Page 49 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

pietrangelo’s pizzeria

Mikhail

I hear the water start and sit at my kitchen table, googling Reagan Marlowe.

She doesn’t have much of a social media profile.

A LinkedIn with a cute, professional photo that was probably taken as part of some college course requirement.

Not much to speak of, otherwise. No Facebook.

No Insta. Nothing random out there floating around.

But something isn’t right. Why would these criminals be all over this girl if she didn’t do something to royally piss them off?

Guys like that don’t come after randoms, not unless there’s a connection somehow.

And they really roughed her up. Possibly would have killed her if I hadn’t come along.

She’s so tiny and scared, though, and I want to believe she’s innocent.

Still, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something I’m missing, something she’s not telling me. Maybe several “somethings.”

But it’s obvious I can’t just send her out there to fend for herself. That feels all kinds of wrong to me, and I’ll have to just follow my gut on this one. I would want to maim any man who wouldn’t do the same if this was one of my sisters in a similar predicament.

When Reagan finally emerges, she’s in a sweatshirt and joggers, her dark hair still wet, her cheeks flushed. But I can tell she’s been crying, even as she attempts a smile.

“Feeling a little better?” I ask hopefully.

“I am, thank you. Hot water therapy can be a miracle worker sometimes, you know?” She brings a hand to her stomach. “Thanks again for letting me stay here.”

“No worries. It’s no big deal, and I’m glad the shower helped,” I say, just as her stomach growls loudly, a lot like the last time she was here in my apartment—needing food. “You told me you had dinner, Reagan,” I scold with a tilt of my head.

“Um…when I said I ate at work, I might’ve been talking about lunch though.” She shakes her head shyly. “I couldn’t eat when I first got here anyway.”

“Okay, but you still need to eat something for dinner,” I argue. Jesus, she’s so small already she can’t afford to be missing meals. “You should have said something.”

“You got me. I haven’t had any dinner tonight.” She laughs lightly. “You’re kind of a mother hen, you know?”

I shrug off her comment. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before from my sisters. “So, let’s order you something. Pizza, is it?” I toggle my phone at her.

“Sure, that would be great, but I’m doing the ordering and the paying.” She pulls out her phone. “You’ve done enough just by letting me stay here with you.”

“Okay, whatever you want,” I say as she takes a seat on the couch. When she sits, it’s right next to me. Like a lot closer than I would expect. I don’t mind, though because, as she taps away on a delivery app, I’m surrounded by her scent. Her hair smells really good. What is that? Oranges?

I turn on the television, pulling up a streaming service.

We flip through different movie options and decide on the Lara Croft Tomb Raider reboot from 2018.

We talk about what a badass video game character Lara was and how she didn’t quite make the transition to film in the same badass way she was in the game.

Reagan makes a joke about how she’d probably come up to Lara’s navel.

It’s a good distraction but not enough to make things less awkward for me.

Because I’m still focused on the smell of her clean, wet hair and how close she’s sitting next to me.

When a knock sounds and Reagan about jumps out of her skin, I tell her, “It’s okay. I’ll get it.” I pause the movie, thankful for something else to focus on besides her proximity.

It’s Aiden, surprisingly home early after a night out celebrating a home win.

I know he’s just stopping by to shoot the shit like we often do, but I tell him I have a guest. He gives me a thumbs-up and a cocky head nod before heading off to his own place a few floors up.

We were roommates for a bit in the summer while he was waiting for an apartment to become available in the building.

He knows the drill about overnight guests.

Aiden’s cool but he’ll want to play twenty questions at practice tomorrow.

Something along the lines of: Who’d you bang?

How’d you meet? How’d she do? Gimme a rating one to ten.

Or was it Gia back for a li’l more o’that Zelenka D?

Yup. All those questions and probably others will be on the docket tomorrow.

Which is stupid on his part because he knows I won’t kiss and tell.

