Page 60 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

aka mr. hockey

Reagan

“Why are you so kind to me?” I ask, still sniffling pathetically. “You could have left me in that alley. You could have told me to go away at any point. You don’t need this drama in your life. You’re a professional hockey player. You don’t need some nobody causing you grief or putting you at risk.”

“That’s the second time, at least, that you’ve called yourself a nobody,” Mikhail says with a deep frown. “I’m not a fan of it, for the record.”

“Well, it’s how I feel.”

“You shouldn’t.” Mikhail tilts his head and folds his arms over his chest. “Look, I know what it feels like to do your best, but never feel like you can quite reach the top. And before you tell me you can’t even get on the mountain, let alone make it to the top, I think you’re wrong.

Because you’ve fought really hard to get to where you are right now.

You’re fierce. You fought for someone you loved.

You sacrificed. You finished school and you’re still standing. ”

“I guess…” I can feel my cheeks burn at his intensity.

“You’re not nobody, Reagan Marlowe. You’re a person who persevered despite some real shitty circumstances. You’re a person who gave everything to help another person. And you know what? This doesn’t have to be your life forever. You’re still so young. You have so much time.”

We stare at each other, and I can’t decide if I want to burst into a full-on ugly cry or crawl across the table and kiss him. A little of both, I suppose, but it’s all rooted in the feeling that, for the first time, I feel like I have someone in my corner.

“Can’t you just go? Start over somewhere?” he asks after a minute.

I shake my head. “The debt load is still pretty high, and I can’t leave Vegas until it’s paid. Once I broke things off with Peter, that’s when it got ugly. He fessed up about the money he loaned me—that it wasn’t his. He told me it was Sodorov money, and I had to pay it off or work it off.”

“Work it off?” Mikhail’s voice is flat.

“Yeah, as in on my back.” I hang my head and continue, because I need to finish telling this, and I can’t bear to see the reaction on his face right now.

“Among Henri Sodorov’s many organized crime endeavors here in town, running drugs and prostitutes are top of the list. Using trafficked sex workers from Eastern Europe, most likely.

So, I chose to pay it off, obviously. But I was told that I shouldn’t leave the area, or they’d find me and everyone I care about. ”

“Fucking assholes.”

I laugh. “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Would you go home if you could? To Columbus?”

“No,” I say. It comes out more sharply than I intend. “I love my mom, but being away from her allows me space to breathe, you know? I don’t worry constantly about her mental state the way I am when I’m around her in person.”

“Makes sense,” Mikhail says.

The conversation tapers off from there. I’m not sure what else to say about my shitshow of a life. It means a lot that Mikhail is here to listen, that he’s not judging me, but the depressing vibe is still heavy in the air.

So, I change the subject and ask, “How did you like your dinner?”

“The chicken parm was excellent.” He’s as grateful for the topic change as I am. “Not quite as good as my mom’s but close.”

“I’ll have to try it sometime.” I can’t think of anything else to say to him because my mind is busy picturing Mikhail’s nice and normal mom, who is obviously a great cook, bringing out a big platter of chicken parm to serve to her family at the dinner table.

It’s a nice vision in my head, at least, something good to remember about him when he’s not around anymore.

I also feel bad that I was so into my lasagna I never paid attention to what he even ordered tonight.

He insists on paying, which is no surprise, but when I offer to split the check, he shuts that suggestion down immediately—or more like ignores it altogether—while distracting me with something else entirely. “It’s a nice night tonight. Want to take a walk with me?”

“Um, yeah, I’d like that.”

Outside, it’s warm and arid. Mikhail takes his flannel off and wraps it around his waist, leaving his muscular arms with their ribbons of ink mostly exposed in a dark gray, super-soft T-shirt. He might be the sexiest guy I have ever seen, let alone known personally.

We hold hands as we walk, companionable in our silence for a few blocks. I feel lighter for having been able to tell him my story, for having someone to talk to about this stuff. But still, it’s all the unsaid stuff nagging at me.

“Mikhail, I want you to know I’m in no way expecting you to fix this for me.”

He looks at me sideways. “Okay.”

“I’m serious. You’ve been awesome and I’m sorry I dragged you into this, you know?”

“You didn’t drag me into it. I saw a person being assaulted, and I stepped in to help. That was my choice.”

“But then I came to your apartment that night. I should’ve left you out of it. Now they know we’re…acquainted.”

“Reagan, I am not worried about it.”

“Why? Why aren’t you worried about it? I’m worried about it, about someone coming after you just to get to me.”

He shrugs. “I’m just not. Sodorov didn’t get to where he is by being stupid.

He won’t risk exposure voluntarily attaching himself to the National Hockey League, even by the loosest association.

He’s already on the radar of Las Vegas PD, and certainly the FBI, who eagerly await the first opportunity to arrest him.

If Sodorov comes after someone like me, all signs point to him. He does not want that.”

I slip into my own thoughts again. Must be nice to be strong and famous and rich. It’s a position from which a person can face the reality of a crime syndicate and shrug off the risk.

Mikhail seems to recognize where my thoughts have gone. He squeezes my hand to get me out of my own head. “Hey,” he says softly, nudging my shoulder, “I’m just saying, I think I’ve proven I can handle myself. And also, I like knowing I can help to protect you. I want to help.”

