made up this whole story about how I siphoned money out of his account slowly and sent it to some hidden bank overseas.

Their accusations were insane. I was like, ‘I have no access to computers at Tangiers. I am not a hacker. I would have absolutely no clue how to do whatever it is you’re accusing me of. ’”

“So why do they think it was you?”

“They said it was someone who looked like me, a woman with a petite build and short dark hair, on camera in the finance office—but it wasn’t me, Mikhail.

I don’t have security access to any of the offices.

There are super strict protocols about handling money and chips in any casino by law.

But Sodorov’s people didn’t believe me. They roughed me up a bit and said they’ve been patient, but they’re dead serious about getting Henri Sodorov’s money back.

Then they took off my restraints and sent me out the door.

Said I had a few days to think about it and come clean.

That the next time they came for me they wouldn’t be so nice.

” She sucks in another deep breath and speaks in a shaky voice, “The n-next time was when you saved me on my way home from work in that alleyway.”

Christ on the cross, this is so fucked up.

I’m sitting beside this woman who looks like a little pixie, sharp-jawed and wide-eyed.

She’s beautiful and mysterious, and I feel oddly nervous and protective around her.

And fuck me, but she could be a criminal.

She could be totally grifting me right now.

I’m a pro hockey player with a decent bit of money of my own.

Maybe this whole story is meant to make me feel sorry for her, to let her get close.

And maybe everything she’s telling me is the truth. Maybe she has stumbled onto the radar of a group of Vegas underworld mobbed-up Russians through no fault of her own.

Organized crime can be found in any gambling city on the globe. That’s an indisputable fact. It’s been thriving in Las Vegas for nearly a century, maybe even longer.

I want to believe her. And what’s more? I want to help her.

But will I end up in just as much trouble as Reagan?