Page 51 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

king zelenka

Mikhail

Two weeks later.

Columbus, Ohio

“That Caulfield is about as dumb as a box of nails,” my father says, launching into a play-by-play of the moment one of our third-string players missed an easy pass from me, allowing a Columbus player to make off with the puck.

Straight into our net. Cal didn’t even have time to adjust, and that’s saying a lot because our goalie, Cal, rarely misses a damn thing when it comes to the trajectory of that biscuit.

“Why did you even load the pass like that? You should have just taken the shot.”

I lift a shoulder and grunt. “We’ve been asked to be more trusting of our fellow players. I was trying to do my part.”

My father snorts. “Well, that was stupid of you, then. He’s barely worth the shit contract they’ve got him on now.”

“He’ll probably go back to the taxi squad after last night’s play,” I answer, refusing to take the bait on his personal jab toward me.

“He’ll probably ride out his contract and then find himself in need of new employment. What’s he on?” my dad demands, as if I’m responsible for knowing the contract details of every teammate.

“I dunno. Three-year, entry level? He gets very little playing time. I almost forgot his name.” I didn’t forget.

It’s Jamie Caulfield, and he’s okay for a kid experiencing his first starts of his NHL career.

Everybody starts somewhere, and everybody makes mistakes when they first come into the big league.

But my dad doesn’t want to hear that, so it’s useless to try even defending a player like Caulfield.

“Well, he’s a joke. This whole new approach thing is also a big, fat joke. When you have a championship team and a championship front line, you do not throw your chump players into the mix at random.”

“They’ll weed it out soon enough. They’ve made coaching changes, administration changes. It’s only a matter of time. They want bench strength, and they want everyone else sharp.”

“In theory, I get this. If I were the GM and coaching staff in Austin or Salt Lake City, I might be making some changes like that myself. But not in Las Vegas. I simply would not take out my top players unless I was up by three goals in the third period.”

“I don’t love it, either. If Evan had been on left wing, there wouldn’t have been an extra goal by Columbus. But it is what it is, and we won, so whatever. Caulfield can seize his opportunity or eat a shit sandwich for all I care.”

My mother giggles at this for some reason. Nervous energy, maybe? It’s always a tense scene when my father starts analyzing my every move after a game.

“Are there retirements on the horizon?” he asks. “Is that why they’re doing this? Trying to see who the next generation winners are?”

“Probably.” I shrug. “I mean, there are always rumors swirling around.”

“Who?” He sneers with a laugh. “Kazmeirowicz? Kolochev? Demoskev? They’re not that old. They have several years of top play left in them. And people love them. They shit gold.”

I shrug again because while the statement is true, it’s also a dig at me.

In Jozem Zelenka’s eyes, Mikhail Zelenka does not shit gold.

Mikhail Zelenka is the marginally-okay player who happens to bear his family name, and who will never, ever live up to his great expectations—aka his own illustrious career in the greatest game of hockey.

“Well, they’re all in peak physical shape, making the best money they’ll ever make in their careers. No way are those cows heading off to pasture any time soon. But they’ll sure as hell walk once their contracts are up if they get short shrift on the ice for much longer.”

“It’s not my job to question the management decisions or the contracting or the lineup.

It’s my job to go out and perform as best I can every single game.

” My dad opens his mouth to argue, but I add, “And that is what I do. Every single game. And when my contract is up at the end of the season, they either extend me with a fair deal or I’ll be on the left wing somewhere else.

Nic told me I have nothing to worry about.

” My new agent, Nic Marchessault, who also happens to rep our GM, assured me he’s got it handled, and I have a raise coming to me next year, whether it’s with Vegas or another team.

I trust him. But my dad is not a fan of my agent, or my coaches, or anyone else who decides how much I play, or where, or for how much money.

It’s fucking exhausting listening to him bitch about stuff beyond my control.

He raises an eyebrow and leans forward, a smirk on his face. “Grow a pair of balls.”

My mom smacks him on the arm. “Shush, Jozem. What is wrong with you?”

“I want my son to have the best opportunity to play,” he answers. “What do you mean, what’s wrong with me?”

“You’re being a nag.” I catch her eye, and she grins slightly.

I hold back my returning grin, as I know it’ll only piss my dad off even more.

My mom usually doesn’t break rank like that.

He’s probably raging, but he won’t show it while we’re sitting in some hipster breakfast joint in Columbus, Ohio.

“I’m thinking about my son,” he says, folding his arms over his chest as I poke my fork into my now-cold scrambled eggs. “I may go talk to the owner about this. It’s ridiculous.”

“Pop, it’s not kindergarten. You can’t go yell at the coach to give me more ice time like you did when I was a kid.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

I roll my eyes. “Sure it did. When I was five. And because you were The Great Zelenka and you donated a shit-ton of money to the club and the facilities. You essentially used your reputation and money to buy me the ice time.”

