Page 4 of Bad Teammate
Derek Reaves
We took a convoy of taxi cabs straight from the arena to Club Plush. One by one, our cars pulled up to the curb and we spilled out onto the sidewalk, the thrill of victory still pumping through our blood.
“Where’s that crazy Russian bastard?!” I shouted.
His name is Aleksander Nikolaev. Most of the boys can’t pronounce that mouthful, so we just call him Niko for short.
I rushed over to my roommate and wrapped my arm around his neck. “Fuckin’ right, Niko!” I said, ruffling his long and unruly mane of hair. “The girls are gonna beallover you tonight.”
Not that he could understand me. The newest member of the Dallas Devils doesn’t speak a lick of English. All the kid can say is one thing.
“Melovescore goals,” he grumbled in a thick Russian accent.
And man, does it show—the eighteen-year-old was born to score goals. Taken first overall in last year’s draft, Niko was our consolation prize for finishing at the bottom of the standings last year. He’s built like a cement truck—he hits like one, too—yet he can skate like the wind. A freak of nature, really. Add in a lethal shot thatwhistleswhen he lets it go, and you can see how we’ve turned our fortunes around.
That’s right. Thanks to Niko, the Dallas Devils are actually winning again. And everywhere we go, the fans love us.
“Holy shit! It’s the Dallas Devils!” someone shouted, waiting in line to get into the club.
The bouncer saw us congregating on the sidewalk and waved us to the front of the queue—never a need for us to wait in line in this city. Leading the boys, I passed the bouncer a crisp bill and we headed in.
It was a Thursday night, but the club was a zoo. The DJ blasted the music so loud each rhythmic beat wentthumpin your chest. We pushed our way through a crowd that was packed wall-to-wall with bodies. A balmy heat surrounded the dance floor, where Dallas’s finest women were already eyeing us with curious interest—as if they had some sixth sense that told themimportant peoplehad just arrived.
We grabbed some drinks at the bar and made our way to the dance floor. Gorgeous girls flocked to us—but especially Niko, the star of yet another game. A mob surrounded him, their arms outstretched, eager just for a chance to touch the rising star in person.
“Daaaaaaaaaa!” the Russian rookie roared, double-fisting a pair of mixed drinks as he danced with several girls at once. He didn’t need to know a word of English to understand that these girls wanted him.
But we couldn’t stay at the club for long. After an hour or so, a group of us led the girls we’d met on the dance floor back to our VIP section to cool down and maybe have one last drink before seeing where the rest of the night took us.
Sitting in the velvet booth, I put my arm around the brunette who’d been shaking her ass in my crotch all night.
“My penthouse isn’t far from here,” I whispered into her ear, drawing my fingers suggestively across her bare thigh. I couldn’t wait to get her home.
“Ooh, a penthouse,” she cooed. “Tempting. But the night’s still so young, isn’t it?”
I peeked at my gold watch. “Maybe, but I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.”
“That early? Why?”
“Work at ten AM.”
“Work?” Her smile began to fade and she leaned away from me. “Wait—which one are you?”
Sure, I’d missed a lot of playing time over the past two seasons, thanks to multiple injuries. And yeah, I’d had a pretty brutal season so far—it’s tough to come back from injuries, and it only gets harder as you age.
Butwas she really askingthat?
“What do you mean, which one?” I asked.
“WhichDevil,” she said.“Youareon the team, right?”
“Yeah, babe. When I said I’ve gotwork,I meant I’ve got a morning skate.”
“Okay, so what’s your name?”
“Derek.”
“Derek what?”