“Well, I’m learning how to box, so maybe I can protect myself."

Mikhail grins. “Yes, I’m sure you’re a real madwoman in the ring, all hundred pounds of ya.”

I pout, but it doesn’t last when I end up breaking into a grin. He stops walking and turns to me. “I love it when you smile. I know life hasn’t given you a lot of reasons to do it lately. You’re really beautiful, Reagan. You’re a strong person, a smart person. And I’ve got your back, okay?”

All of those words, I can barely keep from throwing myself at him. Kissing him, wrapping my legs around him. I want to attack him right here, right now, on this busy street. But because I’m me, though, I sort of scowl at him and say, “Must be nice to be so perfectly confident in yourself.”

He gives me a look that says, Really?

We’re still holding hands though, but instead of dropping mine, he just turns and pulls me along the sidewalk, walking us toward the ice hockey arena where he plays his games for the Crush.

For my part, I’m embarrassed by what a jerk I’m being to him.

He’s been nothing but kind and supportive.

He’s a serious guy, so he can handle serious conversations without getting twitchy.

He’s also a good person and I think he means it when he says he’s got my back.

I should have said thank you. I should have told him how much his friendship means to—

“Here you go.”

Holy hell. I look up and there is a larger-than-life banner sporting Mikhail’s image hanging down the side of the arena. It’s in full color. He looks like he’s mid-game, in helmet and uniform. Fierce is how I would describe it. And hot, let’s not forget hottt.

“Wow, no wonder the ladies go crazy for you,” I say, letting out an awkward-sounding laugh. “I feel really inadequate right now.”

Mikhail points at a picture of a long-haired guy and says, “That’s Georg Kolochev.

He was an alcoholic, playing a moderately okay game on a moderately okay contract.

He was a major prick, but he met the love of his life and got sober in the same year, then scored a goal in the championships from a defensive position.

Was awarded the Norris Trophy that season—the highest honor in the league for a defenseman.

He turned his life around. Now he’s got a wife, two kids, and a fat contract. He’s only a minor prick these days.”

We walk a little farther and he points out a banner featuring a guy with a blond undercut and a tattoo peeking up through the collar of his jersey.

“Tyler Lockhardt. This asshole’s got the biggest mouth on the team.

Dude literally cannot shut up. It drives me crazy, but you know what?

He grew up with a drug-addicted mom and nobody knew it.

Nobody. We only found out because she showed up at a game in Boston and got herself arrested in front of his two little siblings.

He brought the kids back here and got things sorted out for them, gave them a chance at a stable, new, life. ”

“Why are you telling me about these guys?” My heart is beating like crazy inside my chest.

“I guess because I feel like you have this image of me as this guy who doesn’t understand the depths of life’s problems. And it’s true, I’m from a different background and the stuff that I struggle with is very different from the stuff going on in your life.

But it doesn’t mean I can’t empathize or care or help or whatever.

” He runs his hands through his hair and looks back up at the giant banners.

“These guys look like gods when they’re positioned like this.

People treat them like gods, but they’re just human beings who have problems of their own, you know?

Problems they’ve overcome, for the most part.

And you can overcome your problems, too. ”

“Who knew there was a life coach hiding under that big buff body?”

“You’re deflecting, Reagan. Again.”

I scan the arena courtyard. There are a bunch of people milling around, looking at the banners, taking pictures.

A sigh involuntarily escapes. “I know.” It’s all I can think of at first. “I’ve been alone at this for a long time, with no one to trust, no one to talk to.

This whole having someone to talk to is new for me. I’m sorry.”

He holds out his hand and I take it as we start the walk back toward the apartment building.

“What would your teammates say about you, Mikhail Zelenka?”

“They’d probably call me an asshole and a prick, too,” he says with a chuckle.

“Would you agree?”

“If I’m being honest, yes. I didn’t come to the NHL to make friends. I came to play and to be the best.”

“How’s that working out for you?”

This makes him laugh again, but he doesn’t answer. In fact, he doesn’t say anything for the last bit of the walk home. Nothing at all.

He hits the button for my floor first, walking me to the door of my apartment. I want him to kiss me, to come inside, to undress me. I want those things so badly because I know how he feels inside of me, and I want to feel it again. Because I like him. And I think I trust him.

He leans in and my belly does a nervous flop as he kisses me lightly on the cheek, then backs away, turning my nervousness to anxiety. I feel my brows knit together, my face obviously twisting into some expression of confusion.

“Did I do something?” I ask.

He puts a hand on my cheek and shakes his head. “I won’t be some asshole trying to get you to fuck me all the time, Reagan.”

“But what if I want you to?”

This elicits a chuckle, but he shoves his hands in his pockets. “I want you to feel safe, and I want you to trust me. And I want to be your friend first because I think you need that. And frankly, so do I.”

“You, sir, are a tease.”

“I am a gentleman.”

“That, too. Thanks for a very nice night. And for being a good guy. There aren’t that many of you out there, I don’t think.”

As he heads back toward the elevators looking broodingly hot AF with a salute of his tattooed hand, it comes to me in a flash.

His superhero name.

Mikhail Zelenka, rescuer of my hot mess self, will otherwise be known as Mr. Hockey.