“Who are you and what have you done with Georg Kolochev?” Evan asks as I slip off my soaked workout tank and pull on my undershirt and shoulder pads.

“Trakhat’sya,” I say, giving him the middle finger.

He laughs. “There he is.”

“Did you see they hired Pam in the therapy room?” I ask.

“Holly’s best friend?” he asks pointedly. “Yes, I know she works here now. We put in a good word with the bosses to get her hired.”

“Shouldn’t they hire therapists with actual skills?” he asks. “I mean, a nice rack is great, but it doesn’t help with a sprained ankle.”

“Don’t be a pig,” Evan says. “You know she’s not just some dummy. And seriously, why are you so sweaty? Or is that booze sweat?”

“It’s not booze sweat,” I answer. “There’s a new trainer, too. He’s a hard-ass.”

“You were in the gym? Doing a workout?” he asks.

“You’re such a cunt,” I say, tossing a shoe at him.

He laughs again, putting his hands up. “Okay, okay. Sorry, friend. I’m just messing with you. You look good. Fit. Been working the weights while I’ve been on holiday, yeah?”

“I thought we were all working the weights on the off-season,” I say. “Some of us got fatter, though, I see.”

Evan narrows his eyes and lifts his shirt. “Abs of steel. Can’t be talking about me.”

“Sympathy weight since your lady is seven months pregnant?” I jibe.

He makes a dubious noise and pulls on his jersey. “Come on, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Let’s go see what your new, buff body can do on the ice today.”

He tromps out of the locker room while I finish pulling on my gear. I have to admit that winning the cup, being in the All-Stars…it really did put things into perspective for me. I want to win. I want to play well. And I can’t get past where I am now if I don’t focus on keeping my body in shape.

Of course, seeing the gorgeous Pam Jenson here at work is a motivator, too. We had a few hot moments last spring but I think she thinks I’m an alcoholic loser. It was awkward as hell seeing her at the wedding this summer. So awkward that I couldn’t stop myself staring at her like some B-class creeper.

Once I’m all laced up, I head out to the rink. Everyone’s doing warm-up laps, stretching out. I take a few laps before heading to one end of the arena, where the defensive coaching staff and our GM, Bud Bellikowski, are gathered.

“Nice of you to join us, Kolochev,” my buddy Kevin says under his breath. “Did a puck bunny make you late?”

“Mudak,” I spit at him.

He smacks me in the calf with his hockey stick. “I don’t speak Russian, but I’ll bet that wasn’t a compliment.”

“It was not. I called you an asshole.”

He grins. “I’ve been called worse.”

“And I was only one minute late,” I say. “I was in the gym.”

“With a puck bunny?”

“No, with an athletic trainer.”

“Guys!” yells Bellikowski. His comb-over is wonky. He must sense it because he awkwardly runs his hand through it, putting it mostly back in place. “Stop the side-chatter and pay attention.”

“Sorry, sir,” Kevin and I both say.

“I was saying that this is an important season for us,” Bud says. “Teams will be out to prove that our championship year was a fluke, that we can’t make it into the playoffs again. We’ve got seats to fill and we fill them by winning. So, I need my defensemen to be vigilant. I need you blocking shots on goal and keeping the puck in front of our wingers.”

Everyone mumbles assent and he tells us to have a good practice before bumbling off, his soft-soled, cheap dress shoes sliding against the ice as he toddles the few feet toward the gate.

We start drills, Kevin and I next to each other as we work on pass accuracy.

“Did you see Kazmeirowicz’s old lady?” Kevin asks. “Looks like she’s gonna pop.”

“Couple more months,” I say. “She looks cute, I think.”

“I can’t believe he settled down, let alone has a baby on the way.”

“Meh,” I say with a shrug. “He’s in love. Leave him be. And she’s great.”

“She’s hot, that’s for sure. Speaking of hot. I’ve been having shin splints, so I went down to the therapy rooms. There is a smoking hot blonde down there now. Have you seen her?”

“Yes, I have,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, even though I want to punch him and act like a crazy ape-man to get him to stop talking about Pam Jenson.

“So hot. Rack I’d like to smother myself in,” he says.

“Aren’t you dating someone?”

“Yeah, but a man can look.”

I roll my eyes and skate over to Evan, so we can drill several new plays. The relaxed first few days of practice becomes more intense as we work through several complicated plays and lots of speed and agility drills. By the end, I kind of wish I hadn’t worked out at the gym this morning. I also wish I hadn’t had that fourth drink at the club last night, but who was counting.

After showering off, I head out and decide I should go down to the therapy rooms to at least welcome Pam to the team. I mean, we had a…moment. Or whatever. It doesn’t mean we can’t be professional. I’m all about professionalism. All day long. Yep.

She’s working with our second-string goalie, who pulled a muscle in his shoulder during our defense intensive today. She’s got him face-down, his arms pulled up and contorted in a way that looks like it must hurt.

“My goodness don’t break the players,” I say as I walk in.

“Just doing my job,” Pam says.

“Yeah, Kolochev,” my teammate says. “Don’t you have a bottle of vodka to drain or something?”

“That’s real nice,” I say lightly, even though the words sort of smart a bit. “Thought we were on the same team.”

“Did you need something, Georg?” Pam asks, still pulling on the guy’s arm.

“I just came down to welcome you to the team. It’s good to see you here. And…you will do great.”

“Thanks,” she says simply. She won’t even really look at me, so I stand, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, until I realize I’m just making things weird.

“Okay,” I say. “Then, okay. I’ll see you around.”

I leave, feeling like a big idiot. What was I thinking? She’d just throw herself on me? That we’d just fuck on the therapy table like two horny teenagers? No, I mean, we haven’t ever fucked, so that wasn’t likely anyway. But maybe she might flirt with me a little–that didn’t seem so far-fetched.

I’m an idiot. I think I really do have a bottle of vodka to drain.