I’m just not wired for it. I’ve always been tight-lipped about my personal life, casting a wide net of privacy over all things related to my family, relationships, or my dating habits with those I may have, on occasion, hooked up with in the past—

“I have a delivery for Reagan Marlow.” Called to the door for a second time in as many minutes, I can thankfully step off the Aiden train.

This time, it’s Reagan’s pizza from one of the best in Vegas—Pietrangelo’s Pizzeria.

I tip the delivery guy, who looks to be in his sixties, a little extra for his efforts.

Gotta respect the hustle of so many who work in Las Vegas doing all kinds of jobs in the city to make ends meet.

“Thanks, man.” He pauses and tilts his head.

“You’re number nineteen on the Crush, aren’t you? ”

I give him a quick nod. I don’t like to make a big deal out in public with fans, but I never lie to them. That’s just a dick move on the part of the athletes who try it.

“Thought so. No worries, man, I’ll forget this address by the time I’m back out in my car.

You have a nice night and thanks for the tip.

” He salutes and heads off into the night like a seasoned pro used to interacting with athletes, news media, and celebrities.

Probably happens all the time in his line of work in this town.

Reagan joins me at the kitchen table as I’m grabbing plates and drinks. “So what’s life like for a pro hockey player? What’s Mikhail Zelenka’s life like when he’s not rescuing damsels in distress?”

I feel my cheeks burn. “I don’t love talking about myself,” I say as I sit down at the table across from her—for my second meal of the evening. My eyes flit to hers and she seems genuinely interested, not just making conversation, which makes it even more awkward for me.

“I’ve met a couple of other hockey players at the casino, and they’ve very much enjoyed talking about themselves. They tell their whole life stories.”

This makes me chuckle. “Well, I can probably guess which ones you’ve met.”

“But what about you? What’s your story?”

“I, uh, grew up in a hockey family. My dad played for a long time. He’s considered one of the Greats in the NHL. I started playing young, loved the game, and went straight to the pros after high school.” I shrug, not sure what else to say.

“That’s normal? To go straight to pro hockey? Don’t they have juniors and a bunch of levels before the pros to play through?”

“It just depends. I played in juniors all through school. Some guys play in college first. I wasn’t so great with school stuff.

I got some college offers, but I couldn’t stand the thought of four more years of classes, so I signed with the Crush’s AHL affiliate, the Henderson Havoc, right out of high school.

I didn’t expect to make it to the NHL right away, but I actually earned a starting position in my first season.

I got called up to meet the Crush on the road in Detroit, where I was born and raised, of all places.

Their starting winger had sustained what turned out to be a career-ending injury, so a spot in the lineup opened for me to slot into.

I did well in my NHL debut. I made three assists that night including the game winner in overtime.

They kept me in the lineup for the rest of that season and I was a starter the following season when we won the Cup. ”

“Wow, so you’re, like, following in your father’s footsteps, then.”

I grunt a sound of dissent. “I’m not looking to be what my dad was.”

There’s a bit of an awkward silence after that. I hope I haven’t shown my “daddy issues” card. I shove a slice of pizza at my face to stop myself from talking anymore.

Reagan just smiles softly. “Well, see? You can talk about yourself a little.”

“Doesn’t mean I like to,” I answer, staring at the table and thinking about all the extra reps I’ll be doing tomorrow at practice to cancel out eating my delicious late-night snack from Pietrangelo’s.

“Do you like hockey?” she asks.

“I love the game, yes.”

“Good. People should do what they love.” Her dark brown eyes have flecks of gold in them that I can’t help noticing. They’re very expressive and…beautiful…like the rest of her.

“And you don’t love working the casino games?” I ask, suddenly interested in knowing more about her as well.

“No, I do not. I mean, I don’t hate it, but it’s not what I envisioned for myself. None of this is.”

“Why not get another job, then?” I ask gently, remembering all the crazy she’s been through lately.

“Oh, I’ve tried. I’ve interviewed and I’ve gotten offers, but they all want me to come in at a crap salary. I have debts to pay, student loans, and other stuff. I can make more money on the floor. I just…I can’t afford to take a pay cut.”

