Chapter 2
“Well if it isn’t Carla Brooker, again,” The Russian said as Sasha and I slowly walked past the open door of his office on Monday, just before midday. I ran my hands down my skirt again for the hundredth time ... it had taken me hours to decide what to wear this morning – yes, I’m pathetic. We stopped and looked in; The Russian looked divine in jeans, a T-shirt, and runners. Behind him hung a business shirt, tie and pants, some black boots below them.
The Russian continued. “Average per game: 19.5 points, 5.3 rebounds, 3.1 assists, and 2.3 steals ... give or take a few points.”
“And if it isn’t The Russian,” I returned as we stood in his doorway.
“That’s it?” he frowned. “You don’t know all my impressive stats?” he asked with the twitch of a smile.
“Oh, I do,” I assured him, “but we’d be here all day.”
“Oh please,” Sasha rolled her eyes, “don’t tell him that, his big head will burst out of the room.”
The Russian gave her a look that said he was unimpressed.
“Sorry about the trick Buzz played on you,” he said with a snarl at the mention of Buzz’s name; I had heard there was no love-loss between The Russian and Buzz.
“It’s all good,” I said, closing the subject down before Sasha asked questions. “I’ve had worse than that thrown at me.”
The Russian nodded. “So, how’s the knee, think you’ll get another game?” he asked. “Actually, don’t answer that. I hate that question.”
“Thanks,” I said, it takes a sportsperson to know a sportsperson.
“I can hear my phone,” Sasha said, “pick me up for coffee on your way out,” she said to me, ditching me there. We both listened ... there were no sounds of a phone ringing. Awkward.
“So, good game on Saturday, gotta be pleased with that?” I asked, feeling like a shag on a rock – or in a doorway, as was the case.
“Have a seat,” he said, “Ed, my business partner, is out getting lunch.”
This was looking up. I slid into Ed’s chair and swiveled it to face The Russian, making sure I crossed my legs so he couldn’t miss them. Hell, you’ve got to use your assets, it’s one of the things the coach was always drumming into us, but she probably meant on the court, I suspect. Sitting at the same level I had the chance to study him; he really was quite exceptional – I itched to run my fingers through his dark, wavy hair. He was shaven today and those high cheekbones gave his masculine face its beauty. He was all arms and shoulders, with a very defined torso—from what I could see covered in clothes, damn those clothes—and very sexy hips. Yep, what an inventory.
“Come to interview me?” he asked, and this time he smiled.
“Uh no, came to take Sasha out for a coffee. Girl talk, you know ... about how tough it is to be a female sports journalist in a man’s world,” I said, making it up as I went.
“Yeah, I can just imagine,” The Russian replied, frowning. “Actually, I can’t really, why is it tough? You get to sit in the best seats in the house, don’t you?”
“Been up there ... in the Saints’ media box?” I asked, grabbing that lead.
“Hell no, you lot would ask me questions if I went there,” he said, a look of mistrust crossing his very handsome, close-by face.
“Mm, that’s the idea. You should drop in before or after the game. Nik drops in usually to catch up with Sasha.” I said it before realizing I might be getting Nik in trouble.
“Does he now?” The Russian said, crossing his arms across his chest.
I was just about to backtrack when the door to The Russian’s office opened and Captain Fantastic stood there – also known as Lucas Ainswright.
“Ah sorry, didn’t know The Russian had company,” he said. “No one usually visits him.”
The Russian smirked. I rose and offered my hand to Lucas. I’m six-foot-two and I’m guessing, since I had to look up at him, that Lucas was about six-three. Yes, I love a ‘tall’ office.
“Carla Brooker,” I said, shaking his hand.
“I know,” Lucas said and introduced himself, as if he needed an introduction.
“I know,” I responded, “great season for you and the Saints, congrats.”
“Yeah, let’s hope it continues,” he said. “Sorry to hear your season got cut short, but you’ve had an impressive run.”
“Thanks, I would have liked to have seen the season out,” I said, bearing my soul just a little. I was missing the sport and my teammates.
It was definitely warm in the Saints’ office and then I realized why – Lucas was still holding my hand. I reluctantly pulled it away.
The Russian cleared his throat. I had forgotten he was there for a moment.
“Oh, well, got to go,” I said, reaching back for my handbag. I know most girls would stick around, but I didn’t want to make a pest of myself.
“No need to rush off,” Lucas assured me, “I can come back.”
“Yeah, I can see the captain anytime,” The Russian agreed. The office felt very small with the two super hunks breathing in all the air.
“Thanks, but Sasha will be waiting for me,” I said, lamely pointing up the hallway to her office area, as if they didn’t know the way.
The Russian rose. “Well, see you at the game maybe,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, giving them both a winning smile; I did my best to sashay up the hallway with a walk that said ‘so confident’ in case they were watching. Who was I kidding? I could barely walk, with my tongue dragging on the ground. I think I was having hot flushes. Then I remembered I still didn’t have a date for the Ball, but… Houston… we had contact.
*****
“You can’t wear that,” Josh, my housemate, rolled his eyes as he sat back on our sofa with a red wine in one hand and the television remote in the other.
“Why not?” I said, defensively. “I love red, and this dress lifts and tucks.”
“It whiffs and sucks, more like it. Next!”
It was my turn to roll my eyes and I stormed off melodramatically back to the bedroom to change. Secretly I was relieved that Josh wanted to vet my Suns’ Gala Ball outfit ... not only because I was still holding hope that The Russian would come with me, but given I was speaking in front of about four hundred people, I wanted to look my best when those eight hundred eyes were on me ... aagh, I was just giving myself heart palpitations. I didn’t want to buy something new if I could avoid it – my playing fees had stopped, my sponsor fees were on standby and my casual sports writing job didn’t pay a lot, but I was applying for full-time roles.
I heard Josh turn the volume up on the television again as he waited for my next appearance. I did have an offer from a couple of local dress suppliers to provide me with a gown for the night, but that was a fallback option. Last time I had taken up the offer, some idiot spilled a drink on me, the stain didn’t come out with dry cleaning and I found myself having to buy a dress that I couldn’t afford because I couldn’t return it. I’d only ever borrow a black dress from now on!
I put on a deep green dress with a plunging neckline and high cut leg that had been given to me after a fashion shoot for one of the team’s sponsors. I was sure this would be a winner and I pranced out to show Josh.
“Good Lord no!” he exclaimed.
“Really?” I frowned at him. “I could have sworn you would love this dress.”
“You look like a harlot,” he said.
I began to laugh. “No one in the whole world says ‘harlot’ anymore. Whore, slut, prostitute, hooker, maybe ... but harlot?”
“Harlot,” he confirmed, sighing, “I think you have no choice, Carla baby ...”
I nodded.
“She did offer,” Josh reminded me.
“But reluctantly,” I said, with a sigh.
I reached for my phone and took it with me when I went in to change. I just hoped that Sasha’s throw away comment about making me a dress was a real option.