“It was worth it,” he says harshly. “That extra ice time meant you were ready to go straight into pro hockey after high school.”

I notice that he does not include the fact that I not only went straight to the pros, but that I also started in the NHL by the end of my first year.

It’s a big deal. He may have been one of the Greats, but he was not an NHL starter in his first year.

And he’ll never give me credit for that accomplishment.

Praise is not in his wheelhouse. And yet I turn up and somehow expect more from him.

Every fucking time. I’m done with this conversation, so I stand up and lean over to kiss my mom on the cheek.

“I have to get to the airport. Thanks for coming last night. Thanks for breakfast this morning.”

My mom tells me to call her when I land, and I nod before saluting my father, who just sits there scowling.

Two hours later, I’m on the plane, noise-canceling headphones on, ignoring Aiden’s jabber about some puck bunny he met while he was out with the team last night.

I could have gone, but I was feeling out of sorts after the goal loss with Caulfield.

Instead, I used the gym at the hotel and worked out until I could barely hold my phone, then stumbled to the shower, and then to my bed.

Lights out after that. I woke up to the sound of my alarm buzzing and realized I was about to be late for breakfast to meet my parents who’d flown in from Detroit for the game.

An elbow to the ribs has me pulling off my headphones so I can tell Aiden to settle the fuck down. “It’s like sitting with a toddler with you. Can’t you just sit fuckin’ still?”

“Damn,” he singsongs. “Someone’s pissier than usual. What’s the problem, Prince Zelenka?”

I let out a huff. “Command breakfast with King Zelenka.”

“Enough said.” A few seconds pass before he speaks again. “What’s the latest with crazy casino chick? Are you two still banging?”

I sigh, because there are so many ways to speak to Aiden’s questions, but I’m not much of a sharer of my personal details as a rule.

There’s really no reason to spill my guts about Reagan with Aiden, but still, I want to correct some of his assumptions.

“First of all, we’re not.” I give him a pointed look, letting him know that line of questioning is a dead end.

“And second, she’s not crazy, even though I thought so at first. Now that I know more about her situation, I feel like she might be mixed up in something shady, and it’s probably for the best I’m not involved. ”

“Meh. I think you should go with the flow, see where adventure takes you. Be her hero or whatever,” Aiden says with a shrug before putting his ear pods back in.

I don’t admit to him that I do kind of like being Reagan’s hero.

I like that I saved her in that alley. I like that she came to me when her place got broken into.

I get the impression she doesn’t have a lot of people who have her back, and while I think there’s a lot more to her story than what she’s told me, my heart doesn’t tell me she’s a bad person.

In fact, I get the feeling she’s a good person who’s been in the wrong place at the wrong time for a while.

When I woke up the next morning, after turning her away the night before, it was no surprise she was gone.

I mean, no one feels good when they propose sex and get shut down.

Still, as much as I wanted her, I knew it wasn’t right.

She wasn’t offering herself for the right reasons.

I wanted to go up to her apartment and talk to her, explain myself better, but I didn’t.

Instead, I took my frustration straight to the gym, where I punched it out until it was time to clock in with the team for a two-week road trip around the Eastern Seaboard.

Got on the plane and slept straight through until we landed in Toronto.

I haven’t seen her, obviously, since I’ve been traveling with the team, but I haven’t had any contact with Reagan at all.

And that doesn’t feel right, either. While we were in Columbus, it reminded me she said she grew up here.

Did she ever go to a hockey game at the home arena?

Was she into any sports as a kid? She’s very fit, and I know this because I got a real good look at her banging body.

Those tits of hers were perfection. The vision of her standing beside my bed after ditching her shirt is sealed in my memory.

Gorgeous breasts that fit in my hand, and so soft and round, tipped with dark pink nipples I needed in my mouth but didn’t have the pleasure of experiencing.

I’d love another chance to show her how much I could appreciate her offer if it were under better circumstances.

So, I know exactly how well Reagan takes care of herself.

Was she always into fitness? What about her family? Are they still in Columbus?

I know none of those things about Reagan.

But even so, I haven’t stopped thinking about her.

Regardless of the strange way she came into my life, I really do feel right about my role as her protector.

Maintenance better have done what I demanded, too.

I told them I’d pay double to give her a stronger door.

Better lock. A security camera. Hoping it made her feel safer.

Somewhat. I’ve hated not knowing if she’s okay.

If she’s been safe getting home from the casino.

As Columbus disappears below the clouds, and Aiden falls asleep with his head on my shoulder, I think about how much I want to see a certain mysterious, dark-haired beauty when I get home.

Also…I might really like this girl.