She might still be a little bit hysterical on second thought. The night has been hard on her, and I guess I can’t blame her. I try to change the subject to easier topics. “Did you like college, at UNLV was it?”

Picking at her second slice of pizza, she sighs.

“I did. I liked living away from home and in a dorm. Making my own way. My first two years were really great.” A shadow of a frown appears as she shoves a glob of cheese into her mouth, clearly not sharing all her story about the last two years of college, which also, clearly, were not really great.

“I never went to college,” I say absently. “Have I told you that already?”

“Yeah, like, five minutes ago.” She grins at me. And I like seeing the sight of a smile on her pretty face so much that I can’t look away.

“Sorry.” I feel my cheeks flush as I break eye contact. What is it about this woman that makes me feel so off-kilter? “I, uh, wasn’t good in school, you know? Teachers always said I had my head in the clouds, daydreamed too much.”

“The daydreamers are usually the smartest ones, you know. The ones who get lost in the cracks because people mistake their creativity for apathy.”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t think that was me.

I really did hate school.” I meet her gaze and find myself grinning this time.

“Usually, I was sneaking comic books into my desk and not paying attention to class. Then I would cheat off the smart kids that sat near me because I hadn’t paid attention. Total dumb jock move.”

Reagan smiles. “A pro athlete with a superhero complex. I get it now. You just show up to save people in distress like you have some Spidey sense or something?”

“I’ve been known to jump into a situation or two,” I admit. “But I think any decent person would help if they could.”

“I don’t know about that,” Reagan argues. “You’d be surprised at how many people turn the other way. Rather than be uncomfortable or whatever, they pretend they didn’t see anything. It’s pretty disheartening. But you, sir? You are reigniting my faith in humanity.”

“Well, I’m glad I’m able to help. With your faith in humanity.”

“You’ve helped with more than that.” She reaches over and takes my hand in hers, and there it is, an electric zing of chemistry between us. “Thank you, Mikhail.”

I clear my throat and ask if she’s going to have more pizza. She says no, and I get up, busying myself with putting the pizza box in the fridge and washing the plates.

Reagan appears at my side, taking the plates and drying them, putting them back in the cabinet. “Are you a shy guy, Mikhail?”

“I’m, uh…” I don’t know how to answer that. “No, I’m not shy, I don’t think so.”

“Just not a big talker? Were you an only child, trapped alone with your comic books and superhero fantasies to keep you company?”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “No. I have two sisters. They did most of the talking in our house. We Zelenka men are more action-oriented, I guess.”

“Are you close with them? Your sisters?”

“Somewhat. We were close when we were younger, but our lives went in different directions. My little sister is in New York with a great job. My older sister has a son and a drama of a love life.”

“And you’re the famous hockey hunk, the bright star of the family.” Famous hockey hunk?

Is Reagan attracted to me? I’m not blind, so I know women find me attractive, but I honestly hadn’t thought Reagan would see me like that. Not after how we first met. It’s been a minute since I’ve had sex, so I’m horny as fuck. Not that I’d take advantage of this pixie cutie.

Just answer her question, dumbass.

“Nah. Just a hockey player. I manage to disappoint my father every game.” I turn away from her as I say it, hoping she won’t ask me any more questions about my family.

Dishes done, we head back to the couch to pick up with Tomb Raider again, sitting in companionable silence, something I’m much more comfortable with.

It’s strangely nice. The few times Gia and I hung out, there was little talking.

Well, actually, she talked at me quite a bit.

About everything under the sun. Interesting turn of events when she wanted out the minute she caught a whiff of my developing feelings for her.

I’ve always been fine being alone though.

Still, I’m oddly comfortable with Reagan, just sitting here next to her, breathing in the scent of her hair, and feeling easy in her company.

And I worry that feeling comfortable with this strange, beautiful girl might just be trouble waiting to happen.