Vlad, but he’d given a speech telling us we rocked, before making his excuses and tugging Colorado out of the locker room.
We were staying at the Regency, a twenty-minute coach ride to the arena, and by the time we reached our rooms we’d dissected every penalty, every goal, each tiny play, and even Vlad had joined us, although he never once looked at me or talked to me directly.
I was exhausted, elated, concerned that Vlad and I had been nothing but a one-night stand, and now I was in my tiny hotel room, and thank God the whole sharing-rooms thing from my college days had been and gone. I showered, paced, checked for any news on emus, watched the replays of the game that were beginning to show up, checked the Tate Collins hashtag for any more Lacey news, and that was it.
There was nothing for it, but to go to bed, and think about how maybe, just maybe, messing around with Vlad in his kitchen had been a very bad thing.
Chapter Eight
Vlad
Sensible: A course of action chosen with prudence.
That was how the dictionary explained the one word that I’d always tried to base my actions on. I was not one to be rash or rush into things. That was more my brother Dimi. I was the cool one, the levelheaded twin, the man who approached a problem systematically and with control. If you lost restraint you did foolish things. Things that could harm you in ways you never imagined when you were being a moron. My brother Dimi and the farm pond incident when we were twelve sprang to mind.
He had insisted that the ice on the small farm pond we played pick-up games on was thick enough after one or two cold nights. Papa had warned us off the pond just the day before. So, being bullheaded, Dimi skated out, turned to look at me and gave me the shish, an old Russian hand gesture with the thumb between the middle and index finger. It was a childish gesture that we always used when we were arguing. No sooner had he finished lifting his hand had the ice broken under him. He’d lost his new skates and had to slop home soaking wet with chattering teeth and explain to Papa where his skates were. Not a sensible lad my brother.
Now, it seemed, I was beginning to act like my reckless twin. Even as I made the call I knew I was being careless, but the drive to see him was too strong to be ignored.
Tate picked up on the fifth ring as I placed a dress shoe between the door and the frame to keep it from closing and locking immediately.
“Hey there,” he said, my ear instantly pleased with the sound of Texas caressing it.
“Hello. Come to my room. Bring your digital playbook.”
“I…uhm…what?”
“Come to my room. Bring a digital playbook. Be here within ten minutes. The door is propped open. Bring the shoe inside with you.”
I ended the call, leaned back in the short-backed gray chair by the standard hotel room desk, and picked up my drink. Three fingers of Stoli with a twist of orange over two cubes. Hotel mini bars were a marvel. The heater clicked on, stirring up the dry air. I sipped my vodka. Would he come? Would he not? I hoped so. The past two days babysitting an out-of-control rock star/goalie had worn on my jagged nerves. I wanted to spend time with Tate. See where he was mentally, feel out how far he was willing to go in this slow dance of dominance and submission. He would have to bend to my wishes if he wanted in my bed. God knows I desired him as my lover, as stupid as that was. A sharp rap on the door made me smile. I glanced at the silver Rolex on my wrist. Seven minutes. Impressive. I called for him to enter.
My pulse kicked up. There was a short hallway he had to come down, passing the bathroom to gain access to the room and bed. When he cleared the corner, I smiled at him over my drink. He was in lounge pants and a tank top with a clam on the front, his feet in sneakers. In his hands was an iPad and my black dress shoe. He gave the room a once over, found me in the corner by the drawn draperies, and flashed that sweet-as-apple-pie smile. It made my already hard cock