CHAPTER THREE
LIAM
We’re in USA HQ. There are so many garlands and banners it’s basically an election office. Breaking the jovial mood is Coach Smite, stalking his way down the line of players.
He examines us each in turn, pausing before me. “McCallum. Well, well. It’s not even the first day of the Games and you’ve practically started an international incident.”
“It wasn’t m—”
He throws a hand up. “I don’t want to fucking hear it. I thought it was made very clear to you back home that, given recent escalation, the Russians are off limits. I mean, you were basically told not to look at them funny, and yet here comes Captain American himself, Liam ‘Mad Dog’ McCallum, trying to start a fistfight.”
“And World War Three,” someone sniggers down the line.
“Shut the fuck up, Williams!” Coach shouts. He takes a step closer until I’m pretty sure I can smell the six strips of bacon he packed away at breakfast. “I don’t care if the Russian hottie you were trying to seduce has a golden vagina. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. The. Russians. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” I nod.
He takes a step back, eye-balling me. “Now, grab your shit and get down to the rink. I’m going to sweat those hangovers right out of you boys.”
*
Coach wasn’t kidding. Over the next two hours we’re mercilessly drilled and tested. I’m conscious of the press, no doubt keen to get a shot of the ‘bad boy of American ice hockey,’ as I’ve been dubbed. So I broke a guy’s arm against the glass at the last Games. So what? So I’ve got more goals under my belt than most NHL players see in their entire career, and a slapshot so hard and fast it’s basically a bullet. So the fuck what?
The Russians, also our primary competition, are going to get it. All bets are off on the ice, and that Bogdan bitch? I’m going to put him through the fucking glass.
I spot Viktoriya again in the dining area for lunch. She’s got on her team jacket, tight leggings that are more or less sprayed on, her hair drawn up into a tight ponytail I want to grab while I take her from behind, riding her to completion.
You’re living in a fucking fairy tale, my friend.
The problem? She’s with her teammates on the other side of the room, and that includes the KGB boys themselves.
Fuck them. I go stand, but Paul drags me back down to my chair. “Not a good idea, buddy. You heard Smite.”
“I heard him,” I reply. “Doesn’t mean I have to heed his words.”
Paul’s grip firms on my shoulder. “It’s not worth it, bro, super-pussy or not.” He directs my attention to the left. “How about the Finns? That blonde over there looks like she could do with a good dicking.”
But nothing’s going to satisfy this craving but Viktoriya.
Naturally, I Googled her when I got back to my room last night. She was pulled from an orphanage in Sarov when she was six and basically trained by the state. She’s something of a national treasure, it seems. I was concerned about her partner, but, while it’s not officially noted, it’s clear the guy’s not the into-girls type. He won’t be a problem. The apartment block she’s got for a coach? Maybe, but I’ve dealt with worse.
I eat while keeping a steady eye on the Russian contingent. When I see Viktoriya standing and breaking away from the others, I make my move.
I come up behind her in a small hallway joining the dining room to the outer buildings. She squeals when I guide her into a tight alcove. I double-check the hallway to make sure we’re alone.
We’re so close. The heat her body’s giving off is a physical, palpable thing, the vanilla scent from last night gone only to be replaced with something far more sensual, primal.
“If this is your idea of a date,” she smirks, “I think we have a problem.”
I want to touch her so badly, but this isn’t the time. I need to draw out the anticipation, even if it means I’ve got to hobble around these halls with the Empire State of erections. “We can’t see each other… in public,” I clarify.
Her tongue skims over her lower lip, her golden eyes glassy in the low light. “What did you have in mind then?”
I take a piece of paper out of my pocket, handing it over. I hadn’t even considered she might not read English, but she seems to grasp it well enough, laughing.
“You’re serious?” she says.
“I am.”
“This is very risky, Mr. Mad Dog.”
So she did her research, too. I brush the side of her cheek with my thumb. “I’d say you’re worth it.”
“If we get caught…”
“I’ll die a happy man.”
She says something in Russian, eyes glinting.
“My Russian’s a little rusty, sorry.”
“It’s an old proverb.” She smiles. “It means, ‘He who does not risk, does not drink champagne.’”
I move my thumb to her lips, let it sit there. “And is that what you want, to drink champagne?” I drop my eyes. “Because I was thinking about partaking in something else… something equally sweet.”
She brushes my hand away, slowly shaking her head. “You Americans, always so forward.” She reaches between us and takes hold of my crotch, coming forward until our lips are less than an inch apart, a world of wonder waiting in her gaze. “But we can be forward too.”
She releases my cock and pushes me away, stepping out into the hall and holding the slip of paper up. “I’ll give you one last chance to pull out.”
I lean against the side of the alcove. “I never pull out, baby.”
She gives a light laugh, a trill. “Then I’ll see you at midnight,” her eyes dropping. “You and your friend.”
I watch her walk down the hallway, those perfect ass cheeks shifting up and down, begging for my hands… maybe more.
Viktoriya Kuznetsov is going to be the end of me. It’s as sure as the sun rising.
But damn, what a way to go.